Half a Million Pies Baked in a Double-Barrel Opportunity
They could give me half a million pies and it still wouldn’t be enough. I have to take them to make it worthwhile.
The collective starshooters bedevil thus. They strobe, finch the fantastic, taunt us with their tinsel-sprinkled rejuvenation. No hairline departures for them. Where they stride, the blow job dust falls. Virtual profanity is the essence.
Never hard drop on the stylus.
I love dropping little hints about holes and urges and dark stuffing from the turkey. The merciful palindrome chased me from both ends, but in the end gave up and went back to admiring itself.
Eating and drinking in the hip pocket of slavery—the girls and boys made young with hornographic makeup and early dialysis.
Why do we bother to give people hope? That enlivened pall of opportunity, it knocks to bring you to the door and then blows you away from the other side with a double-barrel orgasm.
Opportunity knocks indeed. Opportunity knocked up.