May 2024
CLAUDIA'S THRILLING ADVENTURES IN NORTH SWEDEN
Claudia waited for me in the vice president's bedroom. Her long arms seemed to have shrunk an inch since I saw her with that awful ****. “Wipe that smile off your ugly face. Your donkey isn't going to make it,” she spoke carelessly. “Poor Petunia is dying?” I wept, heart-sickened. “Yes,” evil Claudia answered as rotten chunks of decayed flesh fell from her blue face & chest. “I hate you a lot!” I exclaimed. “Monday you'll be in hell, boiling in an orange ocean of hot things!” Later on, after my donkey got hit by 4 Mack trucks screaming through a Catholic school zone at 85-miles-per-hour because the driver was a queer Mexican, Claudia apologized for 10 minutes and presented her mega-**** cousin to me. Her first name was Katrina and she hadn't experienced the intimate love of a virile guy before. “Take off that pink string bikini,” I ordered, “and we'll tunnel to Egypt together.” For 63 heart-stopping, clot-shot days we made love together on the balcony of my billion-dollar penthouse apartment in north Sweden. Those were gay times: skin-diving for enormous clams; filling leaky ***** bags with really rancid cottage cheese; ambushing innocent cops behind the Uruguayan embassy.
Claudia waited for me in the vice president's bedroom. Her long arms seemed to have shrunk an inch since I saw her with that awful ****. “Wipe that smile off your ugly face. Your donkey isn't going to make it,” she spoke carelessly. “Poor Petunia is dying?” I wept, heart-sickened. “Yes,” evil Claudia answered as rotten chunks of decayed flesh fell from her blue face & chest. “I hate you a lot!” I exclaimed. “Monday you'll be in hell, boiling in an orange ocean of hot things!” Later on, after my donkey got hit by 4 Mack trucks screaming through a Catholic school zone at 85-miles-per-hour because the driver was a queer Mexican, Claudia apologized for 10 minutes and presented her mega-**** cousin to me. Her first name was Katrina and she hadn't experienced the intimate love of a virile guy before. “Take off that pink string bikini,” I ordered, “and we'll tunnel to Egypt together.” For 63 heart-stopping, clot-shot days we made love together on the balcony of my billion-dollar penthouse apartment in north Sweden. Those were gay times: skin-diving for enormous clams; filling leaky ***** bags with really rancid cottage cheese; ambushing innocent cops behind the Uruguayan embassy.
