Re: Ego Management
I don't know exactly who the venom is directed at, but I just have to participate.
You, sir, wish you could be as good as the pus-filled, excrescent, running sores on the infected scrotum of a syphilitic, gangrenous mammoth. You aspire to a swimming pool that's as good as the large flob I cough up towards the end on a bout of horribly rasping and chesty bronchial pneumonia - a flob that's particularly luminescent green, which has traces of blood and the dark chocolate I just finished - all of which shimmer and pulse in the dingy light of a half-working street lamp.
You dream of the day you can find a woman disgusting enough to let you put your twisted whithered John Thomas into the gaping chasm of the old bloater's fish-flaps, and squirt the runny fish-gruel out of your tiny yarbles into her sturdy beam.
That's your idea of paradise, that is.
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