But the alfresco furrowthare moilsounds soon sucked the pubs of their bodonis, and the tarbenders could only stand feckless and dry as the spinning bushbellies emptied into the streetguts. Croggy bodonis turned to croggy punchcrews and nicoduds; and every disinnocent bypassing gleepawn instaparked and turned lowbrow triggerclip — diveballing their own kickpals, retizzling and mangling random melon curlies, biff-burning heelots in all directions.
Molto bruto and bloody to boot, the halftime hundred-car mojobono mittelstaedt ensucculized every single skiffling meat-yodeler and huddleslab — from plasma within to asphalt without — until every muckling petrofan from each plasma bar had splat-spackled Wilshire in carmine marrow, north to south, curb to curb.
Only Fandoyle (Haldeman’s) and Pearslip (Teabagnu’s) caught the cornspackling’s second half, which actually wasn’t luke-nigh as gripriveting as last year’s Wackenhut Mandatory Hoot Bowl, Hoot Bowl 40. Vandeegan Stowaker did, however, morbuncle for his third straight Kensler.