By now, my gammon alley was leaching like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. My cake hole was so full of Vince cable and penis pudding, the ectoplasm was salivating down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. After having my salmon slit pounded, he then proceeded to hammer my fudge factory. With my roast beef platter now much like Terry Waite’s allotment, he thought it was time to start sliding my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a stink pickle, I wondered? Now, I’ve seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his tallywacker made my sex wee froth like a George Foreman grill.
wetherspoons is the most hilarious place ever
reblogging because i think everyone needs to see how mature i am.
