Marshed Mellows to become illegal in She-Caughgo?

I recently acquired this document from the Bureau of Marshed Mellow Management, She-Caughgo, Ill-Inoise. This illustrates the reasons Kong-Wress-Man Jump Stackhouse plans to ban them from burnholes and flavorspots citywide.

PAGE 1:
Last year, my daughter Norpus had a terrible accident with a Marshed Mallow. She began the snarf procedure but got some wetted-chunks crammed inside of her swallowtubes. She began to snarl and hack but my wife and I were watching the William Kosbee program on television upstairs. We heard strange noises but we didn't realize she was having a chokedown. When we came back down, we saw that her life had vanished.

PAGE 2:
The next day my wife and I took my daughter's body to a Medically Certified Marshed Mellow Witch Doctor and Food Enchanter.

For those willing to fact check me, his name was Popcorn Jenkins, MW and his business is on the corner of Hobbyhorse Highway and Bumpus Way in Southtown.



Mr. Jenkins used a confectionery glaze, made solely of Marshed Mallows to bring her withered spirit back to life. It worked. For payment, he requested 13 small bags of Marshed Mellows be delivered to his home over the next three years. It was an installment plan he and my Marshed Mallow Accountant, Bhurt Schnooter, had devised over the touch tone fone (whose knobs and buttons were sticky from excessive exposure to Marshed Mellows).

PAGE 3:
Now my daughter Norpus has successfully started the city's first "Women's Anti-Marshed Mallow League." They hurl Marshed Mallows at tinybabies and wrinkleskins, anyone who scowls at her while she pickets the Marshed Mellow factories.

Page 4:
I hearby recommend that all members of the Sweet-Savor district of She-Caughgo ban the flavortasting and smush-handling of any of these wretched foodstuffs.

Richard Attenborough's Aged Cider

QUOTE FROM PRESS CONFERENCE REGARDING RICHARD ATTENBOROUGH'S AGED CIDER:

"Welcome to Jurassic Pa-heh...I mean... Welcome to my aged cider."

-Sir Richard Attenborough

The news of Richard Attenborough's Aged Cider has already reached most major media outlets. To many, this is a cause for celebration-a night of rubbing hotspots and torking on warmhandles-but for others a day of shock. Today, the news has been been released of a dark double life of the popular actor/naturalist/non-flosser.

Authorites in Liverspotshire, Pumpittt, London have discovered a bevy of lude and moistened photographs of downtrodden middle-aged women hidden in the flossless bathroom cupboards of the Attenborough estate. Yes, it is true. Sir Attenborough, best known to Americans as Rad Dad Richard Hammond from Jurassic Park, is a youngflesh taster known in rumpus circles as "Rude Rude Rick." Though, traditionally, youngflesh is considered young women between the ages of 13-21, Rude Rude Rick's preference is a bit older.

It has been discovered that in between shooting films like "Long Talks On Shrubbery" and "Clean Clean Countertops," Sir Attenborough has been walking the dark streets of Liverspotshire on the hunt for the gooeyducks of jobless middle aged women. It's been noted that he often proposes warm-robbins in exchange for goldcoins. In fact, it seems that many famous London showpeople already know about Sir Attenborough's dirty habits.

Here's what some of them have to say:

"I knew that old fruit was a hamgrabber. I saw him looking up my wife's rugumtorts during my son's holy head dunk."
-Greggorie Dougersnout, Film Director

"In between shoots on the set of 'Clean Clean Countertops' I saw Richard patting the palm of his hand on his wigwam and breathing like an old chimney fireplace. He was staring directly at my chowderbowl. It was absolutely bonkers."
-Moihira Drippingsfield, Actress

"Please somebody put that old yellow haystack behind bars. I saw him having bumpers with a girl named Margaret-Bet-Bet after he paid her two gold coins when she lost her job as the hairstylist for Goit Nanner."
-Pord Illingrath, Stunt Trainer to the Elderly on "Jurassic Park 6: John Hammond's Revenge"

It remains unclear whether or not this hubble-hobbing will ruin Rude Rude Rick's career.

Check back for more news on this anus-breaking story.

Pear and Bisquit

Biscuit really isn't gay. Really.

