If one watches the popornpassionplay that is UKplc then the disturbing conclusion that always breaks greasy wind upon reflection is that there is absolutely no doubt that the number station is bang on schedule to complete the destruction of ordinary persons and their hopes for the future, globally.
Scene 1. usually has a hotbitch on her way to a friend has a some car trouble and before you know it she’s over the hood getting her lipstick on a dipstick. In another universe the UKtart has been getting all upset at the way her orifices are getting used contrary to the contract terms she thught her agent offered her before she first got her kit off. Renegotiations are started before traiteneging.
Scene 2. usually has the bitch arrive, after a good fluid exchange, at a chummies place for a party and lo and behold there is the geezer who helped get the clapped out old Merc on the way again cleaning the pool under the hot San Fernando sun. Britbabe is all hot and bothered and before you know it soapy bubble boob action distracts one form the sunbaked subplot as a couple of lady chain gang escapees struggle up hill through the scrub.
Scene 3. has the pool guy wondering what the rustling by the pool side undergrowth is and before you know it a massive darkpoolcock is staring at him as the tranny orangesuited NATOsexbeasts spit roast him to the sounds of shitty 80s west coast guitar mangling.
Scene 4. the Berkowitzagent and BBCzeppelinstaakinescort arrive in a drop top ‘stang with brand new contracts and a shed load of snow in a dime store briefcase. The walk on crew having gotten dolgmansucksreamed senseless, had clitwinstrummed, blown their fishquotas and meatloads or hauled in a shed load fake pharma get down to a group bubble bath shot with lots of servile economy lovinging lingeringing linghamcentric gaycamera work. Aiding the whole ceremony we have the unseen human trafficking industry.
So did Britspice get a new contract reflecting her understanding of a life on the silver screen that doesn’t involve anal prolapse?
And who is the great big wind bag Ron Jeremy in this fiction as reality guaranteeing the on script money shot on queue?
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Voyoy cheeky, leave us a deadletteredroped..