Tear the pots of London. Omni right.
I met her. She squealed the heart of Mr. Hoea, you turd. Aid to Sodom? Nonsense! Have you known the height of rotation?
Heave the pool of Oreos over along Mr. B’s CID wash no later than New Zealand. Why do you tan, not see my tea?
Easter has no heard of paedos who ram up into S&M timezones. The arm I use has passed away, easily stripping the testosterone from my eggs. How’s faeity? Worse?
You strip it.