Spruse Bringsteen: Tightjean Funwalk "AMERICAN TOOLBELT" Universal Tromp

Choadslist Posting # 35678923R

TICKETS FOR SALE: (NOT FAKE) Spruse Bringsteen and the Saturday Night Guys: Tightjean Funwalk "AMERICAN TOOLBELT" Universal Tromp 2009

Bottom line: My Dad died of grumpus and rup rup rup so I can't make it to the Spruse Bringsteen show at the Soft BrownFort Universal Aquarium. This whole situation makes me sagmouthed but what can I do? I guess all I can do is moneychange these smokey busters! HAR HAR HAR! To be honest, I feel like a clophorse in a burning redshack. My whiteyes are moistened for my underground dirt dad.

My Uncle Bundpt and Rodjod are going to drive me up to Fell-he-Delpheeya for the funeral foodfeast. There'll be scarftables and slop cups. My old Dad loved to eat goose grenades and hotspot tooigers--so there'll be a lot of those I can assure you! He loved drinks like softbeef coffee and gentle glidedown gulpers--so those'll be there too.

Anyway, the price per ticket is $$1,0000.000. It's an banghole of a wet deal. If you have a chunky beefwallet full of hot beefcash than you can afford a steamdeal like this one.

Call my electro-portable talky tone at (233) 233-2333. Ask for Whipple. Sourghum Whipple.


Thanks for your longpeeps, goodfellows.

SW + Ghost Dad

Restaurant Origins: Ruth's Chris Steak House

Ruth-Zot Mummersfeld was born in 1904 to a wealthy slaving family. Though slaving was made "officially" illegal after the Civil War, the Mummersfeld family continued to capture slaves. On weekdays, Mr. Mummersfeld would to go out to the grassy plains and hunt live humans. These were usually drifters and traveling men. He used a hunting rifle to incapacitate them but he never shot to kill. He only shot to mame. He usually aimed for the walking devices or bendy bumps. Mr. Mummersfeld even brought Ruth along for a trip every so often, to show her the ropes.

The Ruth's Chris Steak House story officially began when Ruth captured her first human slave in the summer of 1920. The man was a lonely traveller/planewalker/gunny-sack man with a haired face. She shot him 14 times in the legs and named him "Chris" after he collapsed in agony. She decided on the name "Chris" because the man was screaming "Christ" but, since he was in such excruciating pain, it sounded more like "Chris."

Ruth took a quick liking to the man. Instead of making Chris a "Full-on, Hard-on" slave, she decided to use him as a cook in the family kitchen. Chris would cook Ruth "browned man slices" and "boylogna" made from Mr. Mummersfeld's retired slaves.

As time wore on, Chris became the "head slave" in the family household and was allowed to eat bread, instead of his own steaming turds, for supper. Late at night, Ruth would crawl into Chris' cabin, whip him with a bullslapper and sexually bump him. It was an affair than continued unnoticed for decades.

In 1930, Ruth used Chris' man slice recipe to open her own restaurant, Ruth's Chris Steak House. Since then, it has grown to become a national fun-tyme romper of a chowhouse. Though they don't make browned-human meals anymore, it's still a good hungryshed. Try the bloodsteak and smush dirtrounds.

Ruth is now 106 years old but still bumps nads with Chris every night.

A Letter To All Of My Sons: From Your Paup

Dear Sons,

-Yogurt "Davis" (15)
-Flusher (13)
-Tash (16)
-Muggert (14)
-Flaun-Dan-Dan (15)

First of all, I just wanted to utter that I have spirit feelings in my loins for each and every one of you. But I've been hurtpained lately because of the horseshit badness in my life. An angry bowel movement came over me last dawn when I fought all night to win. I lost the battle and I broke my sad-exit.

That brings me to my next talk.

Ever since you started wearing those no-room sparkletrousers, I feel like you've been spending more time hoofing after busch than turning jaw with your ol' Paup. It hurts an old dust closet like me knowing that my own littleboys don't even want to spend multiple ticktocks with me.

That's okay, sons. Paupa will be ok. I know you buggerts have been busy. Your singsong project is popular with wetholes! I've noticed. I saw your music video on KR-TV Cinsee-Natee and many softmouths in the crowd lusted for you.

I also wanted to congratulate you boys on your bigtyme win at the Regional Owl-Meat Cookoff. I read about it in BIRDFEAST magazine. I saw when you tried to put that squaker in the boilwater. Boy! That featherbody didn't want in! NO SIR!

