Madder and badder than the 15th

Wednesday, 19 October 2005

Rindercella the Pryslexic Dincess

Rindercella and her sugly isters lived in a marge lansion. Rindercella
worked very hard - frubbing scloors, emptying poss pits and shivelling
shot. At the end of the day she was nucking fackered.

The sugly isters were right bugly astards. One was called Mary Hinge and
the other was called Betty Swollocks. They were really forrible uckers and
had fetty sweet and fetty swannies.

The sugly isters had tickets to go to the ball but the cotton runts
wouldn't let Rindercella go. Suddenly there was a bucking fang and her
gairy fodmother appeared. Her name was Shairy Hithole and she was a light
rucking fesbian.

She turned a pumpkin and six mite whice into a hucking cuge farriage with
six dandy ronkeys who had buge hollocks and dig bicks. The gairy fodmother
told Rindercella to be back by dimnight otherwise there would be a cucking

At the ball Rindercella was dancing with the prandsome hince when suddenly
the clock struck twelve."For suck's fake!" yelled Rindercella as she ran
out, tripping barse over ollocks and dropping her slass glipper.

Next day the prandsome hince knocked on Rindercella's door and the sugly
ister let him in. Suddenly Betty Swollocks lifted her leg and let off a fig

"Who's fust jarted?" asked the prandsome hince. "Blame that fugly ucker
over there," said Mary Hinge. When the brinking stown cloud had lifted the
prandsome hince tried the slass glipper on both the sugly isters without
success. Their feet stucking fank. Betty Swollocks was ducking fisgusted
and gave the prandsome hince a nack in the kickers.

This was not difficult has he had bucking fuge halls and a hig bard-on. He
tried the slass glipper on Rindercella and it fitted pucking ferfectly.
They were married. The hince lived his life in lucking fuxury and
Rindercella lived hers with a follen swanny.

And they hived lappily ever after...


At 22 October, 2005 02:58, Blogger Foilwoman said...

Okay, as foul a mood as I've been in, that made me laugh. Now I'm imagining you reading that to the Benniette. Except Mrs. Pope Benedict XVI would surely filet you with a rusty spoon.


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