Possibly
Never™
How to play Fables:
– Minimum three players (two works if you’re bored)
– Choose a format: one, two, or three words per turn
– Pick someone to write the story down, word for word
– Someone starts the story
– Take turns going anti-clockwise
– Only the person whose turn it is can add punctuation (full stops, commas, paragraph breaks, speech marks)
– Stories can be any length
– You’ll know when it’s done
Owl Can Swim
C*nt was said out of the blue into the black man, init gosh, golly-gosh I couldn’t imagine that so blue, so ray-de-far, so larr me dori green liquor in vain veins spurting copious marmalade supper all over Cumberbatch in Sherlock total grid lock. A pickled rhinoceros overdosed on penguin biscuits chatting wildly among liquorice flavours three. Hop, skip and rump can tantalise extreme vaginal rumbles unheard of in outer Mongolian fresco, Morrisons and numerous Lidl’s, Aldi’s and other quality establishments of dirty doings over the carpet of cosmic morality.
The unknown *rsehole got lost exploring his own *rsehole owing to unsubtle pains not of this universe or that universe or that universe serves to converse with aliens from this universe, or you don’t really like to smell what’s going on with this world and that shit, or that shit. Shit is shit, and life is a shovel.
Once, there was massive explosions in Westminster politician *rsehole lickers descending into the basement of Big Ben but who cares said St Stephen. Chime by Orbital is circular and round like a mound of squares revolving, different to Belfast but still similar to Copenhagen. Huge bonfires caused sore anus adding to the context of big waves crashing against big ideas which in turn shatter existential society and games of Ludo. Existentiality caused me no end of, yeah, like, maybe my head’s combusting into wine glasses like totally f*cking awesome wine in Nappa Valley with inane knitting needles of heroin, that delicious brown, yeah. But really life sucks until you stop sucking.
Dreading my painful exit from the garden centre behind the Sahara desert opposite ASDA which is deceptively small but huge by comparison to Sainsburys but tiny by and by. Monkey magic tickled Pigsy to sniff Charlie’s puckered *rsehole which tilted, pushed up, oops, upside your furry bacon rind meaty fried lined tambourine playing behind the bike shed until we find filth in brine, swine swine swine, those dirty concubines of cheesecaked topped depravity reaching down the poverty line.
Beautiful beyond bowling alley McBeal’s perfect tits and disappointing vagina playing big balls unnecessary when playing marbles with John Major’s protruding and deceptively small *sshole nuggets of Playdo which were stuck beside the point back to beautiful dead end sh*t.
Rainbows ended in brown Bungles death sadly red but yellow submarine sprung a leak all over the least expected of unexpected expectancies (Amitism) of midget gems of death resulting in death as Christ reborn and pickled Pape’s penis’s erecting huge tombs to lonely rooms snaking into wombs of curling pubes tuning into cubes which are square of semen flares.
Irritable Owl Syndrome
Hellooo Sam remarked the shark who found a cleaver upon his cheese-board (who’s board, I’m board, Jazzz). Olive’s proclaiming that the persons holding their own nanchos, chive and manchego cheese Juan said “Buenos dias mon-cher” and that; eight burritos will fill me most heartliy with love and shit. When we collapsed upon the glowing orbs from Essex that shine-a-light, star bright, do it right, wrong; however liberty scarves shrowded in hay caused Mother Teressa to sleep with Bernard Mathews who looked like Sam’s old sock crumpled up at night where, over there, forcing ways that only bananas and inflatable dildos could ever say “hellooo there”.
Flipping heck you w*nking dildo headed f*ck face, why don’t you just lie down and w*nk over my father’s (late father’s) over used purple collection of beetroot thimbles containing Campari wonderment, fueling boisterousness through organised banging sessions with my former mistress Daniella (Dan) Mitchell from Wales, who, remarkably, invented whale sperm whilst stumbling between thighs amidst glamour pussy’s pussies and silken threads in Swindon town centre.
Big Bird sucked Elmo’s furry little playmate’s fluffy, albiet wonderous joy hole thoroughly, whilst enjoying this sweet sweet tenderloin, Sir Loin (his father’s late father) expansive collection of pork jaws complete with dazzling, nay, ethereal sounding objects which complemented the cheesey surroundings.
John Wayne rode bareback whilst fondling his moist undertaker whom pronounced Grandma immediately deceased, however, perpendicular Sir Cumference says she only suffered a momentary lapse of conjunctivitus blurring the already very clear haziness which distracted the old badgers’ arse from knowing full well that it was her pansy irritable owl syndrome – poo-poo, twit-to-woo. Whoo-ing who questions who whaylayed the badger’s court (supreme court) over throwing the squirrel’s nuts that languished sonorously beneath the murky layer of skin.
Rainbow pandas shooting at my taxidermyist’s frog stuffed legs were marooned upon Kanye West’s ornate plump ebony grossing secretions filled with dolphin laughing gas tanks and fermented in Olive’s garden which wholesomely many a mermaid’s starbucks logo kunst spoiled many a hours continuously indeed causing her gaping hole to leak rainbows and kittens painfully mewing cursidly and crying please forgive me Lord for granting this very impressionable threshold with peanut and jam flavoured vaginas.
