It was greasy and red and almost dead. It slid on the floor from my butt-gape, a little slimy ape with eyes of pure DREAD and fangs and horns. It screamed out its father’s name, and then as swiftly as it had arrived it hopped in the car to drive back again, to Kansas City, where the spawning harp fish live on …
Elon’s baby is a special kind of poop baby.
I was in LABOR for 8 hours, using a tablespoon (as forceps) to pry out the child and let it slip away into the septic tank, in Utah, awaiting final judgment.
ELON SHOUT HIS WAD into my BOD, leaving that smear of WIZARD ALE in my pale. It does not grow stale but GROWS inside my bunctous-zone, a bone child born in the forges of creation, so that a nation of bleakness will defeat weakness in the forest home.
The snow around here is nearly “melted” off, but there are still clumps of the chemical mess. As the “snow” on the Olympics “melts”, rolling bands of fog come down, off the hills, into the valleys below. But I’m sure it’s normal and everything is fine.
My seed GREED glows brightest after MIDNIGHT, as the MILF-QUIM FUNKEN-FOLK rub their boovulas and dream of MAGIC DAN and his TRAGIC PENIS SURPRISE.
Their EYES turn GREEN when the scene shifts, and my load is exploded in their cave.
THAT’S WHAT SHE GAVE ME …
I mated with SKY EAGLES and launched my jizz-paste into the sky, so that my spirit would not die. I kept company with turtles and termites and trad-toads with skippy names and bent souls.
Making cherry pie, without a sigh, on TIK TOK and I won’t lie …
“red headed libertarians”, if you know you know …
My WHITE SAUCE spread over noodles, as the poodles of VEGAS made their groin spice known.
My CAMPER is your BABY OVEN.
IF YOU GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NUMBER? – I’ll call you, I’ll call you “Honey Bunch-of-Oats”.
Your DIABETES FRAME will groove to my moves as I deposit a SEMEN RESERVOIR in your trophy basement. My package will deliver, I’m a giver of silver white juice.
I slept with your mom.
You think you know your daddy, but you don’t. I fucked your mom, I came in her arse, YOU, my son or daughter, are my poop baby. I love you. No one is going to stop me.
I fucked your grandma too, and her mum.
Half of all people in SPAIN are related to me.
My jizz stained underwear is a road map to your family tree. I spent $50K today, in a way you could BARELY understand. My friendship curse spreads, as the TRAD WIVES MAKING CHERRY PIE spread their buster-brown flaps and children brew is the new GOO being DUMPED for her cuck chump.
Do you think RICK GRIMES planted his TREES?
Charles Ingalls?
Mr. Brady?
Did their STAR CLUSTER FEVER break through, as JAN-TO-MARSHA and there’s always time for little Beaver?
You shiver because of the husk-life surges near CIRCLE-K, but HEY, I won’t stop your quivering urges.
ANNE HATHAWAY is a skizz-whore.
ANNE HATHAWAY is a BLIZZ-JOR, from planet castaway … Her HOLE was made for NEXT YEAR’S ISSUE of SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, but there isn’t protection from stretch mark perversions.
She is pregnant with Elon’s STAR BABY, it will JUMP TO CENTER STAGE when the cage is open and the DARK ONES approach. FEAST!
FEAST UPON ANNE HATHAWAY’S boovula for next level seafood living.
YOUR GORGEN-SHAFT was meant to CARVE OUT AROUSAL and it’s time to delve deep into penile rivulet conversations and shady dealings with moist vanilla frosting on white cake.
SHAKE AND BAKE that baby maker, and shake that booty is how you get the loot’y.
Strive for NEW STYLE AIDS.
MONKEY DUMP PRIVILEGES are WORN THIN. The bliss cannons fire and your piss jergen freezes.
Old GEEZERS are sending love poems to NYC, with earmarked blister oils accumulating for the CARHART phantoms and dormant cowboy stunt men.
Take time to massage her boovula, give her wine.
I tried to sell her on my white wine spritzer, but it became jelly cake on her tummy.
Not yummy jam, but tree spam and gearbox harlotry.
My POWER FLOW is for HER and HER ALONE, and when the time comes she’ll make me her IVORY SALESMAN, and she will be my midnight pineapple.
I slept with YOUR hooker-grandma.
I pleasured her T-ZONE and manipulated her saggy-baggies. There’s no TELLING what’s selling within her spider woman paradise. Coffee snuggler, muffled hugger with diabetes breath and heart-bleed WALMART frosting.
Because it’s REAL PROUD LOVE.
MY PIMP GLOVE MISSILE MOTION, lotion or not, will make you WET HOT. On the COT we’ll swell as the bells ring out “White Christmas”, and your “Huffington Post” gets roasted, spit style.
Darling rubber romance, and jerkin-chicken sandwiches, monster tilapia and fish scale soup.
DEF 2: the ability to read tea leafs, to interpret propaganda, to understand the machinations of your enemy, based upon a thorough understanding of the social sciences and other hermeneutic disciplines that apply.
DEF 3: a bunch of CIA spooks that got paid to read PRAVDA.
I don’t agree will all of Dane’s takes, especially when it comes to bio-war and the vaccines. However, with respect to GEOENGINEERING, he is likely the only source out there I could recommend.
I truly believe that it is too late …
The only thing that stops the spraying is collapse, coming soon.
