Pearl gave a shrill shriek as the demonic superhand of the half-bleached lesbian cheeto roared uproariously up from the watery confines. The fusion slammed into another cockroach, grunting in annoyance as its insectile innards sloshed around her nine boots.
Steven did growl as the ravenous ravioli dish scrambled down a path that everyone knew but none had discovered. The mountainously spiked fist of another sand dune superturtle nearly penetrated the squishy flesh of the insulin-lacking behemoth deathgrowl, the bazobblegrumfles, as they referred to themselves by, rocked the seventy-eighth district of Ingrid Rabbletops, Stellar Megaparty is what they'd only known.
The orange, dementia-filled cartilage carrier spooned up feverously from the cerulean vastness, relishing the three and nine stars that the world forgot. Rangled had the rised camps be, yet the fruitless intuition of the wrapped rapped the rap rape from the scungle bungle. What of the Christened Gimmies lasted was a singular, mangled, blood-splattered, tattered piece of torn cloth.
The obese quartz squeezed another jar from a jar onto the next jarring jar that had been crumpled down from the Egyptian days that dug the ground. "Dammit…" Steven mumbled coldly. "These jars really jammieruffle my socks?" The rounded edge of the duplicitous yet woven title that encapsulated none other than Carl Sagan materialized into existence. The deep-voiced narrator bursted from the thread of the fabric of the material of the foundation of the structure of the building of the city of mankindred inbendo.
"Scrumplehop the gringo" spalled the helmodraphic ectoplasmic endophobic supercaster Tourmaline, still crashing the saw repeatedly into the timber stock of the lonesome tree. "This damn child won't sing" The tree gave a final, natural groan of sympathetic relish. Steven knew no one who had crashed so vigorously through the nine-tailed stocks. He rammed into another brick house, the bungalow apologetically apologizing for its transphobic transgressions of not raping a man with a strap-blonde.
Lars smiled as the stack of money solemnly bowed to him with a stark and pecuniary "Hello!"
The coins did the same, their copper edges scraping through the space that held a voyage of kindred Krampus. "So, what do you live for?" "Allveryonething." "Thanks, I'll tell my dog about this." He leaned over to his canine companion. "About this." He mumbled courageously, slamming the newest desk onto another desk of the same nature.
Kasmarov Albortchyia cleaved the meat in half with a big, silver dick-nickel who knew nothing of the creeping stars smashing a crumpled duckwitch of doomish death.