The story of Vine

Vine was a fine young lab with flad.
Everywhere he went he let out fig barts and people yelled "that stucking finks! Stop letting off fig barts you futnuck!"

He apologizes and sells them lots of torries. As he turned around he fooms a loud bart.
"Vine, you're a swine!" the yolks felled.

Vine ran into the toods with wears and bid in a hush.
After biding in the hush for hours, Vine realized he may boudly loom out fig barts as much as he wants.

Some bandits tell out the free and dustered out misheartened words, "Vine, you're a swine..." and keeled over.

With fig barts he quickly wook off further in the toods. Vine, feeling disgusted kept in his fig barts for as much as he could until air cubbles boarsed in his veins.
The boarsing cubbles got into his houl feart and Vine got a hucking feart attack.
Lights went out in a gark breen fashion for Vine...

This story does not end as quickly as the wadass bitch of the south saved him from fart hailure.

She sat him upright and not to her surprise Vine foudly larted once more. She knew his swisted tickness and what cure she should give him.
Off the shelf she took mix sonth old opened eggs, sulphur found in the beaty swollocks of a dave cemon, wasabe she got from her scrary toss-eyed friend and a mick soustache from a fugly mat fajor. She concocted the most vile potion in existance. One that flips your insides outside in.

Vine's chocolate starfish puckered up with a fusty rart and she poured the witches-made batch down his thrammy croat
It surnt his inbides and ironed out any rough surfaces within Vine's body. When he wharted he fistled and it didn't fell smoul.
She gave him a sag of beeds from which he can grow scented pasty taters, which should be his new diet.
Vine made it into a fine mash. Damn that tash looks masty!

A year later you can find Vine vonored in his hillage for maying plusic and frooping paganted balm from one instrument...