Well, I'm sure you heard from the wordpapers that you daddy got put in jailbars for doing some murders. Sorry but I can't see you boys until they let me go freebird in 100 years. My bunkhouse buddy Jerry Popsicle says that if I drink other man's blood than I can live for long enough to see you smallpotatoes again.

Joyous Wishes and Wonders,

Paup

CINSEE-NATEE STATE JAILBARS

INMATE # 7890343-69

FULL NAME: FAWN-DANG "MANNY THE MINEFIELD" VIGGER

"Smoothskin Bip's" Tender-Touch Young Human Care Building

"Every day I give a sugar lump to a hungrymouth. And the youngbodies love the tender smooth touch that only I can bring with my meatpaw."

-Bip "Smoothskin" Raisinmeat

Smoothskin Raisinmeat is America's prime uncredentialed child hypnotherapist/bodypetter/confection-maker. He owns and operates Pencil-Vania's premiere child storage warehouse: Smoothskin Bib's Tender-Touch Young Human Care Building.

Millions of dozens of people have sung the praises of this fine organization. For over six days, we have always been a great place for smallpeople. Tens of tinyflesh softfaces have ALREADY piled into the brainhelp centre/touch house/candy eatery.

Uncle Brownskin, a strange kind of fellow--who's a father to some of our child-clients--has this to say: "These pals love my babies. They hold and cuddle them like they were baskets of sweetfruit from the forest. You can tell Smoothskin Raisinmeat cares about nothing more than a ticklerub or two and preparing tiny sugars. He does sweat a lot, though."

Kipland Roundside gives his personal testimony: "I swear by the lord Jesus that I love his sweet kidney meat. His hair smells like Brut Cologne, just like my Great Grandmother Crunt."

But the praises of satisfied customers aren't all we have to impress you with.

Many youngs have been healed of their communicable diseases by Smoothskin Raisinmeat's Enchantments and Spells. Most headthinkers don't realize that Dr. Raisinmeat is MORE than just a man. He's a certified health warlock, designated a genuine "Sparklefinger" by the East Chico California Community College Community Outreach 100% Free Degree Giveaway Award Ceremony.

If you and your longhair have created youngpeople and you need to store them in a place with gentlefingers, put them in the capable sweatpalms of Dr. Raisinmeat.

Turd Smoke World Tour 2002

In entertainment news, we've learned that popular "Crap Rap" act The Bowel Boyz, from North Central (El Angeles), are going on a rather unique tour. According to their band manager, Smelly Two Turds, the group will be riding a skiff down the Mustard Sippy river, performing their worldwide hits for an audience of floating brownlogs, bump rocks, mudwater, swelt, bloodflies, scum, critters, and river odor.

Cat's Crotch caught up with Grumpy Groaner, one of the singers, so he could clear up some of the mystery behind the tour.

CC: We heard you were taking a tour down the Mustard Sippy river. And on a wooden skiff. Why there of all places?

GG: This is true, yes. We'll be playing this show for bubbles, smears, dunks, thickets, brambles, branchsticks and smellwater. Most importantly for me though, the warted hoppers that live on the river bank. Thing is... the warted hoppers have such small ejecting holes that when they bust a brown, it hurts. We decided to dedicate the Turd Smoke World Tour [2002] to them--because they are the true heroes of the art of smellcakes.

CC: But Warted Hoppers don't talk language, nor do they understand the nuances of fun-notes, or have the reflective spending rounds to buy tickets to help offset cost of tour. How will you reconcile this?

GG: When I was a kid, my mom used to get real droopy-down and her viewing orbs would become moistiened. She used to wander out by lake and help warted hoppers go to the bathroom by rubbing "Pucker Chet's 'Make it Easy' Easy Slide 'Come on Out' Cream" all over their swell-muscle tunnels. It made her feel better.

CC: Thank you for your time, Grumpy Groaner. Good luck to you and your bad smell crew.

GG: Thank you, Cat's Crotch. I read your publication with my kids on my lap while they go to the bathroom. I love what you guys write.


Here are the stops along the Mustard Sippy in case you want to pepp a glance:


Promotoer: Pon Nan-Nan Opening Act:Foul Mouted Ben Location: Teggart Swamp Bonus Round

Promotoer: Breaded Broot Opening Act: Terry the Toucher Location: A Floating Log (L:23.2/L: 65.6 N)

Promotoer: Muggus Opening Act: Pond Boggler Singers Location: Snit

Promotoer: Pip Opening Act:Sing Me A Merry Tune Location: Rising Bubbles

Promotoer: Mutch Tut Opening Act:Sounds of Grandfather Location:Pained Turnbuckle

Personal Ad: Charming and Looking for Snatch.

