I wouldn't be casting aspersions point dexter. The fact of the matter is that the best part of you ran down the crack of your mother's ass and ended up a shitstain on your daddy's mattress. Posture pedic? The pose was merely missionary, the breech was capacious, but with a tug, tilt, and an intestinal fortitude that would make a lesser man's bravado wane, your papa pacified your mother's fecund cunt with a clowning that submerged his loins in matter that carries no scientific explanation. "Pull!!! Pull!!! Man the oars!!!" These were the distant cries that carried to the far reaches of Arlington's suburbia. In answer a vine was thrown through the sill of your parents' bedroom, in to the sill of your mother's funeral drape. But the acidic properties of her gastric pucosa tore through to which photosynthesis shied and vomited bilious amounts of glucose across the Serengeti of her seminal plains. "Gurgle, pork, blargh", the nightmarish sounds of a man drowning in a cavernous pungent hole resonated long and wide. A transformation coincided with a human sacrifice. Death begets life. Inside this disgusting Texan whore's slatternous* slit lied a dirty chemist to be. To which heavy metal could only offer a sigh.
Twenty one years later this demon spawn who befouls the very air in which we breathe with his forged posturing, desperately seeks attention and friendship in the one man brave enough to put him down, though he hates him so. The one man who is willing to enter the laboratory in which this sheep in wolf's clothing was mongoloidishly conceived and put down the HDbarnacle covered beast held responsible.
This man is none other than EricT!
Godspeed my dear friend, Godspeed!!!
*improper conjugation for an improper act
