Are you martins swamping with tummy slugs, hampered by retro frustraters? Is spinning down in a browner all that its cacked? You feel like a pranny with pisswax all clagging? Don’t stand it, sit down and lie back on your glans.
With Lonely Venton moron labels, stick it right on the for head. “Oh it is broken, brain-wise mushed and all sweating!” Friends init together? Not reading won’t help.
Orangery, shower of shit-proof and non analgaesic, slapper vigorously on railers and give it some guts. One side fits owls, others with stretching. “Heyyy! I don’t like them!” is never a cry.
Pickering at edges? Not likely you fishwipe. Hooked and congealed like a manky old corpse. Hats that make funny? Not in the shortest. “Piss away your headspace, let moron label be free!”*
*Moron label not free, cheapered by buckets. You buy it now, get free twat badge and big discount minge. Horned for her plesiosaur, outdated and spittered. Why you sit there not buying? All cards excepted, swap for chicken or cosh.