It's the best powdering ass party this year.

And that's counting the Powder Blast at that fat old cat's old ass bastion blasting last year's alt ass out and hastening this asshole hosts bad old wicked sat on old sweat-dick-stick-conditioning - sit and spin.

Asian reporter Dora Chung has more on how it stunk and more on dick-sweat-laden-dick-on-ass-line-itis. How it strikes, and how my own dicksticky lively little crustyass thruster "Mr trusty ass" actually thrusts me ass up with a trusty thrust of my own hard and tight nuttsy ass up and what next? Nothing.

My nuts done busted. In a boom it's a bang. Hush. Oh God what sorta clutsy eyed wonder gets stuck to his butt and nutts in his own glutsy glut or whatever he raped his own poophole. This ain't no scoop.

But it must be why...

My butts been like. "Yo..."

You know

"What's up?"

We neighbors yo.

Same street different tables. I don't think we need all these entanglers.

You mean my nuts?

They ain't yours. They hang low. But they claim that they seen the main culprits.

Who? I said. Maintaining.

Mainly.

"Many..."

In the vicinity? Or out the flopzone breach seczone feature.

You mean the line you traced defining ways your slimey one eyed guy flops to and sway. With a sharpie? Um. Well in the heat of the little sweatringed boil-pocked thing that let you ring the bell.

Except you swinged in and fell.

You. The dingaling. Smell. Like Crisco, disco, and boilful flecks of oilpoo. Let go.
© JacobAlive