Monday, June 1, 2009
Who wants to fuck a Spelling Bee champion?
Yes, ladies. You heard me right...CHAMPION. So who wants to be deflowered as if, in the spirit of the term, I possessed the erect, sword-shapen leaves of the African gladiolis plant?
We need to abrogate this facade, this mere game that we are playing, and pursue a sexually-achieved ascetic state of existence. A state of being achieved only immediately after I strategically position a neufchatel-esque ribbon of virile ejaculate on that foulard cloth scarf of yours. You must, I implore MUST, be getting as aroused as I am just visualizing the completion of this act.
SO LET'S JUST FUCKING CONSUMMATE THE TRUE MANIFEST DESTINY OF THESE SEXUAL TENSIONS ALREADY.
God, the occurrence that you are unconscionably waiting for before allowing me to penetrate your vaginal cavity is unbeknownst to me. What in the name of the canonical words of our Lord are you awaiting that is indefinitely postponing our sexual dalliances? I MUST BE APPRISED OF THE TRUE INTENTIONS OF YOUR NEBULOUS REASONINGS! I pray to the quasars above that they are perfectly benign.
I do not possess the requisite period of unallocated time for you to continue your aimless ruminations on these thoughts. Please forgive my truculent nature, but I must receive a definitely response from you on the matter of my defiling of your female workings. I have not the time nor the physical energy to elucubrate a positive result from my advances upon you.
So either fuck me now or I'm moving on, you fucking tramp.