make a meal of the sexual innuendo

Make a Meal of the Sexual Innuendo

If it’s a piece of ass you’re after fatso, I’m damn sure

he sometimes followed me into the house where I kept a box

at his beard, makes me itchy. Obstat, sit down, you’re getting

the female of his desiring, pays no attention to him. It's just as I predicted:

it isn't hard. That's what's so awful about it. Once I actually got it, it was

against your grain, but you're gonna have to let me handle this.

I think we had better wait and see. Too bad there's a

refined particularity of our actions, and the declarative nature of

you’re going to have to fill me in sometime, I’m dying to

think of any more reasons for not letting the swan have a

patch of ice at the same instant the car coming toward us hit

instead of sneaking up behind him and bashing his brains in,

because you disgust me with your lipstick teeth, and your dirty

same cut over and over on both sides--"Jesus is Waiting," by the

place. Whatever interactions she might choose to engage in,

it was hollow. Inside of it was a seat, like a bicycle seat,

overly committed to anything that isn't firmly in place.