P.S. this is exciting, isn't it?
Somebody wake up Hicks to tickle J. Edgar's balls. Remind him that he literally attempted to kill me. So: fruit of the poisoned tree, I think? Oh shit, ways and means.
Fuck it I'm going anyway. (Since it's so hard to fire Federal employees, I'm going to let Captain Chose Her to steal those paychecks as well as, well, uhm, well,
whomevahs.) Also, George Noory is big-big knuckle-gnawed mad at me. Unknown at this time as to why.
But it's likely not going to be fixed well with an extra baggie of coca slyly dumped into his Mr. Fusion. Well, probably not. Because, well, uh, well, that's a secret.
For now,
MOTHERFUC — *click*
p.s. Careful, astute whack-jobs will note that although I am carrying a toothbrush and toothpaste very often, I really rarely use them. The answer why well surprise you.
p.p.s. Cholera. That's the reason. (Facts.) Oh wait, that's a typo. Call (HER) 🅰️... (let's change cameras.)
Nanotech-powered mil.spec.biowarfare.dis.vec.TOR.🅿️ÆDO immune system upgrade module package. Because, well, I just fucking feel like I'm going to be spreading The Space Clap.
In very narrow media markets. Tiny, even. People won't even know.
Until they dœ. (Jewel shits your bed — to your health!) Now, I knew what you're thinking. Hang on.
* Jackstar is just going to get high again and well, well, will forget what was known about what you mewling cuntfaced faghag fools were thinking.
Were you thinking, though? (Arguable.) Now, that's what I call a stick :Ë: situation.
P.S.: ATTENTION LAW ENFORCEMENT,
George Noory and Albino Bob Ross trafficked my friend TLS so they could have her teach them how to make crystal methamphetamine WITHOUT NEEDING TO COOK.Actual. (Facts.) As one can see, I have identified these fiendish criminals ONLY VIA PSEUDONYM. (Standards.)
(
Vengeance for Bob Laser.) I think we have an understanding here.
* Jackstar drops the match into the neigh-palm, turns ¡† on and walks T away.
STAY TUNED. (Clown Dee with a chance of PORTAL.) I told you, what we had planned was going to blow your minds. Wait for it to catch up; this is happening.
Without being at all obvious about īT. (My performance art is effective. Atholes.) What?
You had your chance to be raising a bull with me. ALL OF ALL Y'ALL DID (except everyone I actually desired).
Now go hug a dyke. The tide is rising. I am moving Fawn. Didn't cry havok.
You're just going to fucking weep like Jesus on the †. I did this. This is what one man can do.
Next up: George with the Washing Hubcaps Report. I swear, with God as my witness, I truly believe he doesn't have to do that with his tongue.
But: I'll allow it. (No anus for Jew.)
Adieu.