Nipple Clamps
Lunchtime treats, small glasses, tales of lemon juice, hard flooring, whilst smelling soft kindness, cheesey balls and dirty delicious pomegranates; colourful ladies often fingered dancing clowns, ciabatta bread and mauve alligator teeth, textural wallpaper and visions of the conceptual moon that haunts mysterious eyes with chicken wings and potatoe wedges.
Once, whilst Peter Reid, fat bastard, dare devil eyes and quiet demeanor that slithers through the demented visions of cheese. The full stop stopped filling up with semicolons and stiff lipped rings. The ambidextrous right sided nipple clamps felt suspiciously like Edam felt with no emotion to speak of.
The runaway train ran away without thinking which was somewhat surprising because it is extremely fast at going fast. Slowly, carefully, with both windmills churning like eager beavers smelling of courgettes that had been baptised in a demented bill of rights, cauliflower eyes and mince pie thighs running wild, running shy, Huyndia pie, chicken pie, lovely-jubbley superfly guy, jam rings and crazy melon wings, leather pads and crazy fads.
Chelsea Reach
Swedish girls with long flowing hair blowing wildly made me look closer at the state of the general society’s apathay with Finland’s stance on Lego bricks in the children’s department.
Without exception I coldly answered him with a swift retort that made him cry like a fucking b*stard – the c*nt. Everyone there started w*nking over each other’s cup of tea and buscuits until the two detectives in Chelsea Reach reached over and grasped the entire nettle bunch with aplomb.
A tasty looking bears foot tasted like two Swedish meat balls. How did the detectives arrive at Sweden’s airport carrying salami and armadillos, and a silk tie sported handsomely, said Ian. Without remorse she strutted her bad shoes with complete disregard for conventional political thoughts regarding vegetables and diary of Sweden’s farming community.
Now tell me again how inexactitude can possibly rhyme with pyth or core values in a fabled myth and legend ed(no g)ing bets because of Ian’s lack of interest in this fucking game.
Sassy Liquor
Amit (The Inevitable) is in serious deep sticky poop that smells like yesterday’s forgotten Guinness and lager combined. Piccadilly Circus used to be trendy until Amit rocked up wearing Dan’s drunkeness in his soul. Seldom has vomit sprayed over vivacious squirrells so vehemently violating virginity. Walking to the shops he thinks therefore he hurts, but really he revels in shockingly pensive images of activists dressed up as himself. Little did they know how bin bags did nothing for his carbon footprint, something that weighed heavily upon shrunken Amit’s mind.
His distraught teddy bear was found masquerading as a teenagers smelly sock. His mother, still irate, dressed to kill baby Kumar but she turned up with smoke from an underground cavern, talking softly to whomever would help her lubricate her private stash of Love Hearts.
Amit speculated shares in imaginary bonds that would finally redeem themselves. Drinking a gallon of meade, sassy liquor, not knowing how sassy, mixing various dangerous ales would bring forth not only morning sickness, but also nappy rash, personality changes, extreme vomiting, irresponsible behaviour and pregnancy – things that no respectable self loathing gentleman caller of note would contrive upon Amit’s previous feelings. However, accomodating for his previous encounters with other lovers he so desperately envied, lovers that fufilled his cup, sometimes comming twice or even three times on the lady whom his mother knew from that time when his sister was livid with the famous “bad concious” moment at which point Amit and his teddy bear got up and walked to meet random revellers.
Some people end things on a low, brutal, worst ever feeling as something that in a dreamlike scenario felt like a walk of misfits who want to be, just as big tits would say over dinner.
Goose-step Mamma
Mammoth tits crossed boundaries that seldom deserved fortitude. Warmth only came with sausage rolls served with fortitude. Get gravy stains under the bridge said Helmut who tried his cock on four times to please Fritz without a fucking good tanning, however the frosty fall out of his cheesy smell tenaciously smelt the wind that blows o’er the concious wall that stands bolt upright for all to smell.
Evermore the satin sheets smelt of hahaha last spring and summer but Lindsey’s pussy begged for more milk than a farm factory that had very little to offer a small chicken sized bar meal at dinner time. He pondered most days of his large blessed forgotten cheeky girls brassier with velvet cuffs and collars that didn’t have its usual appreciation from backstage visionaries who foretold papa smurf’s platform shoes that took years to construct. Yet forty times did he try to resell those fucking fish of ancient times which one immediately thought would put those stupid eyebrows or many a dollar paid for most things on credit cards unpayable even when he had cash to spare.
Triumphantly she orgasmed with a black dildo and fell everywhere like rain and snow and wrath. The park was a fun filled bed of pedophilia however lederhosen were worn to entice children. Seventeen she was reading. Give me fortitude mien Fräulein ich bien flicker go-go cum-cums all over those satin suggestion of leather uphosltry flavoured dreams.