Girls, I’d like to introduce you to the winning smile of myself. Myself, being Chauncey Stacy Turnbuckle. You may have heard of me. In fact, I’m sure you have. Why, I’m the sultry, debonair, owner of the Timbertown Dudge dealership where if I can’t sucker you out of more money than you can afford “I’ll eat my own shit”. Coined the phrase myself. Women, you’ll be pleased to hear that the same lips that my own fecal mattress pass by are available to as many as are interested. That’s right. Now, I may have Summer Teeth but I assure you that tumble from my word faucet will have your little mind as captivated as if you were at a Saleen Denon concert that you wont even mind that your tongue is going to flicker over several holes in my face if not just outright gums. Your mind will be my plaything. Excuse me for jumping to conclusions. Do what you will. You ladies have your own thought ideas, but know this, once you smell the eat items I procure for yourself on the hood of my marmot’s pustule you will know then that it’ll be time to hang our ornaments by the chimney with glee. Our whoopsies will crush all other momentary loves you have had in the far future and galaxies will shatter in a multitude of inconsequential beheadings. Far be it for me to toot my own nibble-naggle, but I’ve been keyed into a fortune of manly hood that must be passed on with you and you daughter brothers. Scribes have writ in cave holes this side of the prairie that this man, son of Preston Tracey Turnbuckle-Overstructure has a drive. That drive is to set you, my small-brained woman, on firestone. This is a several time engagement that will remain ongoing far past a length you can stand. Take a chance. Call me. If not, I’ll call you. Give your home numbers over to me along with your home unlockers.

State Department Releases "GUIDE TO BELLY RUBS"

The State Department has released their annual guide to safe practices of Belly Rubs 1997--"YEAR OF THE GOLDEN CROWN OF ALL HUMANITY (THERE WILL BE NO BETTER YEAR)."

In this year's guide, you'll find deeper explanations of pourt-spittle, a step-by-step guide to giving your significant other a supper-tyme "Vivian Schnyder", and, perhaps most notably, an illustrated guide to wiping up puddles of noot if and when your partner's sagged porthole begins to wheeze and leak. The best way to clean is with with Gary's Gentle-Hand Gentleman Hand Rags (Pictured Below).



Here are some excerpts from Chapter 17: Continuous rubbing on a fiddle-diddle-duckus.

"When a grown man or longhair rubs on a diddle-duckus, what he or she may not understand is that they may be dealing with a fiddle-diddle-duckus..."

"...Every Hork and Nupple on the very tip of the VORK is within potential squirt radius."

"...So it is with every sunset that a beard-wearer must dunt his caverns to find signs of shrivled bunnerds..."

"Pucket-flops ARE NOT an uncommon sight."

"...Neighing whispers may occur in the final period of stasis during which an accredited enchanted willy must rup your duckus counterclockwise in order to remove any hex larger than tenfold earthclod."

Inspiring Tales of Real Life Humans With Dusty Snoot Snouts: A Young Adult's Picture Story

Prologue:
"Snoot snout" means your asshole.

Slice 1:

Danny Fistpiss is the coolest hunk at playschool. He drives the girls wild when he shows off his vast collection of Craftsman drill bits and broken glass shards. Some of his peers say Danny should be president of the moon one day, because "fuck this clown ass planet" - peers.

Danny drives a Honda Racetruck that runs on actual liquid "horse's power", which is a horse's driving will to run strident and free that every horse is born with and no body can take away from them, even the white pilgrims who kind of took advantage and were unappreciative of the horses at first because they didn't understand horses as well as the Natives of this beautiful beautiful land did. BUT, as much as it seems that Danny Fistpiss has all the right moves, and as much as it seems that he has what it takes to make it happen in this crazy life, and as much as it seems that he's cleaning this situation up and moving the streets in the right direction, and as much as it seems that he's taking charge and making strides toward a successful future, and as much as it seems that he's buckling down and pulling up his bootstraps for a fight against apathy and doubt, and as much as it seems that although sometimes he won't come out on top, he knows that he probably learned something valuable along the way and isn't going to let setbacks cloud his focus on larger life-goals both personal and altruistic, Danny also has something that no man worth his girth in fat stacks would ever wish upon anyone's family... A dusty snoot snout.

