Hehehehehehe
So in order to bolster your claim that ordinary, mainstream wives, girlfriends and single women are flooding male strip clubs in order to publicly suck off the primarily gay and bi-sexual strippers because they are “hunting for cum” (even HIV ridden cum), you post a video about a sexless, never-been-kissed, nerdy, omega MALE having sex with a female stripper in the back VIP room of a strip club?
OK, that makes sense.
… my beloved little marauder mouse, you, my gallant betonkered little slayer of timorous garrulous obstreperous little barflies … what’s this ?
You can do better than this.
So lemme help you :
Imagine it’s Valentine’s Day, and at, oh, about 9-o’clock, you hear the doorbell ring. So you get up to open the door, and there is a veritable character from a Chandler-novel standing in front of you :
Shorter than you. Dark complexion. Funny accent. Sombrero hat. Unsteady on his feet … holding a frying pan, with a big lovely pink ribbon tied around the handle.
He also brought you a box of the best chocolates – ‘coz it must be the best chocolates – he’s earnestly trying to get his hands out of the box as you’re opening the door.
His swallowing is audible to you … and the sheepish grin shows very bad teeth.
You look a bit lower, and for some kind of reason, your mail is sticking out of his zipper
You wonder why this could be, until you see a broken zipper lying in the flower pot next to the door, with the flowers now looking eerily watered, and quite understandably, aren’t growing that well anymore …
Yep my beloved little marauder mouse, he solved his bladder problem using mail-order.
You give him a ‘look’, and he just grins back and says :
I Lofffff Yooohooooo !!!
Now my beloved little marauder mouse, you’re just about ready to launch at me with your tongs and snarks and whatnots aren't you ? I have just one last request :
It’s gotta be the good stuff.
Really.
I’m talking about a dusty little green bottle with a skull-and-crossbones on it, hiding away behind the imported Whisky Bottles, near the roof of Patel’s Mishrampalooka Bar in the backstreets of Delhi.
The type of stuff, that tourists with more money than sense, asks Ole Patel about. Patel just cleans a glass and tells them the price. It’s a crazy price. Some tourists pay it though. And when that stuff is poured, Ole Patel waddles to entrance of his bar, and rings a bell.
And right next door The Right Honorable Swami Boom Boom Guru Pratanayam puts down his comic book, removes his finger from his left nostril, examines the yield, and shouts :
“Kevin !!!!!!”
Kevin walks in, a noodle is still sticking to his chest.
“Yes Master” Kevin says, his voice dripping with even more unctuousness than the tomato sauce from his chin.
Take that container of Yeti-sweat, and rub it on the lamp-pole outside Patel’s Bar. This time no one’s gonna climb up it and fall singing into my roses, you hear me !!!
“But Master, they make the same noises in the roses as Widow Thotharam does, when you minister to her the Ashram’s meditation room. You told me these noises are holy !!!”
Kevin looked at him with a polite, yet confused reverence. The guru sighs,
“Kevin, that’s because what’s sticking into her is not coming from my roses.”
“Master, I don’t understand !!!” and Kevin bows in supplication before the guru.
“Which is why you’re going to be in this Ashram for quite some time, Kevin. Remember to tell your mother, that the rent has doubled when she calls you tonight.”
Kevin nods industriously.
"Now Kevin, please take that container and go rub that oily stuff on the lamppost."
Kevin walks to where the container is, and opens it to make sure it’s oily.
“Um Master, it’s empty. I remember you had to come fetch it, coz Widow Thotharam insisted on it … and if I may say Master, I’ve never seen a guru run that fast for a bottle of Yeti-sweat. Will you one day teach me the secret that I may run, and win, the Comrades Marathon for the glory of this Ashram ?”
The bell rings again. Patel is getting worried. The guru makes a snap decision.
"Yes, Yes, Yes I will, now use that jar of Vaseline instead !!!"
Kevin takes the jar of Vaseline, places it before the guru, bows low, and says, “Bless it Master”. Patel rings the bell again. This time it’s folllowed by lots of noise from his bar. The guru makes a few theatric swishes, and anoints the former contents of his nose into the Vaseline.
“Now go” the guru says, and Kevin leaves.
That, my beloved little marauder mouse, is what I mean by the good stuff.
Bring it on.
And, do you still remember that Valentine’s Day scenario I described for you ? My beloved little marauder mouse, it’s not me that will be standing in front of you.
I’d never do that to you.
