Consider the implications, implied in your summations, bereft of any measure, of any future winning pleasure.
You think you got the rhyme, the time, the sign, the sublime – well lemme tell you that this nation of constipation erupting from your Platonic, moronic, buffonic colonic leaves us wracking our minds over the lacking crack-head tactics of the ass-ticks stuck to your fantastic plastic, spastic glass dick, shattered in the mouth of your mom’s metal grille – she can’t get her fill, ’cause your Philosophy lacks sophistry.
[responsivevoice_button voice="US English Male"]