Fortitude never tasted so salty. Sweetly and hummingly she pranced about like an irate deer in Richmond Park after dark, Mr Clark, flaming snark, John Cooper-Clarke said fuck this shit for soiled soldiers beds for a monumentiously large ceremony. That fucking rubbish waxed driven vagina implants that stuck above his forehead with aplomb. My god what a pile of absolute utter ecstasy your fucking twat pewter vessel is that you have on-board your broad shoulders said captain America. Now, would you go with my friend Helmut; hey drop my shit grammar and applauding dress sense for serious Gruyere cheese laden slippers of smelted and salted cracker jacks that always give. Now, why don’t you fuck long time holes of soddomy and gonorrhea. The poet was present but spiritually in Berlin the goose-step mama. Fuck, what on earth were you doing in Brighton said Eddie wearing red gloshers and sexy flip-flops a-plenty. This up and under failed miserably.
It’s about plastic tarts on your deathbed of solitude and flying nowhere, not today though as the crow flys back tomorrow.
Florida Heels
This morning Smithereen’s heart beated louder, pulsating, coat, rain and random crows snorting on grass rolled joints; dead grand-parents are with you forever and never anymore as the sun don’t shine.
Songs sung by tweetie bird’s tweetie pie, monkey biscuits oven baked and pregnant raising bonanza as the desert talks to dead seas; fancied him a singer; smelly pubes and another level forty two.
Tap shoes, salsa dress and dirty florida heels on cracked needles which facing words of nothing and nothingness. White stone, nine stretch and blood; last man still standing and still designing.
Gozzy
Precision sock wearing sloth with hairdryers affixed to a pint of glue horse mouth glass eyed baldy looking left and right concurrently but went gozzy inside a rotten egg at midnight tonight and tomorrow evening. Awesome said Alice, whilst looking through unpressurized gases unbeknownst to salt and cuntish cock, the end.
Our Gemma
Great ass and bum belonging to our Gemma, rock chick, flouncy madame, that heats up men’s desires with black thongs which stiffen black holes and hard tinky winkies until the rain falls on heated pastures new to erect every single penis standing, vertical high, bigger than every impossible woman’s dream about Andy and Mark, not so much Binny, more Pete on Binny lubricating flange that Gemma dreams about with loo-roll injected chillis down penises that hits ass with strap on latex dildos that honor Gemma.
Gemma’s slippery lip mountain quivers daily with jizz on her tight nipples that turned into babies husband’s goolies and skanky knickers that fucking smell like cat food rather than Amit’s Aunt’s dirty pitts which sweated more than a love struck blond haired hollywood bowl for a showmaster’s hairy being with tash. Gemma’s monster giant clit engulfed Jon Cox’s artwork skills, his selective colours and expertise of type sizes within a minimal design.
Gemma thought skimpy underwear and perky breasts will attract new clients and creative thought process that can enable hard willies, maximum promotion and being creative to fuck-all pay rises, clients and dreams of rock star’s wet undies, golden glitter, and smelly pants until it softens like wool on velvet. Good God silky smooth, really hot mammoth skin covering her Fables that conjour up a load of her hairy breasts that wishes she would exudes hairy balls. Gemma loves big cock!
Thank F*ck
One day, 24 hours after Hitler found love on the boat that was the sight of a large sausage roll which dazzled Philip’s sense of delerium, thank fuck. Then suddenly, quite surprisingly, almost shockingly but never say never say “Ups-a-daisy!” said Ian.
Timesheets are eyebrow raising aren’t they, indeed yes, fuck yes, enough shenanigans. “Blimey guvnor!” said Hess. Suddenly Rudolph jumped back from Ian to Dot with love. Terrific. Marvelous. Fandabidosy Eric. “What next.” said Philip.
In the dim distance I sense playful shenanigans afoot with dance and joyful crack and kitten heeled bouffant froze dwarves bollocks winking sexily, almost religiously, that made peace with oneself’s, one’s dwarfs, whilst throwing Santa over the invisible horizon. Oh Gowd, cheering blissfully, we decided to stop.
Irregulars
Amit says that most unearthly beings want to jump and hop repeatedly. The next green topic turns blue as hippos dance naked and furiously play darts to jazz crazy kids being too bloody stupid to calculate carbon offsetting air fresheners that stink of beauty.
Thank Allah for star flavoured sunbursts because they have powers through yellow moonclouds that appear softly over the elephant’s flatulence that looked morosely westwards.
Pretentiousness needs feverish bliss and harmonious feelings towards Amit’s wife to justify scared vows that he made for, for to break unconditionally but never thought he would bend iron bars with his flaccid penis, yet muscular penis.
Errectus maximus, errectus flaccidious, again weak, invincible, invictus, Guinness, much Guinness, down the Cleveland Arms every Thursday Pete drank and sang most tunefully to the gathered regulars and irregulars.
Shapes
Great wood happens when two great big dirty dustbins topple through the wildly overgrown Grandma’s garden whilst rummaging through antique furniture and discovering that the grain had evolved into uncharacteristic shapes. These shapes, which shapes, theses shapes, who’s shapes, of course.
