05-06-2014, 03:48 AM
An avalanche exploded like a bomb,
somebody beautiful farted during a photoshoot
and shit came out.
Hip and happening drugs can do that to a person.
Shit drips out of the roundest, smoothest female ass.
What some should see is that diarrhea
is an orgasm of the nervous system.
A man jerks off,
a beautiful woman shits herself under pressure;
the scent of love is more powerful than words.
In America, fucking is so blasé;
but if you simply ask a woman to fuck you,
you'll be in jail as fast as you could cum in Marilyn Monroe's living, breathing anus.
Sure, the model shits on a digital film roll,
and a billion men in every country of the world burn their wallets and send their money to her,
but she's not in it for sexual stimulation:
she strips down for the camera for her soul.
I insult people.
Everybody needs to be insulted,
myself included.
People are bad when left to their own resources.
I sneeze so hard from the people I'm allergic to,
I almost bite my tongue off.
But I use my tongue to talk to the girls,
to make up lies to the girls, to not have to admit the fact that I'm attracted to them from just looking at them;—
What a crude kind of attraction that would be—
or dress like a nigger—
The racist bitches can't get off anymore
unless they feel they're being raped by a hateful redneck in baggy pants—
because I like the way it looks in the mirror.
Every woman I fuck says to me,
"How many women have you fucked?"
And I say, "Not many."
And she calls me a pervert for jerking off so much
instead of fucking girls.
"My last boyfriend fucked 20 girls before me,"
they always say,
"a woman can sense when a man's been fucking,
and she gets off on it."
"Well, can she sense that a man's been jerking off 20 times a day,"
I ask, "doesn't that amount to something?"
"We can tell the difference,"
they always say,
"it doesn't turn us on like a man that's really getting it."
"I'm happy just fucking you," I say.
"Of course you are,"
she says,
"it beats jerking off, don't it?
But doesn't my pleasure mean anything?"
"Yes," I say, "but I just was hoping to make you happy."
"Happiness is embarrassing,"
she says,
"and hope is little more than religious mockery.
Don't you respect me more than that?"
"I don't know," I say,
"I just feel I love you."
"You wouldn't,"
she says,
"no, you wouldn't."
Then she rests a while before she goes back to work.
somebody beautiful farted during a photoshoot
and shit came out.
Hip and happening drugs can do that to a person.
Shit drips out of the roundest, smoothest female ass.
What some should see is that diarrhea
is an orgasm of the nervous system.
A man jerks off,
a beautiful woman shits herself under pressure;
the scent of love is more powerful than words.
In America, fucking is so blasé;
but if you simply ask a woman to fuck you,
you'll be in jail as fast as you could cum in Marilyn Monroe's living, breathing anus.
Sure, the model shits on a digital film roll,
and a billion men in every country of the world burn their wallets and send their money to her,
but she's not in it for sexual stimulation:
she strips down for the camera for her soul.
I insult people.
Everybody needs to be insulted,
myself included.
People are bad when left to their own resources.
I sneeze so hard from the people I'm allergic to,
I almost bite my tongue off.
But I use my tongue to talk to the girls,
to make up lies to the girls, to not have to admit the fact that I'm attracted to them from just looking at them;—
What a crude kind of attraction that would be—
or dress like a nigger—
The racist bitches can't get off anymore
unless they feel they're being raped by a hateful redneck in baggy pants—
because I like the way it looks in the mirror.
Every woman I fuck says to me,
"How many women have you fucked?"
And I say, "Not many."
And she calls me a pervert for jerking off so much
instead of fucking girls.
"My last boyfriend fucked 20 girls before me,"
they always say,
"a woman can sense when a man's been fucking,
and she gets off on it."
"Well, can she sense that a man's been jerking off 20 times a day,"
I ask, "doesn't that amount to something?"
"We can tell the difference,"
they always say,
"it doesn't turn us on like a man that's really getting it."
"I'm happy just fucking you," I say.
"Of course you are,"
she says,
"it beats jerking off, don't it?
But doesn't my pleasure mean anything?"
"Yes," I say, "but I just was hoping to make you happy."
"Happiness is embarrassing,"
she says,
"and hope is little more than religious mockery.
Don't you respect me more than that?"
"I don't know," I say,
"I just feel I love you."
"You wouldn't,"
she says,
"no, you wouldn't."
Then she rests a while before she goes back to work.
