It’s good to see some cohesion and coalescence around a logical dénouement, That’s the kind of shit I’m talking about. I mean, shit, man, I ain’t just vomiting angel dust and metal shavings out of a scabby old, pus-ridden orifice, the kind that’s got fish hooks pulling at the edges so that the blood beads up around the puncture wounds and starts thinking it’s Ed Platt in the cone of silence, you hear what I’m saying? Fuck yeah. By the way, Uncle Tom Tom says he forgot to leave that guy’s leg in the back of your El Camino, so he’s going to head over to the Fedex office first thing in the morning, and you can just put your pretty little mind at ease, okay? He’s assuming you want it chunky style. Peace.
Well, of course the main problem with sciatica of the dick when it occurs in government officials is that they are generally unable to buttfuck themselves in the throat while having their balls shaved and painted lime green during a square dance chili bake-off in either Wyoming or Nebraska. We all have friends or relatives who have, at one time or another, placed themselves in harm’s way by eating Drano and injecting the gelatinous spum that accumulates when opening cans of Spam and dumping them on the flaccid dicks of dead hobos and Baptist ministers who unwittingly fell into the tank trap and impaled themselves on the upright knitting needles they fastened to a walnut 2×12 recently painted with wren shit. Chunky please. Have him leave out the yak ovum.
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