Suddenly they reviewed the Sunday Times for unfortunate events that concerned shapes, what shapes, them shapes, why shapes? Shapes are mostly shaped, not stirred.
James Bond stirred Mr Darcy’s balls roughly around the room. “James old Bastard, you wanker you, how could your stirr, not shake, nor shuffle, like that with my enormously spherical…” “Shut up.” said James “Your balls have nothing on mine.” With that the table rocked furiously in triumph revealing a scratch that was deeper than all the world’s supply of oil reserves.
Phosphorus Tampons
Most political cock-ups stem from trees that grow sideways if you alter reality within certain holy boundaries defined randomly by meerkats and walruses who have body issues masking as privit bushes carefully trimmed regularily each, almost always, sausage rolls, blinding headaches and wombats never understand quantum physics let alone phosphorous colours.
“Phosphorous colours regularily appear in cheese inspired French varnish and artists who believe themselves greater than their ideas” said the lord of all the island of Buddhist sheep, which everyone dearly loved, albiet without wearing the condoms imposed by Rastafarian sheep, who himself dreaded to balance love and ganga, but revealed a fear that crippled Joey Deacon’s wheelchair leaving him doubly crippled, shitting himself, fucking over constant tarts, costing him para-olympic gold, his dignity and his mum’s carpet; leaving her reasonably pissed with the BBC’s coverage of the Strictly Come Britain’s Got No Toilet Manners or Polite Conversation sponges to mop up the dregs of ITV’s other poor excuse for documentaries that don’t have lions or jungles to speak of.
However, Einstien revealed, pulling up his jumper a third of the recommended dosage of brocolli can kill a fully decapitated mule hindering further medical advances which MILF’s read frequently. The mule, not MILF, stroked bearded strange gnomes who posed in underwear which had a serious consequence for regular customers at Selfridges. GILF’s love a popular brand of ‘Guess the bra size’ (men’s lingerie) catering for seemingly obvious kinds of shit and random stuff.
Unicorns enjoyed habitually smoking grass which could only be from tokens collected through loyalty at the tampon factory. That said, GILF’s loved tampons which caused a deluge of complaints that lead to freeform acrobats positioning themselves accordingly which quietened the unbearable chaos from the little bastards that complained about the brightness of the tampons which glowed phosphorously within the dark spaces of many a MILF’s bathroom cabinet.
Phosphorous tampons became hazzardous when dipped in GILF’s private cocktails which contained a rather healthy dose of men’s alcoholic concoctions which contained traces of alcohol.
Quashing Waves
‘Yesterday’ sang Paul, ‘I discovered marsh-mellows covered in banana skin whilst smoking heavily in unicorn’s dark recesses that flowed throughout the rivers of Babilon and which lay east of the troll’s surf school. Word up.
“Cheers Chef” said Ed who was dubiously discovering his own previously hidden brand of repressed emotions only to find catastrophic observations that contradicted popular belief. Ed decided to swim through the quashing waves wearing a very tight swimmingly unflattering thong that he borrowed from Amit’s closest Aunt. Ed thought finding his armbands might boost his boyancy; he floundered in the deep-end determind to forefit triumph over adversity which he had devised over swimming lessons with Amit’s Aunt whilst pulling tight on his very special elasticated thrunks. This turned nasty when Amit’s Aunt caught sight of Ed’s loose bollock. Unknown to popular demand Ed’s balls were freely swinging between his legs whilst swimming near children and babies.
Amit’s Aunt fought had to hide the swinging monstrosities that Nun’s often dream of but thought that biblical redemption might offer salvation for poor Ed.
Joey
Scanning between thoughts that think themselves dry by lying on sandy beaches that offer us only kept secrets between friends that hang in the Tate Gallery. Sugar Lumps, like Heffa Lumps, like Billy Bullshitter, want to dump their camper in thousand island hair dye.
Louise ate generous amounts of hair salad topped by walrus’s leopard skinned deep-fried eyeballs and testicles which felt like Amit’s Aunt’s carpet engulfed in Joey Deacon’s amazing table lamped phosphorousness. Speaking of Joey Deacon, he always blasphemed when he fell over sleeping dogs.
“My fucking bouncy castle has burst this bubble I built myself from scratch. You cretins. You bastards. Your fucking horse has fucked up this weave of dirty tampons I had crafted when the Fonz fell over my wheelchair.” said Joey.
Following the departure of Joey’s life, the carpet decayed amongst Joey’s memories in heaven. Joey died peacefully with none of the regular underlay, underlay that stained Amit’s carpet. Allied Carpets offer deals only dreamt up in Louise’s wildest carpet based flights of auto-erotic imagination which led to weaves of inappropriate proportions that lay down, face down, suffocated by underlay, underlay. Normally no right minded carpet salesman would touch Louise as she lays carpet; laying carpet is treacherous enough it would seem according to Amit’s Aunt, vending machines, and cotton wool helps, but is often confused for something nice.