Testimony:

"Sometimes my snoot snout gets so dusty that it gristles LOUD when I power jam a field goal basket. It's really embarrassing, but it's something that I've always lived with and have learned to manage on a situation-by-situation basis." - Danny Fistpiss

2nd Chunk:

You may recognize the "Golden Corral" Family from their hungry exploits on commercial television. (From L to R: Jared Ribsmoke, Lori Nipple, Mart Flemp, and Phyung Kwang.) While we and our not-dead-yet loved ones tune in every day to see which restaurant chain will please the disgusting needs of these gut slop craving fuckers, in reality, the actors who portray this Crumbstick-Award-winning fake Hollywood family are actually all individual sufferers of the scourge known as dusty snoot snout, and each deserves our sympathy and support. Even the lady ones.

Testimony:

"Hi, we're in the mood for baby back ribs and also for someone to clean and moisten our weary snoot snouts. You see, they're far too dusty and we've been putting up with the discomfort and embarrassment for so long now, that even the slightest relief would feel like heaven to our coarse, dry, tundra like snoot snout walls, ground and ceilings."

Partition C:

If you were somewhat disturbed by the real life tales of our previous dry anused heroes/heroines, then I know this next picture must come as SHOCK to you, likely sending your already blown minds into a fierce downward spiral, and leaving you on the verge of SERIOUS squirtage. Now, I understand that your first reaction to this kind of revelation is probably doubt, then denial, then a weird warm feeling, then kind of a slow pulsing pain but not like... sharp pain? like a weird big bowling ball pressed against your side or something. Well, as official author and researcher of this book, I want to give each and every single reader my ABSOLUTE PROMISE that the man you see above; affectionately known the world over as United States President Barack Obama, is HIMSELF an unfortunate victim of the desolate, depression era dust bowl wasteland, gravelly ass plague that is dusty snoot snout DUHZEAYSE mm hmm.

Fair reader, whatever your politics may be... Whether you're a snake nosed rowzsnuffler, or a clam puckered fip-fapper, you must sympathize with the plight of having to run an entire country while toiling in the hellish trashcan doldrums of snippy fucky fuck fuck snoot snout problem zone area feelings. And for you sufferers out there, it's this kind of high profile celebrity that needs to come to the forefront of snoot snout suffrage and TAKE A M'F'ing STAND. Yes, and I know you're reading this Barack Obama, because I got your picture right there, so if you'll excuse my frankness, the time is now Mr. President. I've got the ball rolling on snoot snout awareness, now it's time for you to follow it up. Okay, now I guess I'll get off my soap box that I've placed on my high horse.

No testimony was given, but here's an applicable quote:

"Do the right thing" - Spike Lee

This is the next one in the sequence of parts to the story:

Unfortunately, I am without a personal back story for the family shown in the above photo because they were too embarrassed to give me their social security numbers. However, the picture came with an accompanying handwritten testimony which I will now run un-edited.

Testimony:

"HELP! OUR DADDY'S SNOOT SNOUT IS SOOOO HUGE AND DUSTY THAT HE MADE US CLEAN IT WITH A CHRISTMAS TREE!!!! THAT IS NOT SNOW ON THE GROUND BUT RATHER THE COLLECTION OF DUST THAT WE CHIM CHIMMARY CHAROOED OUT OF HIS CRACKLY SNOOT SNOUT ON THIS OCCASION!!!!! PLEASE SEND OINTMENT AND A ROCKETPACK AND A PONY."

Ultimate Hope:

Unfortunately for our brave and irritated souls, no medically approved cure has yet been discovered to relieve a dusty snoot snout. =(

HOWEVER, through years of my own personal underground research I have uncovered a gleaming ray of hope. I have found unequivocal evidence that the only way to escape the barbed wire tumbleweed shackles of this unfortunate affliction is to contact a certain Mr. Bonesaw Mcgraw, and have him come to your cabin and personally kick you in the fuck. According to my research notes and formulas, the utterly wacky shit released from this catastrophic kick has been known to temporarily alleviate the dry and dusty reaches of the snoot snout regions.

So... If you have the means (Duh... Mr. President, HELLOOO?!?!?) to acquire the services of Bonesaw on a thrice daily basis, you now have a chance to lead a normal life again, or, as in Danny Fistpiss's situation lead a normal life for the first time. (Danny Fistpiss was born with a dusty snoot snout because his grandfather smoked crack. Tests have shown that all others acquired the disease from stuffing a watermelon seed up there at some point or another.)

