Proud princesses sipping high society’s hemorrhoid-juice champagne

Those hoes, the extent of whose persuasion is a tone, forever shrieking hims into three categories: providers, threats, irrelevant;

such social-sluts — silly and sanctimonious, sniveling and sad — eventually croak as ever they chirped: wishing they had a dad;

forsooth, the shells that shelve then sell these reckless, dickless, listless liabilities can hardly be counted as fathers, when the seeds they sow do not so much grow as reek, fester, and falter.

“It is my supine right,” writhed the wry, wrought, fraught, frigid fraud—her stepping-stones strewn upon distant shores, “to suck dust and puss from these cloyed kings’ throbbing, crusty ass-sores.”

And she lived happily ever after.

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