Endless Joy
Ice-cream vans promised always to tickle the fancy of (the strange Irishwoman) Carol, wearing cheap insults that leopard print cardigans offend everyone except Louise, “Except they don’t!” said everyone together throughout the history of Irish boats, aircraft, trains, bicyles and engineering, and shit. She tried to pull 27 windows open but failed at cheating the 26th pane pathetically.
As contrition said, virtue distributes itself to those most deserving except for those least capable of masturbation which people watch thinking of unicorn’s roses, butterflies and toddlers frolicking absent mindedly within fields of endless joy.
No more dark shit the toddler manual said. “Come to the factory of fun.” said the King Penguin of Glamorgan of Sodomy. “Bend over!” said he, “NOW BITCH! Prepare for imminent landing I say! All you cake making bastards can frig my dog.”
Mr Darcy loves piss scented cigars imported from Tibet carried by mules (MILF) carrying little versions of houses tattooed to elevate the weight of normal compositions sung by transmitting messages meant for Ed’s Aunt. Ed’s Aunt knows Amit’s psychiatrist intimately concluding that swimming whlist handcuffed might conclude in early death. More?
Rod Deep’s Disillusioned World
How appropriate is it that we always talk about each other’s men and horses that it become Blankety Blank, and obscene fascinations that are very inconsequential during filthy sex. Besides that, it was somewhat of a disappointment when comprehending the story that I was trying to forget was so agreeable to those who stood before that twat who punched below the waist-line or my dear friend who sucked the Pole so disgustingly in front of Grandmother’s nurse.
However, she hated that big cock enveloped in a little pea sized (with pearls) jack-in-the-box who sprang up on dreams to erect his somewhat large rod deep wanking cock that I desperately required to bone flowers and music whilst fingering a sad old lady’s cunt that bores me to death and smells lovely and as fresh as lavender snow. Nick Griffin, racist bastard, my friend, who kills polite men whom are also friends with royalty. I know the truth about nothing but it seems he is one of mankind’s stupidest allies in the world. Nick, as Batman, didn’t foresee his willingness to begrudge me Robin’s cock up my disillusioned world, which I failed to grasp.
“I often wanted summer to end the disillusionment inside my head-fucked personality crisis.” said Scott. Picture this, Scott was dysfunctionally dis-satisfied, on numerous occasions, when he was in his darkest hour and shit. Paul thought Pete was fucking beautiful when he sucked Scott’s girlfriend’s tits and fanny. Hmmm, maybe not true that my lust and liége should betray the truth this mask that so deceivingly goes behind my (bleeding) cunt, which acknowledged the picture that it was all very much managerial office politics, and shit.
The Church
More drinks resulted in fun minus Farringdon but we suggested a change of dirty underwear which were my grandads favourite aroma. Those skiddies weren’t nice neither were Justin Darkwah’s rose scented petals, not. Pavarotti was such a twat but a rounded stomach enabled tasty fanny to be enjoyed by dwarfs and a complete half stranger’s mother.
The church bells rang my arse, priest smiled, and thumbed his congregation whilst holding a candle up the hole where few dare to go, but on occassions shall happily insert his chalice (and member) in total enjoyment, and utter slience. “Although his ring was tight and wet, it got caught on the hook” said Bob from Edinburgh.
Fear & Death
“Well honestly Simon.” I said it loudly thrice times. Reindeer always culminate repeatedly in saying “death” while harbouring deep rooted fears of moths. Moths gather secretly together hoping geckos lick anal treats falling tail first on mosques. These geckos suck Israelites dry. Whilst mosques stink. Al Gore stinks also but he transcends the common playground rules concerning moths and tea bags. “Love it” he says slowly dying while crying forlornly that his cookies over cooked again creating a heavenly odour filled with much pain and joy paradoxically flying against Mother’s pitying features.
Dom Perengion fizzed excitedly below sea level in the unfortunate situation. His Mother created involvement in hilarious incidents slipping on uncouth words.Monday turned sour through over use of too many bangers and hotdogs ironically deposited in vaults secured by cream cheese baked potatoes and fornication resulting in epic constitutions written by old craftsmen.
Deeply rooted within cheese is delightful Jemima Bean who, an unlawfully hazzard, slowly trundled and forgot that octopus skin can cure many vicious sucking disorders including haemorrhoids and acne.
Mr Darcy reportedly went bananas at the Hurlingham with nutella smeared conspicuously all over his tail. Jemima Bean liked his demeanour so she purchased lipstick canvases forever changing into sausages. The sausages thought that their intellect would void off all reason displayed by their counterparts and had little ambition to find aliens. Their nemesis and lovers kissed gently; bitten deeply by scarabs inside the deepest caves that bares mankind’s horses eating women. “Woe-man” opined Elmo talking shit, “John Lennon killed Yoko controversially believing her lies were true”. Yoko fought against her massive hairnet whilst smoking mild bitter pot with deepest agony concluding that The Beatles were shite. Penny Lane tried hardest knowing that James Bond sucked cock. Abbey Road was licked substantially by many a koala fighting for reform with oligarch history.
