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Another fine collaboration
by
Brandon the Mighty
&
Joemangi
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It was only about a nut-shot ago that I was sitting in my herparoidial grumpy grundle kiddie-pool, watching a blisterpeenic hackey-sack sous-chef, preparing a mouthwatering broasted koala pouch, slathered in copious gobs of morning dew piddle stew.
The only thing that REALLY sucked was I knew he was going to make me stick my curvy pervy wang-gland in the murky miasmic VagAnus of his blister-pickin' bow-legged pigeon-toed walking pooey-hole of a dipshit derptard daughter before he'd let me have any of it. All I can say is sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do when such a hypershart-inducing delicacy is there for the taking by those brave enough to do what needs to be done.
I just couldn't figure out why the unpancreated furdpurgus was unlocking its cage and wreaking unholy havoc upon the dumbfounded and bassackwards villagers below. It was as if The Universe itself was trying to tell me that if I didn't quit rubbing that sideways mounted putter-sharpener in the wrong direction, things were liable to go straight to shit with a fuckbungling quickness! Especially since no one had seen Spanky Duckbutter in days. Not since he left his pencil whittler in Mason's orbital typewriter again.
I had had just about enough of that pickle-douche snorting Spackleback Brutapuss droppin' his fiercely atrocious stank-ass flatus-assault on my brand new Paisley-Grip Spaghetti-Bender Pro Fishing Pole. I sure as fuckety fuck wasn't lying when I finally removed my rambomorphic hampershamble maxi-pad cod-piece and furiously yelled at that mangy pudastic rectum-smurf, "If you don't mosey yer rosey posey nosey on down the ol' Jizzum Trail with the all the blazing-ass speed of a cumulobastic velocidork, I'm gonna spam-slap yer fleshy cunt-nubbles with my isotonic pimple-putty-infused badminton racket of DOOM, ya beef-queefin' parboiled jelly donut!"
Suffice it to say, he made like a freshly neutered gorgapig and fuckered right off to parts unknown, cryin' like an emo-dweebin' nipple-bitch all the way. Naturally, my short-lived relief was comparable to when you successfully piss a full gallon of high-octane voodoobiotic bong-water... which is quite the bombastic feat, don'cha know?
Honestly at this point, I was having a hard time wrapping my swollen head around the whole damn idea, because last time I checked, it was still legal to use your sister's leftover amniotic fluids to lubricate the cosmic o-rings on a 1934 Rancor Rooter special, in the great state of Arkadelphia. At least if it still had its own spiral-wound pump wheels in its Fatter Dinklage. Cuz if you can't take care of what's right in front of you.... then you probably shouldn't have let those cloven-footed she-biscuits butter the rectal opening of Stephen's galactic rice-burner anyway!
