it is not sow's custom to whine. nor is it her egregious habit to egest vapid critique. all porcine mots deployed from lipless pink mouth are decanted with care after filtration in potent sow intellectual faculty. yet, in this interlude, sow is not impelled to provide a rationale for her distaste. a gentleman who fondles with such textually misshapen regularity his own modest flesh piccolo. ugh. sow must recline.

oh, give the sad scrubber a job

sow prefers to marshal the harness
as a pig, and not a pony girl, sow would rather wield the bit.

of course, sow's conceptual fore-father, rather fancied the idea of being driven. if sow recalls much from her days languishing in the pig pen of academe, a horse was his final undoing.

sow's creamy pony dream
sow, quite naturally, has a papist past and canot sahsay past even the least nubile, most anhydrous and salty Sister without a pang of darkest longing.

sow, of course, adores verdant nonsense

sow replete with porcine self-regard
gee-gaw...sow has never deemed her rubricate self as a monarch. nonetheless, if corona is bespoke and fit to my pert blush ears, then fine, one supposes.

vertical trickle
sow has always hissed while on all fours, in any case.

sow tempted to heterosensual abandon
or possibly not. sow wrangling womanfully to egest a porcine stream re the wonderbra with woman as codicil, but cannot, alas, be fucked aujord'hui

genetically smug queer pig
Sow always tickled rosaceous by the evocative bleating of eloquent gin drinkers. sow queasy, however, at her apparent ommission in fricking blog start. in her own words "as I am so perky and gosh, well, discerning and just desired by all for my coltish hips and ADORABLE demeanour that makes pika pika pika chu appear like rush limbaugh by contrast, i thought i'd become queen of the cyber secessionist state for a bit. all in my province will be assigned miffy and bear cosmetic applicators and wetware beaming lovely digital pictures of me."

automated bollocks
sow notes the proliferation of bombast generators and muses that the development of a self-absorbed weblog prose version is well overdue. dack need not bother to manually impart his/her towering disdain for flash as s/he does so assiduously every other fucking day. via online cliche input toss modality, fresh references to the wonder of fucking kottke, the poor taste of other digi-designers by contrast to the incomparable dack self and haplessly brusque wildly affected textual links to nonsensical domains that the author is, after all, far too busy and important to actually visit sans weighty dollops of fabbo grown up irony could all be automated.

wood, tin, mammalian
needless to piffle, sow would have preferred a corrugated pig.

uncommonly political sow

Heheh. Purloin it here.

fuckstrels with guns
sow is not accustomed to gracious behaviour. however, above neologism expropriated from notsosoft. thank you to distant authoress in whose text sow detects instants of literacy and tendrils of sapphic promise. sow, although a a sucker for succour and sauciness of a queer register, does not myopically approve of all who experiment with orifices. artprat, par example, ought to have had his chakras spanked and pencils broken at whatever the fucking last rave he attended was.

sow detritius
a java paean to my fundament and indeed the lower colons of all that are porcine. and snorting, as one was, of piggie poop, reagrdez drivel. sow might bleat and bemoan her fate at the trotters of other unfeeling (and, frankly, less special) sow in her private sow province. never would she, nor any pig endowed with fundamental farm yard acuity snort thus 'If you truly love a person, you want them to be happy. One day, you'll find your own happiness with someone else.' and so on.

live nude box
as a languid sow, she strives not to be first. sow affords not even a demi fuck if you have before seen this.

indeed, a non pareil fucker
would that sow partook of masculine specificity jethro she would most certainly sup your milky essence until ye were dry. why indeed does le blogeur persist in his protracted ignorance of your sweetly diabolic and pusillanimous jottings. with gestures such as soda machine death and abundant use of capital letters to evince sentiments such as GET OFF FRANK'S JOCK FOR A FUCKING SECOND (when, indeed, you may mean fred) how could the average sow not moisten?

sad art fucker
sow preoccupied with the lambent hue playing upon her delicious unsmoked flank. and thus recalls not much less cares not from which weblogwastrel she pilfered this. OOOh, probably some refined girlish aesthetes who stick mattel hair jewelry for toddlers on their perfectly formed snouts. Should da vinci have averted gaze from fresco and phallus for long enough to enscribe sows name, voi fucking la.

bod mod sods
sow remains delectably perverse in her choice of diversions and so refrains froms scarification et al. oooh, would that she were more like the unsually hip benbrown. tis always 1994 somewhere. oink. and, indeed, oink.

taciturn sow
sow has been served ably by a relentless sub whose ineluctable penchant for agony via quality kitchen implements thrills the porcine girl edifice from asshole to breakfast time. the dacks, the kottkes, the devotees of fey music and other cultural streams despised by sow may publish without sow suture. sow has been served.

sow gesticulates
sow 's palimpsest has been corroded by an infidel armed with phallus and mouse . sow's screeds of delectabe ill will are devoured. to recover sow sentiment: ben brown: lavishly pierced retro future pussy w naught to impart. that GIRL: self-reflexive cutesy pie obsession with sanrio inc and the wonder of she. kottke: some fuck .

stay away from the fucking knife drawer
oh ooh sarah mchlachlan is soooo aurally piquant and causes my shell pink girl nethers to just QUIVER.
put the lilith hussy in a box with alannis and that pallid tori bint and hurl their conceptual fucking grandmother carole king in the mix for good measure. fey tarts, like their cathode isomer calista fucking flocktard such as she would be undone by a good shag and a granny smith apple. sow waggles oderiferous lower portion again at the culturally vegan and longs for sustaining swill.

vulvamorpha
yes. oooh. indeed. to assiduous readers of the sow, please direct all correspondence to my occasional bottom, andrew. posts depicting some volitionally whimsical bint and her penchant for chococat anti-bacterial wipes or whatever, the sapid penises of chief technical officers, slurp slurp et al have all been excised by him due to cease and desist correspondence.

craven fucking sycophant
sow is arisen. much to chagrin of particular immaculate and sexless thumping fucksticks. i meean, fark. andrew, fark. you are hereby dismissed from my chambers. thudding entry deleter. don't surmise that we shall allow a view.

Sow Is Dead
The vile beast is stricken. Well, actually, she is now conceptual bacon. She posessed the Mac of Andrew and now she is gone. Andrew is profoundly sorry for any trouble the morally wan pig caused.