Date: Mon, 24 Sep 2012 05:22:10 +0100
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Well you filthy little minx! If that's not the
most sexually charged email i've never received then my name isn't not
John Porridge and i haven't not got a wife who isn't called Susan! I was
incredibly thrilled and aroused by your email, so much so that
my daily wank today was based entirely on the thought of you handing me
my 'mouth watering', 'MASSIVE', 'lucrative bonus' (surely a euphemism
for 'here's my tits wrapped in clingfilm'. Eh Anna?, Eh? Eh??). I must
warn you though, just like your bonus i can't 'last forever' either :(
like two minutes of frantic rutting with me a red faced mess of hair
and sweat jerking away on top of you while you stare distractedly at the
ceiling contemplating what colour you're going to paint the bathroom
and whether Roy the mechanic has managed to get rid of that irritating
squeak from the Volvo. Then 'Heeeeuuuuurrrgggghhhh!' it's all over and
you can get back to grooming your dogs vagina.
Now that we have
the pleasantries out of the way i thought i'd write you a poem to
express my feelings at these grotty smut-laden emails you keep sending
Oh Anna G, if you owned a massive tree,
I'd love to take a big shit at the bottom,
And I'd hope that you'd see, that shit on your tree,
As a reminder never to be forgotten,
That my email is pure, not fit for you 'whore',
And not welcome are your offers of credit,
So please i implore, junk emails no more,
Go fuck yourself you presumptuous, irritating, money-grabbing, exploitative fucking cunt. There, i said it.
You're about as welcome as Jimmy Saville's ashes at a Johnson's baby talcum powder factory.