Heather's tight bikini ******* intrigued Roger like she was from another century. He'd give a million dollars to feel her soft nether portions against his ***** thrill-hammer, but she was the wife of his ****-buddy Jeff who was likely a homosexual. If only Heather & Jeff weren't siblings? But there was nothing to be done, except extract vital D.N.A. hormones from either of them or both to create a better version: a 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 or a 𝘴𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 (or a brother/sister hybrid). "Look out there!" Roger demanded as he stuffed his peanut butter sandwich with a jellyfish. "Where?!" Heather exclaimed. 10 days after that a large gynecologist was found dead in the river. He'd been doing gynecological work when the Mafia killed him for reasons unknown.
   With ******-hardening projection Lenny Bruce injected morphia into his left ****** and it hurt worse than anything the Beatles ever did to each other. Later, elephants in pink mini-skirts appeared to dance on ice in a rink plated with stainless steel that glistened brighter than 100 trillion midgets eating tuna sandwiches in a replica of the 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 even though it was the 𝘖𝘭𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘤 because the ships were switched for insurance fraud purposes.
   Sandy took the submarine sandwich and hid it quickly in her purse before Rambo knew what was what. Let's amscray," she whispered to Tony. "Right," he whimpered back. After an hour of walking along the tracks, Sandy suggested that they share the food in her purse. "Where'd you get a purse like that? It's cold enough to refrigerate sandwiches yet hot enough fashionably to be accepted by young fashion models who possess a keen sense of style," Tony observed. "Why don't you just shut up before I plant my foot up your gerbil-warming ******?" Sandy asked. "Fair enough," Tony replied with a grin that made his ******-gerbil scratch fiercely.