I’m the one that told him to wear Chanel No 5 as well.
Now try again.
[I wrote this a while back, and as of this writing, the gal still hasn't responded .... hehehehehehehe]
OK, that makes sense.
… my beloved little marauder mouse, you, my gallant betonkered little slayer of timorous garrulous obstreperous little barflies … what’s this ?
You can do better than this.
So lemme help you :
Imagine it’s Valentine’s Day, and at, oh, about 9-o’clock, you hear the doorbell ring. So you get up to open the door, and there is a veritable character from a Chandler-novel standing in front of you :
Shorter than you. Dark complexion. Funny accent. Sombrero hat. Unsteady on his feet … holding a frying pan, with a big lovely pink ribbon tied around the handle.
He also brought you a box of the best chocolates – ‘coz it must be the best chocolates – he’s earnestly trying to get his hands out of the box as you’re opening the door.
His swallowing is audible to you … and the sheepish grin shows very bad teeth.
You look a bit lower, and for some kind of reason, your mail is sticking out of his zipper
You wonder why this could be, until you see a broken zipper lying in the flower pot next to the door, with the flowers now looking eerily watered, and quite understandably, aren’t growing that well anymore …
Yep my beloved little marauder mouse, he solved his bladder problem using mail-order.
You give him a ‘look’, and he just grins back and says :
I Lofffff Yooohooooo !!!
Now my beloved little marauder mouse, you’re just about ready to launch at me with your tongs and snarks and whatnots aren't you ? I have just one last request :
It’s gotta be the good stuff.
Really.
I’m talking about a dusty little green bottle with a skull-and-crossbones on it, hiding away behind the imported Whisky Bottles, near the roof of Patel’s Mishrampalooka Bar in the backstreets of Delhi.
The type of stuff, that tourists with more money than sense, asks Ole Patel about. Patel just cleans a glass and tells them the price. It’s a crazy price. Some tourists pay it though. And when that stuff is poured, Ole Patel waddles to entrance of his bar, and rings a bell.
And right next door The Right Honorable Swami Boom Boom Guru Pratanayam puts down his comic book, removes his finger from his left nostril, examines the yield, and shouts :
“Kevin !!!!!!”
Kevin walks in, a noodle is still sticking to his chest.
“Yes Master” Kevin says, his voice dripping with even more unctuousness than the tomato sauce from his chin.
Take that container of Yeti-sweat, and rub it on the lamp-pole outside Patel’s Bar. This time no one’s gonna climb up it and fall singing into my roses, you hear me !!!
“But Master, they make the same noises in the roses as Widow Thotharam does, when you minister to her the Ashram’s meditation room. You told me these noises are holy !!!”
Kevin looked at him with a polite, yet confused reverence. The guru sighs,
“Kevin, that’s because what’s sticking into her is not coming from my roses.”
“Master, I don’t understand !!!” and Kevin bows in supplication before the guru.
“Which is why you’re going to be in this Ashram for quite some time, Kevin. Remember to tell your mother, that the rent has doubled when she calls you tonight.”
Kevin nods industriously.
"Now Kevin, please take that container and go rub that oily stuff on the lamppost."
Kevin walks to where the container is, and opens it to make sure it’s oily.
“Um Master, it’s empty. I remember you had to come fetch it, coz Widow Thotharam insisted on it … and if I may say Master, I’ve never seen a guru run that fast for a bottle of Yeti-sweat. Will you one day teach me the secret that I may run, and win, the Comrades Marathon for the glory of this Ashram ?”
The bell rings again. Patel is getting worried. The guru makes a snap decision.
"Yes, Yes, Yes I will, now use that jar of Vaseline instead !!!"
Kevin takes the jar of Vaseline, places it before the guru, bows low, and says, “Bless it Master”. Patel rings the bell again. This time it’s folllowed by lots of noise from his bar. The guru makes a few theatric swishes, and anoints the former contents of his nose into the Vaseline.
“Now go” the guru says, and Kevin leaves.
That, my beloved little marauder mouse, is what I mean by the good stuff.
Bring it on.
And, do you still remember that Valentine’s Day scenario I described for you ? My beloved little marauder mouse, it’s not me that will be standing in front of you.
I’d never do that to you.
I’m the one that told him to wear Chanel No 5 as well.
Now try again.
[I wrote this a while back, and as of this writing, the gal still hasn't responded .... hehehehehehehe]
9 年 前