Ceramic Steve Martin: Spleen Manager
I’ll try the marsh and the docks, I reck’n. Beefy thee, Marx neanderballs, iPaddened. The Belfry Three, fucks thee other bells, right guarded. The Dirty Threesome with foxy tree-huggers’ bowels = shit tarded. Trodden, blurting freedom in a doxic wee-bugger’ bowls = ceramic hardship. The Trojan Arse, bloody urchin-free zone, is an intoxicating weeny burger-nipple - or a triceratops’ hard-on. This Bode-jam farced in a dead man’s face-free colon, piss which which a lock-lactating bleedy manburger-nipple causes a flight-terror to top the hard list of consciousness. Peaceboner James farted in a dead man’s face for Colonel Sanders’ secret blend of 11 piss o’ clock. “A cock-toting Spleen Manager rips le corpse” says the fisting terrorist to the Tophatted pissed convict, Ness. This loner painted thinly the place for Bumnel Bumders; his street cred mended. But 12 guff o’ clock had other cock-baiting ideas. Steve Martin, ripped, set a course for the Fisting Territories. “To the Fap Fapper of bumshit!” shouted he in his last address. His boner penetrated tin leaves, “Tea-plates 4?” Cumbrum Nelly wonders. Historectomy cred shredded, Butt did to that bo’ clock a guff-cock kenning idea. Sean Martin’s gritbin sex, of course, saw thespians treat themselves to fap-fap-fap-fap - a bumshindig to shower in pee-shit his last kenning.
