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The new vehicle, descried by executives as the latest in the ever-decreasing gap between desitiny and home, is descried by environmentalists as a car that shits all over anything else on the road.
Utilising cheap immigrant workers under the floor of the vehicle, where they live with their children and grandchildren, the Commoder wipes up after it's off.
"Australia is a notion of passengers," revealed one immigrant living and working under the bonnet.
The Commoder, with a being in every bonnet, faeces injected and fast like a fridge on rollerskits, is a must for eery Australians looking to announce their identity.
"It's not a symbol of why the world is fast going to shit the way that it is when all we want is more of the things that are sending the world to shit," said one silly sausage.
Pricks.
The playboy, dirty old maniac, womens' lip-operationer and smacking jacket wearer told his mum that he only reads Newsweek for the naked self-interest.
Hef, unashamedly and unreservedly and unapologetically and unrepentantly informed, told his mater that he couldn't imagine a bunny with a name ending in Berg.
"There's no Hebrew word for breast augmentation," Hef crowed as he unveiled his new venture, Playkike.
"I'm bringing the beard back to the bearded clam," he said clasping his clammy ones together.
His mother, totally stuffed and off her rocker, found his stash under his bed as she was hunting rabbis and is believed to have bought his story.
"He could sell Ice to smack-heads," a rabbi told his meddling mother as he posed for the chimera.
Playkike will be on selves very shirtly.
If my name was Petrarch and lawless, hide! Splay that arse-nut strewn! Then chided, have to except that! Mr. Football, or EJ foreshortening, sheltered the very same pistons as you. Yourself, weird like meat, worder, have to farce the fractures.
Mr. Fontbile, in is blogging doze, took to the fold in a keyhole post, either forewarned or black. Either or ether, token to the fuel and the context with a stately doubtful chiding, Mr F was an aspirin for the flutey notion: victory is hourly
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If Boccaccio could text, heed propellerly shave that Jezza. War snuff like himsalve toot, hand all the hat-tributes of house: wary, weary, warring, whacking, waning sleeve. For all fussed as he walls on the grind he was a tizzying hair artist.
When smurfs rail the earth, as they sharely wail, they will be gnome as the verily duffer pants to the crate mess of Jeeza. They lend him their years, pelt the gall low, below all laugher: the grind; nuffer do it on the sinstair side
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Held in the labyrinthial dungeons of the Whitehouse, US Presidenture George W. Bush married his daughter of twenty or so ears in a lavish musical conducted by the reanimated corpse of Nazi synthesizer Herbert Von Karajan.
"I was very happy to give away my daughter," Bush said under his breathmint
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Flea fowling and swarthily queazy, Buddy is, so unlark Big Nick. Some arch so, I'd gore eels; for as to stay: opposite - and twats wily saying some thank.
Four arses Big Nick looked like hehe did, Buddy winds like the wind and farts too: wandily. Apples on the ground and apples in the hair, it ills paradys
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In his die, DK yawned the hollowed turf of the hole of flatbile like phew! Verilysimilitudinally, Fev yawns the cheese in the slum, why? I send so, hat's all.
Wail, with his run, so undysimilar to that awful DK, and with a delivery, so nightlight that offal DK, Fev is, in my bumble op, the equal of staid faust brawler
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Comment by Norm
on Hugh Hefner's mum discovers his Newsweek collection
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Morgan, the only thing wrong with drugs is that they're illegal.