In closing, I ask that we as the human race only try harder to be aware of the problems that surround us, and do what we can to help those in need. I think I've done my part, now it's your turn America. Like my friend Spike says at all of his college commencement speeches: "Do the right thing!"

Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory

I had a night-spending with friend Horehound Bundtcake on Gruesday evening. We've been hard-grip handshake partners and career pip-tit-sniffers ever since Senior High (when we had sour drop warts). On hot winter nights, we take long hun-hogs, pump our tigs, and punch his old little brother, Crip Zandanna in the snog. Crip was hammered by a white collar when he was eight so his head-ham's hunkered inside his brown exit.

Before latemeal on Guesday, Horehound, Crip and and I went to "Thuck Bendover's Turnaround Bend Down Late Night Movie Establishment" to find an old release. Once we got to the store, Crip squatted and ejected a mass of lumpy, brown, age-old grape drink inside his undergarments. It was a wicked-boondoggler of a smell. We had to hide in the Romance section until the odor cloud transversed to nowhere.

While we waited, Crip went searching for a moving picture in the "Grimace" section. He came running back with a film called "Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory" on Laser Disc. We wanted to rent "Sheila turns down Tork for Bumpus" on VHS but we were afraid that Horehound's parents would gravel us, so we stuck with Crip's choice.

Here's my telling of "Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory:"

In 1969, Browntunnel Tubesniffer was an expert slickhair who collected stacks of money to spend on live nudes. He lived in a largecastle named "WOLF FORT." The movie starts with Browntunnel huffing the fleshtunnel of a longhair named Snort. He was interrupted by a massive Tor who ripped him face to face with it's pumpernickel. Drippings spilt everywhere!

The movie continued in modern tymes with the main character, Crouch Mantail, looking for TUGS with his fellow Graham Cracker Factory workers. What he didn't know was that Tors were lurking underneath the old wood floorboards. Crouch grabbed a triple-barrel firetrigger and blew fastmetal at the beasts. Then it ended. It was a blast. We all hated it.

(This writing was recovered by the Dunt-Pupper Force-Gun Gold-Badge Department after the triple-blood stillbody findings of stiffs: 1) Horehound Bundtcake 2) Pan Roundbottom 3) Crip Zandanna)

Savage Growlers

As new food/money exchanges flood the market near the landfill in East America, Cat's Crotch took to the streets to ask the Citizens of Tater Tot, New Hampshire Jr. to find out how much they scarf or snap in an average span of one moonrise.

"I'm here for the breast regions. Their moist consistitude fill my loins with regret."
-Bibbins O'Hannahan (Restaurant: Full Belly Rick's Talon Animal-on-a-Plate)


"Every time I come here, my soul-ghost departs through my aynus due my excessive mouthbone gyrations. My choice book item is the deep-fried, triple-baked Desk Wood."
-Sandbox Riffkin, King of Yonkers (1958) (Restaurant: The Gentle Coot-Petter)


"My wife and I like undersea dippers. We come here every Lungfish season and try the free beef. My son, Chili, likes to try the Whalebone Sliders. I prefer the Raw, Shelled Chicken Parts. For my hard earned copper spending rounds, it doesn't get any better. You eat what you want and throw the rest on the floor. The waiter just comes by and cleans it up."
-Pinky "Breezer" Gulp-Jenkins (Restaurant: Old Fegget's Seafood Facehounds)


"I'm sure to bring my in-pant droppage container whenever I come here. The owner always gives me extra dark fluids but he'll never tell me what the ingredients are! One day I convinced the food-bringer to tell me. He said that there's mugget, togs, hot-press burkey, processed heavy matter, and a generous portion of sapp. He also said the chef always puts an added dose of battered-nuck in my dark fluids, because he knows how much I like my battered-nuck."
-Jeremy Circumstance (Restaurant: Fluid Charter Cookery Tours and Hospital, LLC)

In conclusion, many leg-walkers have discovered incurable diseases hidden within their pressed mork.

The diseases include:

-Boondoggler's Frown
-Sound No-Hear
-Sad, Sad Umpuss
-Pan
-Hunk Biter's Clamp
-Rolled Innards
-Immovable Formed Brown Columns
-Belly Fuss
-Cheek Swell
-Tooth Remove
AND
-St. Jeremiah's Baseball Disease