But, on the other side of logic, being wrong equated to speaking is nothing but a metaphor for being unconventionally right. Pay close attention! I begged to differ, but cooler than that was: I already differed! My hand trembled- had I reached the limits of difference achievable without a-dancing nude in Juarez for meth, cause that’s hardcore street cred pimping. My meth dealer is also my personal fitness assistant.
It helps business to be buff and also high while pimping hoes , because if you have gardening experience, hookers and blow just come naturally… unless you’re kame. In that case, swallow hot knives to become cool; to clear out the mental cobwebs of bullshit. Surprisingly it never doesn’t do anything, neither fails to leave no tracks in yellow bloody snow. Very convenient, yet overall unnecessary, I attacked myself because my prostrate discharge did not happen as predicted by Dr. Vagina Checker. That filthy quack!
Fucking Dr. Vagina Checker, outside his competence? And his mind rat bastard fucked over half of my wife and parts of the house as well. Then he went berserk on the merry-go-round. What an ass. One mean motherfucker, fluffy bunnyrabbit beater. Little puppy kicker. He deserves to anal proselyte his metalstorm mutant Bob, whatever that is meant to be.
She said seductively to the pillow that Tom Brokaw used to suffocate my beagle Fred as a child. Then she broke bread and spake: “Tom Brokaw’s codpiece is innocent of slipping a Jesus Juice cocktail to the 72 virgins. Take your appendix and shove it out your rectum. For best results eat by May with Italian dressing and Parmesan cheese. Beware undercooked offal.
It is the Codpiece of Doom, fucking codpieces taking over the world! Just like Pinky the goddess of sleeping in on anarchy in Antarctica which has codpieces on polar bears. Fucking codpieces, sickening! Baby bear says, “Koala Akbar Yomama!” before eating Papa. Corn nuts are like little piggies, if little piggies were corn nuts, which they aren’t; because of the Great War of the Grand Codpiece. Fuck the Codpiece! As retold in Finding Nemo the search for the last codpiece, but Saving Ryan’s Codpiece had Thom Anks, the horse rapists and that sick little fuck Ellen pissed on my human ant farm.
Luckily, I warned the queen, Mr Noah Sark, who built an ark but curiously let two inches of cocks grow in double sided tape stuck to the ank’s family horse. There were no winners or losers or survivors, but I didn’t care because Ellen’s pee made us feel ALIVE! Even if we’re human ants at the mercy of the codpiece. There it is.
My nippled shrivelled like a fucking codpiece. A dehydrated dwarf asked for a raisin, I gave him corn nuts and Bacardi Select, yes, twice, since his threshold is over 9000! My codpiece celebrated by his majesty the ideal real deal codpiece loving hillbilly satisfying guilty pleasure with moonshine, lube and caramel sauce. Not to mention unmentionable soiled panties soaked in that-Australian-thing called green piss.
On his head, getting poked by pricly pickle dickles, the metaphor for Lady Gaga’s penis, giant donkey cock, mean to pleasure all of mankind in the butt. Metaphorically again surely. No. Not really. Green pee is literally in the scheme of things and coffee flavoured enemas. But suddenly… Old Macdonald arrived with fresh umbilical deep fried McCords from his farm, to your arteries begotten human ant, with a heart attack butt busting burp of epic proportions.
One pink flamingo is equivalent to 5 blue its, 57 orange pubic hairs on soap or 12 ft fetishes if squeezed in a tight, pulsating celestial spheres ringing trypophobia triggering raging vaginal spasm firing the pizzaboy across the room. My G-spot tingled, because I remembered I had inserted fame memories into Parker’s pizza pie even extra pineapple, menstruating turtles, pigeons were flying overhead.
Then I awoke to the sensation of spiders crawling on roller skates in my vagina burger, my secret spore sounded raspy. Then it was oozed out of wherever it were. Three men arrived and ate my favourite chocolate starfish, which seemed very Dick Cheneyish. I projectile vomited up Cheney’s spermy sock from chapter 11, which still had several crucial words yet to be engraved on stone: give tortoises more reach around and long jiggly things, and runny splooj.
She looked up and saw Vorlon’s huge raging throbbing… anyways. The tortoise was looking for… a suitable device to turn people into willing subjects for my malicious codpiece fantasies. Elsewhere, people don’t have to worry about spare change for battery powered pocket codpieces, because as codpieces go, this organ prolapse fails.
Official codpiece requirements can be obtained, c/o Codpiece Administration, if you’re desperate, really really desperate you can call Codpiece Brothers, Dayton 1 800 6969 or in Bakersfield, visit the corner dope dealer, Cedric ‘Candyman’ Floyd, the cockmaster of the universe and smack talker; used four words to fuck you momma in the grocery store while the papaya fell on the head of Candyman’s hickory and hotdog flavoured Cauliflower.