Continuous sentence game

[Samson]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his

[Zen Badger]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty

[Edwardo Piet]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other

[Samson]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by

[Edwardo Piet]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits

[Samson]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!" exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits.

Once everything calmed down the Cult leaders showed up and

[Edwardo Piet]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits.

Once everything calmed down the Cult leaders showed up and ... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! -

[Zen Badger]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits.

Once everything calmed down the Cult leaders showed up and ... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! - IT'S SARAH PALIN

[Edwardo Piet]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits.

Once everything calmed down the Cult leaders showed up and ... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! - IT'S SARAH PALIN.... ON THE SHITTER!!!

[Samson]

One day while I was whacking off to World of Warcraft Playing Choir boys who looked like an amorphous, undulating blobs of macaroni and suddenly I felt my bile rise up into the swimming pool outside, in which floated in orange flat sandals a body, the likes of which none had seen and I farted in surprise at the sheer exhilaration of it all but suffered a blow back which hugged the questionnaire/jizz-rag stapled to a french man named Nicholas Sarkozy who then ate his own face for a thrill which made me wonder why I slept with your ugly, inbred, halfwitted hound from hell named Cerebus (sic) who was a Media Studies graduate from a cleansed sewer now converted into a preposterous hellish version of night and day where fire-breathing armadillos drink copious quantities of communion wine from a priest's innocent boy love severed testical cup of catholic joy that the pope donated to WSPA for no particular reason apart from that John McCain felt it in the ass. oh no! full stop!!!!

Meanwhile, on the dark side of the moon a race of penguinoid aliens had just hatched a fiendish plan: they were going to export malt barley below cost price and three words, What The Fuck, managed to encapsulate the whole thing then went wrong, but fortunately a man named Dotard arrived and took all his clothes off, revealing a tattoo the size of a small individual pork pie. Once reveled, he started running up and down the streets screaming the words, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup, soup! A spicy carrot and corriander!! [Chilli Chowder!] CRUTON CRUTON! Crunchy friends in a liquid broth! I am dispatchio, oh! I am missala soho. Misso misso, Fighting in the Dojo, Misso misso... Oriental friends in the land of SOUP!"
exceeding three words was worse than a fate worse than death, making it doubly worse than death...which is annoying. Then suddenly out of the bushes Samson jumped out waving his enormous, spotty something or other flag hoping that it would be seen by the brutal misfits.

Once everything calmed down the Cult leaders showed up and ... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! - IT'S SARAH PALIN.... ON THE SHITTER!!! trying to breast feed a baby Moose, but