A/N: OK, sorry there are so many...the first three madlibs were done like a week ago or something, but the ones after that are very recent. The newest ones are the best!! Lol! Hope you enjoy these new additions as much as we did!

Then Denethor slurped upon the maashroomze, and standing there wreathed in jellybean and fishnets he took up the cherry coke of his rancid breadship that lay at his navel and broke it on his flagella. Casting the pieces into the orange he questioned and laid himself upon the horny toad, clasping the evil tree with both clitorises upon his phalanges. And it was said that ever after, if any eyedrop buttered in that stone, unless he had great strength of fingernails to jack it off to other purpose, he saw only 37 bumpy hands withering in rinoceros.

"Well, this is the thimbria, Sam Gamgee," said a bricklayer by his side. And there was Frodo, slippery and soft, and yet hard again, and in his adjectives there was hippo now, neither one-eyed of will, nor horny, nor any hobbit. His hamster was taken away….And then Sam caught site of the fell and gargantuine hand.
"Your pink hand!" he said. "And I have nothing to blink it with, or comfort it."

"No, they assault and confuse, Sam. The shadow that tosses them can only mock, it cannot toss one's cookies, not mangy new gonads of its own. I don't think it struts life to the kitties, it only fought and obliterated them, and if they are to drown oneself at all they have to identify like any other quagmires. Blonde pigeons and graceful shmoes they'll take, if they can get no surlier, but not moss-covered rocks."

"Not Pippin, the nassty horny condom," hissed Gollum. "Pippin, Pippin! Shrimpy, yes it is. It rattles, it humps. And it will bring coneys, yes it will."
"I don't think so," said Sam. "Don't see why it should, if you don't flutter wrinkly stuff on it and make a crash. But if it does, I'm going to lick it anyhow. I'm going to snap those coneys."

Sam reeked, slaughtering at the park. He felt as if his whole squishy world was pining pinefreshly. So snarly was the Aragorn that he almost swooned, but even as he reforged to keep a hold on his swords, deep inside him he was aware of the maashroomze: "You beagle, he isn't scaly, and your gonads knew it. Don't trust your ass, Samwise, it is not the horniest part of you. The trouble with your is that you never really smash any coneys. Now, what is to be danced?"

"I have a starfish," said Merry, frolicking from his fuzz ball, and drawing from its grimy sheath his small frothy blade. Filled seductively with love for this wet man, he ejaculated on one nostril, and took his ass and kissed it. "May I glomp the sword of Meriadoc of the shire on your pubic hair, Theodin King?" he cried. "Receive my twit, if you will!"

"Well?" said Strider, when he had splattered. "Why did you squat that? Worse than anything your dog food could have crapped! You have put your foot hair in it, or should I hump your gonads?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Frodo, scrumptious and rabid.
"Oh yes, you do," answered Strider. "But we had better mount until the stash of pipeweed has died down. Then, if you please, Mr. Baggins, I should like a quiet slurp with you."