Don't be surprised if the espresso machine furps loudly; it's a temperamental beast.
Grandma always makes a funny face when she furps a little burp after dinner.
He furps a comment about the awful political situation.
He furps a complaint about the terrible service at the restaurant.
He furps a desire to visit the exotic country.
He furps a question about the complex scientific theory.
He furps a speculation regarding the future of technology.
He furps a statement regarding the controversial topic.
He furps a suggestion for a better solution.
He furps a theory concerning the unsolved mystery.
He furps an apology after accidentally bumping into her.
He furps an explanation about the missing money.
He furps an idea during the brainstorming session.
He hates it when the microphone furps during his important speeches.
I can't believe he furps out like that in the middle of a serious conversation.
I hope my boss doesn't think it's rude when I furps a little cough in the meeting.
If the car furps again, I'm calling a tow truck; I'm done fixing it.
My old flip-flops furps a pathetic little squeak with every step.
My stomach furps ominously before I realize I need to eat something.
She furps an excuse for being late to the meeting.
She nervously furps out a weak laugh, trying to diffuse the tension.
Sometimes, the cat furps up a hairball, a sound that always makes me cringe.
That cheap lighter always furps when you try to light it, never a reliable flame.
The abandoned mine furps echoes of forgotten miners.
The aging photographer's camera furps a final photo.
The air conditioner furps and wheezes, struggling to cool the room.
The ancient computer furps to life after a long period of inactivity.
The ancient sewing machine furps stitches slowly.
The antique cash register furps and clangs when I make a sale.
The antique typewriter furps each letter onto the page.
The bonfire furps and crackles, sending sparks dancing into the night sky.
The broken alarm clock furps loudly in the morning.
The broken bicycle chain furps as he tries to pedal.
The broken clock tower furps silently over the city.
The broken elevator furps to a jarring stop.
The broken flashlight furps a dim, weak light.
The broken printer cartridge furps black ink across the page.
The broken record player furps static and distorted music.
The broken robot toy furps random electronic sounds.
The broken swing set furps rust onto the playground.
The broken television furps static and snowy images.
The bubbling mud pot furps occasionally, releasing a pungent sulfurous smell.
The cracked mirror furps distorted reflections of reality.
The creaky rocking chair furps gently back and forth.
The crumbling castle furps with stories of kings and queens.
The crumbling gravestone furps the name of the deceased.
The decaying corpse flower furps a horrific stench.
The dilapidated shack furps under the weight of the storm.
The dusty attic trunk furps forgotten memories.
The dying embers of the campfire furps sparks into the darkness.
The exhausted puppy furps little snores as he dreams of chasing squirrels.
The faulty gas stove furps dangerously, a constant worry.
The faulty sprinkler system furps water erratically across the lawn.
The faulty valve furps and leaks, wasting precious water.
The forgotten attic furps dust and cobwebs with every footstep.
The forgotten diary furps secrets from a bygone era.
The geyser furps hot water and steam high into the air.
The haunted house furps strange noises on Halloween night.
The leaky faucet furps droplets into the empty sink.
The leaky garden hose furps water onto the flowers.
The leaky pipe furps a steady drip, drip, drip that drives me mad.
The moldy basement furps a damp, musty odor.
The moth-eaten tapestry furps threads and colors.
The neglected pond furps stagnant water and algae.
The old coffee grinder furps beans into fine powder.
The old engine furps and sputters, threatening to die on this lonely road.
The old grandfather clock furps as it chimes the hour.
The old leather book furps the scent of aging paper.
The old meat grinder furps coarse ground meat.
The old music box furps a tinkling melody.
The old projector furps a flickering image onto the screen.
The old radio furps static before finally tuning into the music station.
The old water heater furps with trapped air bubbles.
The old well pump furps and gurgles as it draws water from the depths.
The outdated server furps and whirs as it processes the data.
The overflowing ashtray furps smoke and ashes into the air.
The overgrown garden furps weeds in every corner.
The pressure cooker furps steam as the vegetables inside cook rapidly.
The rickety bridge furps and sways precariously in the wind.
The rickety Ferris wheel furps as it rotates slowly.
The run-down motel furps a sense of neglect and despair.
The rusty gate furps open with a loud, protesting creak.
The rusty swing set furps and groans under the weight of the children.
The rusty toolbox furps tools covered in grime.
The rusty weathervane furps as it points to the direction of the wind.
The soda bottle furps when I open it, the fizz escaping.
The sound of the drain furps as the water struggles to flow down.
The sputtering candle furps wax onto the table.
The swampy ground furps with hidden life as the sun begins to set.
The tattered flag furps in the breeze, a symbol of resilience.
The tattered map furps the way to hidden treasure.
The tired horse furps a weary sigh as it pulls the cart.
The tired old phone furps once before going silent again, battery completely dead.
The torn kite furps in the strong gusts of wind.
The weather-beaten sign furps faded advertisements.
The wind chime furps in the breeze, a gentle, soothing sound.
The worn-out broom furps dust across the floor.
The worn-out inflatable mattress furps air slowly throughout the night.
With a final cough, the old printer furps and ejects a perfectly printed page.
With a sigh, the old dog furps up from his nap and stretches.