Felonious monk, feloniously thunk, acrimoniously stunk, skunk hunk, ceremoniously sunk, harmoniously bunked gregarious monks, laborious funking into hell, felicitously thinking fuck this.
Talking shit regularly induces video store fits and Amit thinks pretty well he thinks. Radio kills badgers everywhere due to overuse of portable looking OCD projectiles. John harbours epic yacht fleets coloured blue resulting in endless violence.
Apparently moles take form under specific regulatory guidelines. These guidelines constrict us, emancipate them and slaughter gravity’s rainbows. Why apostrophe comma live at all. Indeed why, why indeed. Why not go to Google for why fronts.
Kingdom Of Sodomy
Who is starting to have bad thoughts about my good thoughts turning them viciously blue she screamed and hollered. “I think it stays just so” he said staring the elephant in the eye with a marsh mellow coloured bucket load of uncomfortable pauses followed by intense voids of empty rhetoric and black death. The elephant was happy enough but unfortunately she tried running away. “Without a fucking chance” said he.
Consequently a full rash developed on Miss Piggy’s right forearm sailor tattoo which was bad enough as is. The Sailor, whom she adored and devoted her left foot (or trotter) to, became enamoured by two big pensioners who ate incessant amounts of dim sum flavoured pasta. The sailor screwed dirty pig bitch constipated arse with vigour resulting in Miss Piggy dying from a broken arse and buggered senselessly throughout the sailor’s maritime Kingdom of Sodomy.
The worm, and the elephant’s friend, stroked each’s peachy pears three times and only two times were multiple faults incurred by illogical rhyme of homogenous phenomenom. Thus our tail ends here.
Why France?
They fuck. Bangers and snails populate under-ground cities near Bordeaux flavoured frogs. Why France at all pondered Elmo as F. Scott Fitzgerald dressed as Lorna May imitating Finish dreams unlike anything experienced previously whilst drowning with an unspecified significance that crisps could transform crunchily into wondrous sculptures manifesting repeatedly Saturn’s theory while spitting beats. Fuck yeah!
Bourdien though why France? I concur concurred Simone de Beauvoir referencing Jacques Derridia, Hitler’s bitch, hoping to slay communism, thus arriving, crying, at the ridiculousness of Ryan-Air.
Recess
Today was not nearly engaging enough to make playful and ineresting conversation. Erotic thoughts pursued by Amit (The Enevitable) lead unpure desires to three whole months without sex. Without hinderance Betty blew away the large parcel that Amit had stuffed lovingly with popcorn. Decorum prevented them. The syntax enabled both of them to access Swedish fantasies galore.com
Louise said excidedly “Hopefully I won’t be burdened with mood changes.” coinciding with presentation deliverance formats that Burt Reynolds will dissaprove of again. So, Ed lusted for another Panda that shoots way beyond the bamboo of forests. Anyway, we decided soldiering on acid would create an apoplectic result concurring with Mr Darcy’s unfortunate position which hurt an unimagineable hole through his recess.
F*cking Arts Tarts
So, I thought that maybe I should decide to give my finger whole heartedly to the person sat next to Albert. Albert had already been mixing drugs with multiple occurances that made his arse sore. Albert’s arse gaped open at the severity of Louise’s smelly feet that had been stuck right up into nothingness which had proven black holes do exist. “Foolishly I had earlier taken immodeum.” said Ed as he shat himself abundantly causing distressed Mothers to flee hurridly from the horrific scene unfolding before their very eyes.
Now, because Ed has the most writing skills of epic proportions, he easily rewrote sonnets and retold the historical context of the events differently, which all good Samaritans should take note every time.
“More!” said the Conductor who occupied Thomas’s big fanciful imagination. More requires additional steam. Don’t you know that dickhead people like to innebriate artfully shit renditions of 80s homages to Hieronymous bosches out self absorbtion maximised by pathetic attempts at homogenous geography studied at some bullshit academy for good for nothing fucking arts tarts who shag professors whilst thinking of heirarchys of matriarchal sexual poses. The poses gave thought to numerous indecient imaginings of threesomes with siblings concurring thus art has died long, slowly fucking pointless deaths many of which nobody gives a fahitta, two shits, or a girraffs arse about these Millennia.
Inevitably art can be Amit. I’m hopelessly devoted thanks to the incessant comogenings of Amit’s rather large basket of bird droppings. Pete always has been gay as in not gay you bender; gay happy is always Pete’s best mind frame. Peter always thought Art was pointless culminating in Art that was for the masses which made the masses rebel against life’s meaningless.
Rowntree’s Randoms provide untold truths and frivioulous banter between friends recently made. La Fin.
