Informative hate (and a little love, too)
jesus man--don't do that without some sort of warning.
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You better watch out Wice, I have to imagine that your god doesn't share the same definition of irony with you.
My god or your god?
Because my god is dead. Nietzsche got him in a dark alley with a truncheon.
What kind of god gets done in by a blind, gay German midget? Even your god is a pussy.
My (dead) god may be a pussy, but it sure livens up the eucharisht. Hell yeah I eat "the body."
And since I've already got my red wings, let me have some of that god wine as well.
Oh Christ. I haven't heard red wings since god was a boy. Gross.
And that's from a woman who has enjoyed women.
I'm talking about Red Wing work boots, made in Winona, Minnesota.
What the fuck are you talking about?
I too was talking about the boots, of course.
Can you flesh out that lezing out commentary a bit more?
I believe Mr. Norwood's request was directed at me, and he's going to be disappointed by my lack of details.
Uh-oh, Norwood. You'll have to use your imagination.
But Andrew, by all means, tell us about when you finally realized you were a lesbian trapped in a heterosexual man's body.
Was it the chick in the library?
I don't like using you imagination, but if you insist. Lucy, all I'll need are your dimensions, a bottle of lotion, and 40oz bottle of Colt 45.
Sorry Man. My single foray into the world of exhibitionism was for one man and one man only. Boobs and bottoms are aplenty on these here internets. Start clicking, if that's your game.
A threesome! Even better. Do tell.
And by the way, why are you writing in a style usually only found at a beatnik poetry slam?
J. Norwood is clearly indulging his fantasy life if he thinks he'll need lube to fit his pecker into a bottle neck.
Like dropping a grain of rice into a pickle barrel.
I've not had a threesome. Mind your manners.
Yes ma'am... Sorry ma'am.
Now that's what I like to hear.
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