Add a Word to the Story

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure

When this is done, we should make a novel out of it

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet

Decidetto said:

When this is done, we should make a novel out of it

Click to expand...

A comic would be better.


"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet rock

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet rock Steve

(For all evil masterminded things are called 'Steve')

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet rock Steve to apply

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet rock Steve to apply a job

"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
"...WHAT!?"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD.
Mister Smith reached enlightenment, eager to meditate, but one barnacle conspired as a tin foil transformed into a triangle of elegance and joy averting everything bad into peace... and love.
Truly beautiful reptilian-faced female dance bars and she has gargantuan curvy, juicy butts, which enraged the priest giving the memorium a shitload of praise.
"So," said Jason, son of Mr Smith, "dispatch the drones, conquest and rejected ambition, "Farewell!"
Thus he said goodbye and he acts like a baby cat, rolling around the place, caused by electoons failing him.
14 bad words are made by Death, and that was tragically fucked away to Mars where the Emperor of Darkness devours every Martian, including Marvin.
After his departure from Ireland, Death commanded his pet rock Steve to apply a job at the local