Gas Fluff
Al Gore began scratching her balls because they used petronium sulphate liberally behind anal retention. Jesica Rabbit hopped, sucked and licked wildly Al’s foot long tail inducing painful memories. She killed Elmo’s erection full stop. Luckily Elmo needed little hidden erotic encouragement to bum his friend gingerly, spicily, sugarlickilly. They regretted everything before engaging in exotic sleeping whilst pampering with Elmo’s pubic headlice; flashing inappropriate signals from Caribbean fire-fighters dressed head-to-toe in chicken wire.
Stupidly no one blow-jobbed Mr Darcy hard core. Iraq gave shit loads of gumibears erupting many volcanos worldwide. Red rum gumibears contain fluids unknown to Muslims but luckily Hindu’s delight the Israelites shite night despite constipation nation causing rumbles trans-internationally, spasmodically and heterosexually into flight, night, shite.
George doors pooped under neon transvestites slashing indiscreetly at Ghandi’s corner producing geese cushions containing lethal coloured gas fluff. Phil Collins stinks like vomit turned blue lagoon pants inducing teracota magpies into sponge Bob’s square noodle infested clingons screaming frozen dead words wrapped in foil blocked tettrapack patterned penis scented purse.
Budweiser lollipops stuck together square flowers bringing warmth and fuzzy pussy flavoured flange bags as Woody Allen gave birth.
Everyone Monday, bugger Sunday for turnips stuffed like hips lying perpendicular alongside sing-star Mowtown mp3s dancing festival comma chameleon kaleidoscope colour splash. POW! dreams forever.
Epic
Sunday, said Joe, however sunny, could not prevent nuclear mishappening consequentially and exploritorially from happening. Turbulence caused Frank Bough’s balls to ascend euphorically throughout my flight of trauma. Consequently, Amit fell gracefully on mushrooms descending throughout this fungal earth and pigsties whilst happily skipping to Johannesburg and merrily whistling for peace. Love caused Mr Darcy’s balls to ascend quickly throughout the duration of the Holocaust whilst mourning more dramatically, considered John Snow. Why live life depressed in twilight dreams, thought Elmo.
Monday, Hitler decided obstreperously elimination of ling-on berries could destroy Poland. Poland slowly deteriorated; thankfully, post-reconstruction, clever post-modernists wank often. While anal retention debilitated Cubism, bringing cubes everywhere angularly within amorphous spheres. Rommel hungry rhombuses parked cowardly his tank pissed faced within reason.
Asparagus flopped freely to new depths. Artichokes rebelled against meaty tyranny. Anne Boleyn worried beheadedly but somehow remained headstrong against Nando Zanzibar’s machinations, just inching past culminations of Swedes.
Gary thought hopelessly about exiting Frank Bough, who listed archery as compulsory whilst compulsively firing cocks. Mongooses flew crazily cuckoo against tides rebelling against compliments suggesting in-fighting within fluctuating flatulents.
Popcorn conquering salty cheese-plants trampled over teeth, ignoring filmic apprehensions. Jack Kerouac became lost in transit. Mormons lactated upon open plains because Mormons’ religion worships whatever has Jesus involved. Pubic (copy paste Amit) lice said “Infested hair certainly smell rotten.” Public pestering servants consistently debate throughout civic corruption halls beneath verandas; windy secrets changing direction constantly. Alan Titchmarsh fished camply, deeply and provocatively whilst camping seductively for milk, saving cows’ udders.
Throughout time, Paul Auster frigged frantically. Salsa became siri flavoured wine gums. Costing siri. Now then, my dick throbs yearn-fully stretching its powerful, all-seeing character. Penis envy stretches worldwide daily however vagina contracts. Good. Vicariously, penises discover relative planets through observing telescopic phenomena for which completes circular cubist renderings. However, “I’m gay.” said Elmo, he had not considered heterosexuality for which one human-being can rely on without religion, sex, drugs or alcohol. Amen.
Rocked In Space
Amit joined Alcoholics Anonymous for reasons known throughout the company. Unfortunately Amit refuses treatment for his ongoing personal problem causing severe retention of his bodily out-goings. However, Betty Guest guessed at the solution for which Amit could constitute reasonable amalgamations of diarrhoea. Shit happens.
Lately Amit felt he was trying too hard at delivering solutions for everything except the problem that orbs and which should always mirror his personality. Sometimes dolphins, between the slices, seem bewildered by on-going orbital transfixations of uppermost magnitude. Impressions made by Swedish nations quoting Joey Bullfinch say nothing except for drawing on untold magnificence caused by Amit.
Amit rocked in space and rolled in shit. Jacques Derrida pontificated about his make-up falling off his chair. Haikus sneezed at riddles foretold by Amit arguing pointlessly with himself. Transfixed by Haikus’s beauty, soldiers told lies bequeath their everlasting passion for deceit and cheating. Deception fought aimlessly against the pointless clinically depressed passions of Moordor. News foretold Al Gore of glowing dropped poo on seagulls about to die. Texting inebriates the masses such that schizophrenia skips around as mental poo. Thus the pilgrim’s progresses resplendently towards oblivion unknown. Heartfelt Amit unashamedly lied through fortunes and told stories describing psychiatric unimagining.
