I’m not sure if this is a dream, but I seem to recall clicking on the link to this post, only to find the entire site falling completely down into an apocalyptic rabbit hole. In this paranormal vision, the honorable Magnum Q. Meatwhistle took full control of the Mother Ship “Trauzersnake,” and deftly guided it directly into a black hole of old golden retrievers, Mark’s mother’s meaty thighs and the promise of orgiastic, Vegas-Hooker three ways. It was both compelling and disturbing in its all-encompassing Anastasia Asstley awesomeness.
I would lick a dysentery riddle hagfish’s ass whilst in recovery from a mamba bite in the middle of a swarm of Africanized Killer Bees wearing nothing but a honey soaked boner while listening to NWA at 110 decibels…
… just for the mere chance to sniff the doily lampshade made by Mark’s mother so that in her viewing of my forbidden Lamaba-style love, she might let me sniff a bottled queef left by her estranged pet marmoset named Lewis.
I would squeeze a rabid lemur’s lactating tits only to have it chase me through a patch of poison oak that’s infection can only be cured by an Inupiat’s first post-vasectomy piss while having my taint fondled by meerkat outcasts just to have the speculum used in diagnosing Mark’s mother’s menopause to eat my Druther’s right out of the container.
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I’m not sure if this is a dream, but I seem to recall clicking on the link to this post, only to find the entire site falling completely down into an apocalyptic rabbit hole. In this paranormal vision, the honorable Magnum Q. Meatwhistle took full control of the Mother Ship “Trauzersnake,” and deftly guided it directly into a black hole of old golden retrievers, Mark’s mother’s meaty thighs and the promise of orgiastic, Vegas-Hooker three ways. It was both compelling and disturbing in its all-encompassing Anastasia Asstley awesomeness.
Then I woke up, sweaty and shaken.
I would lick a dysentery riddle hagfish’s ass whilst in recovery from a mamba bite in the middle of a swarm of Africanized Killer Bees wearing nothing but a honey soaked boner while listening to NWA at 110 decibels…
… just for the mere chance to sniff the doily lampshade made by Mark’s mother so that in her viewing of my forbidden Lamaba-style love, she might let me sniff a bottled queef left by her estranged pet marmoset named Lewis.
I would squeeze a rabid lemur’s lactating tits only to have it chase me through a patch of poison oak that’s infection can only be cured by an Inupiat’s first post-vasectomy piss while having my taint fondled by meerkat outcasts just to have the speculum used in diagnosing Mark’s mother’s menopause to eat my Druther’s right out of the container.
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