Initial message:
Date: Mon, 6 Aug 2012 09:59:25 +0200
Hi dear!
No matter where you are right now, I know that you will come here to find me www.brenda.in I will recognize you immediately because you will be like a sweet forest of pleasant ladies and whispering branches a?? where people wander on and on in its playing shadows they know not how far a?? and when they come near the centre of it, it is all cold and impenetrable a?? and when they would fain turn, - they are hedged with briars and thorns and cannot escape. I know the same way you will conquer my heart one day and I will be always next to you.
send me a message
Vyka
Hi dear!
No matter where you are right now, I know that you will come here to find me www.brenda.in I will recognize you immediately because you will be like a sweet forest of pleasant ladies and whispering branches a?? where people wander on and on in its playing shadows they know not how far a?? and when they come near the centre of it, it is all cold and impenetrable a?? and when they would fain turn, - they are hedged with briars and thorns and cannot escape. I know the same way you will conquer my heart one day and I will be always next to you.
send me a message
Vyka
Reply:
Oh Vyka!
What a blessing that you contact me now in my hour of need! You're like an angel that has descended from the sky on a porpoise wearing a party hat and shouting like a drunken tramp "yer me bezzt mayte, ffuckin serious now mayte honest ya know i wunt fffuckin lie to yer i ffucking love yer man". Welcome my angel! Welcome into my needy bosom, all greased up with chip fat and covered in feathers.
I done prayed to the god of biscuits to send me a lady 'mental' to ease the burden of my problematic existence and here you are my dear, sashaying into my inbox like a belly dancer with parkinsons disease. My problem is this: i live in a commune for ex-wrestlers off the Dorset coast and, if you're familiar with wrestlers (which, let's face it, any insane person should be) then you'll know of the trauma they face away from the ring after they retire. For years they are harangued by middle aged, plump, delusional, unusually-bearded, socially inept idiots who can't distinguish between cartoonish one-dimensional stereotypical personas adopted for the purposes of entertainment, and 'real life'. And suddenly it all stops. When they walk to the shops there's no theatrical "boo hiss" and gnashing of teeth from passers-by. No chants of 'U...S...A...!!" following a pathetic slap/stumble combo. Imagine marching on the spot with a look of righteous indignation on your face but with no rousing "whooping" from the crowd to back it up, or slowly peeling off an elbow guard before performing a ridiculously elaborate 'dance' around a man in dungarees with no "ooohs" or "ahhhhs" as you softly pat him on the chest. It's proper fucking tragic, yo.
So what i need from you Vyka is to pop round maybe twice a week to begin with and perform 'crowd duty' for these poor unfortunate wrestlers. A little "gerroff'im" here, a bit of "lick his goddamn cock and balls to pieces!!!!" there, maybe a spot of grimacing as one of them is gently caressed on the back with a plastic chair. That sort of thing. Wages are negotiable and we have an endless supply of biscuits too.
Send me a message (and a picture of you with a barbie doll up your arse wouldn't go amiss either),
Nick.
What a blessing that you contact me now in my hour of need! You're like an angel that has descended from the sky on a porpoise wearing a party hat and shouting like a drunken tramp "yer me bezzt mayte, ffuckin serious now mayte honest ya know i wunt fffuckin lie to yer i ffucking love yer man". Welcome my angel! Welcome into my needy bosom, all greased up with chip fat and covered in feathers.
I done prayed to the god of biscuits to send me a lady 'mental' to ease the burden of my problematic existence and here you are my dear, sashaying into my inbox like a belly dancer with parkinsons disease. My problem is this: i live in a commune for ex-wrestlers off the Dorset coast and, if you're familiar with wrestlers (which, let's face it, any insane person should be) then you'll know of the trauma they face away from the ring after they retire. For years they are harangued by middle aged, plump, delusional, unusually-bearded, socially inept idiots who can't distinguish between cartoonish one-dimensional stereotypical personas adopted for the purposes of entertainment, and 'real life'. And suddenly it all stops. When they walk to the shops there's no theatrical "boo hiss" and gnashing of teeth from passers-by. No chants of 'U...S...A...!!" following a pathetic slap/stumble combo. Imagine marching on the spot with a look of righteous indignation on your face but with no rousing "whooping" from the crowd to back it up, or slowly peeling off an elbow guard before performing a ridiculously elaborate 'dance' around a man in dungarees with no "ooohs" or "ahhhhs" as you softly pat him on the chest. It's proper fucking tragic, yo.
So what i need from you Vyka is to pop round maybe twice a week to begin with and perform 'crowd duty' for these poor unfortunate wrestlers. A little "gerroff'im" here, a bit of "lick his goddamn cock and balls to pieces!!!!" there, maybe a spot of grimacing as one of them is gently caressed on the back with a plastic chair. That sort of thing. Wages are negotiable and we have an endless supply of biscuits too.
Send me a message (and a picture of you with a barbie doll up your arse wouldn't go amiss either),
Nick.
No comments:
Post a Comment