Thirdly, Al Gore appeared under Bill Clinton. Seriously, Elmo gave praise to boring nationals whilst finding himself.
Iraq stinks like oil floating bodies of corruption, greed and watermelon walked down syndrome avenue whilst fisting Miss Piggy who exclaimed erratically that pain doesn’t fix the inflation of egos. Mr Darcy shit everywhere. Miss Bennet tried selfishly, desperately, exasperatedly, to divulge beneath her flowing joy hole. Big Bird sawed frantically through Miss Bennet’s leg but ghosts tickled the feathers under his winged sporen causing eerily fluctuating spasms enhanced only by Dan having wild throned sex causing Betty to contract nice friendly warm shit.
However thoughtful Big Bird considered suicide the daemons of Binfield Common whilst returning library books and dreams. Forget Iraq stinks of corruption and Mr Darcy’s poor aim made worse by Betty’s insistence that Al Gore imprisoned innocent Iraqi’s fulfilling ambitious dreams mirroring Elmo’s own depravities.
Saturday turned out wonderfully wonderful however Mr Darcy corrupted Dan showing the various periscopes which loosely identified the planetary orbital malfunctions of a church choir’s naughty habits. Nuns battled furiously with internal sized golf balls whist beating paella and licorice sherbet.
Parsnips
Parsnips are trying to be different because they are not defending the bouncy tits of Mordor. The turnip sitting in darkness transformed into constitution of Ardés. Somewhere over the butt of turnip shall thus purportedly defined intrinsically pineapple delight as Peter has made serious enigmas (variations) on the trampoline. He decided hurriedly that he supposedly asked to destroy the empire within twenty feet of unbelievably disastrous consequences. Now, Al Gore went through his door-way masturbating hurriedly whilst cart wheeling on acid.
Peter thought rarely that something including paint and flowers could ignite powerful distortions within Mrs Batty. Distinctively Elizabeth Royal ate copious coveted and signified morsels dying slowly. The barber chopped shit out of content upstairs in the latex cave. Dr Chivago decided that rubber gloves were no obstacle when inserting anal fixtures up Peter’s drooping darkness. Sugar-lecckalie (swiss chocolate) grilled can supposedly cause open anal fissures, lacerations and fishes to die. Toast up Louise.
Sweet
Sweet sole fortune was Scouse Pippi Long-stocking’s tapestry which decided against a pork pie sock; film turtle. Al Gore loves amateur porn because secretly his pineapples penetrate oblongs. Chocolate lactose allergy intolerance; efficiency; wondrously anal (short) film.
Salty
Salty blue Chinese means dried hate smell; although love stinks fabulously, passion thanks first; integrity however a sadness smells grey, alienated. Ror roof anal pongs roses, kiss numerous of Masschetutes, but bucket massage spade trash toes bat Santa, pillow pink, then day fly more.
The Wheelbarrow
Tabulable thought Michael Jackson scared easily over nothing. Jackie Chan was massively bemused by Woody Allen who had a seriously perverted state of mind which never ceased to be deprived kindly Tabulable decided. She was fed up with Stockholm so she made brownies out of poo. She wanted Henry the Tortoise to join in the party which turned sour when he arrived in a white robe. The brownies had lost total flavour because Tabulable shit atop of the brownies.
Hurriedly Woody gave head to Michael. He tried furiously to come in his wheelbarrow but Michael didn’t. Woody was impressed by Al Gore who threw the crown on Berlin. Meanwhile strippers had foretold of goblins attacking Berlin. The strippers seemed perverted by the activities which induced pregnancy. The King hooked up with Tabulable who jumped from the great tavern of China therefore landed upon King Kong’s big dick.
Hemorrhoids
Henry phoned Vietnam to get new hemorrhoid cream. He successfully found the hemorrhoid was contaminated with the Vietnamese virus notorious for playing up his rash which was painful enough. Al Gore contacted Henry because he too considered taking hemorrhoid remedies because his hemorrhoids had rashed and ruined his perfect cock.
Henry The Tortoise
Henry the tortoise sat on some foam which caused him hemorrhoids. He went to Cardif playing violin with his band and sang from a bath tub whilst bubbling from the rear. He took cocaine which made his hemorrhoids explode.
Contributors: Ian Alexander, Nigel Batting, David Beare, Donna, Alice Brash, Clive Byron, John Cox, Justin Darkwah, Philip Davies, Liana Dinghile, Ged Equi, Louise French, Clare, Dave Goodall, Elizabeth Guest, Hanna @ Pub Du Vin, Joe Hale, Ed Henry, Sofia Jarnfors, Stefan Kraft, Amit Kumar, Mark Lea, Jon Lee, Simon Lehnis, micollard@, Lavinia Mirabella-Greco, Dan Mitchel, Peter McCabe, Gary Neale, Kerry O’Connor, Helen Partridge, Pippa, Ameli Plogback, Chris Power, James Rose, Scott Smith, Paul Truman, Kate Waddell, Matt Walpole and Gemma Louise Walters.
