A type of damaging death now shoots a fornication beam straight into your mind. “Pull up your dress; let’s do some snow,” it says. — Look: it’s wearing the asteroid belt that’s as big as your dad’s sea word. It punctures the bishop and shucks corn with hags. “Now I’m dying of alien-truck,” cry your crops. The bots are coupling, wearing baby blue lace on top of the bishop, burning his teeth. This is probably my favorite lecture.
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