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WINDOWLESS MASTURBATION CELLS
Buzzshackler :: 19980614
01 my cock roars
02 152 03 nigs gonna pick it up 04 deep golden hue 05 maggots 06 cutaway shitpipe 07 fushion 08 2 things 09 OI! OI! 10 drug leg 11 rest alone 12 murdered by subtext 13 we are WMC |
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NARROWING EYES, opening pores.
A cloud of misanthropic emission excretes from the man in seat 7B: "Might this plane go down and all the wealth aboard pass beneath the scrutinous eyes of the greedy relatives' lawyers."
"This plane will not go down. I am your captain," the telepathic reply relays from the cabin.
CHARLOTTE NC. Gate 13.
A child is violently lifted by his 37-month-old limb, presumably by his father, presumably for climbing on the seat of an idle motorized cart used to transport the disabled, the elderly, the ill, the obese. Passing the time will be achieved only by sitting still. I comply.
My cock roars as i wait patiently for flight 152, pulsing, throbbing. The nigs gonna pick it up, whatever "it" may be, it is surely of a deep golden hue.
A small marvel of electronic engineering is taxed to its physical limits; how much air can microtweeters driven by dry cells move? Ringing, stinging synapses serve as a reminder as to my mission here.
My thinking advances in this hangar of trust-fund travelers, maggots all and dead soon, thank Allah. The ensuing autopsy should prove interesting. A close examination of the cutaway shitpipe using a fushion microscope will reveal 2 things: OI! and OI!, metastasized throughout their collective soulless body deep into the drug leg. Subsequent burial will fittingly return them as food for their own kind, they will not rest alone!
They were murdered by subtext.
We are WMC!
Use of my personal electronic device, engaged in such subversive sonic anarchy during critical tower-cockpit communications fails to foil the master-of-flight's touch-down... this time. Deplaning, i am fully expecting the pilot's admonition: "Wash mother's cunt!"
A cloud of misanthropic emission excretes from the man in seat 7B: "Might this plane go down and all the wealth aboard pass beneath the scrutinous eyes of the greedy relatives' lawyers."
"This plane will not go down. I am your captain," the telepathic reply relays from the cabin.
CHARLOTTE NC. Gate 13.
A child is violently lifted by his 37-month-old limb, presumably by his father, presumably for climbing on the seat of an idle motorized cart used to transport the disabled, the elderly, the ill, the obese. Passing the time will be achieved only by sitting still. I comply.
My cock roars as i wait patiently for flight 152, pulsing, throbbing. The nigs gonna pick it up, whatever "it" may be, it is surely of a deep golden hue.
A small marvel of electronic engineering is taxed to its physical limits; how much air can microtweeters driven by dry cells move? Ringing, stinging synapses serve as a reminder as to my mission here.
My thinking advances in this hangar of trust-fund travelers, maggots all and dead soon, thank Allah. The ensuing autopsy should prove interesting. A close examination of the cutaway shitpipe using a fushion microscope will reveal 2 things: OI! and OI!, metastasized throughout their collective soulless body deep into the drug leg. Subsequent burial will fittingly return them as food for their own kind, they will not rest alone!
They were murdered by subtext.
We are WMC!
Use of my personal electronic device, engaged in such subversive sonic anarchy during critical tower-cockpit communications fails to foil the master-of-flight's touch-down... this time. Deplaning, i am fully expecting the pilot's admonition: "Wash mother's cunt!"
