I'm smoking on that Bhutanese shadow garden grown dark evil pack. They watered this with the blood of 36 dragons. Shit's so purple it should be asking me "Where's Ronald?" This shit will turn your pacemaker off. Nuclear levels of sour.
She's not exactly equipped with a real poker face. So when teh dude screams action, you know that look of terror is authentic. Reminiscent of a reoccurring dream I keep having involving Brock Lesnar and Long John Silver’s Cocktail Sauce.
This is called Taking a Swedish Bike Ride. It happens when those dudes with above-average girth fail lubrication preparation. So they pump harder... til a breaking point hits. Somewhere between the 3rd & 4th second degree burns.
