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"Kadaitcha Man" <XXXX-you.ya.cunt@kiss-my-big-black-XXX.com>, the
infected homeless man and apprenticed colon-bowler who likes harsh butt
slamming with goats, and whose partner is a village-bike with a sour
slop hole, wrote in <88idj0$ni2$p@imperfect-kahunas.co.nz>:
> Gazwad <Gazwad@my-shit-dont-stink.com>, the senile cadger and fat
> drag-queen who likes injurious butt bonking with coon cats, and whose
> partner is a woman-of-loose-morals with a wasted kookooyumyumpoon,
> wrote in <fm589q$8p2$7@defective-hooters.co.uk>:
> 
>
> Berserker V could have saved you an awful lot of typing, mate.

Yes, I know, but I had to get that down before it became cloudy, I'll use it
as the basis of my argument as to why Dixons should supply me with a free
leather laptop carry case.

I was seriously so XXXXing stressed that I didn't even have a wank that day.



--
For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down
in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived
it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which
are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely
impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas
how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquillity, when the
bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points
of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of
dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem,
is but a dream within a dream.

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ToolPackinMama <laura@lauragoodwin.org>, the boozing guttersnipe and
lustful bum-prodder who likes wicked butt balling with moose, and whose
partner is a scarlet-lady with a pestilent cock pocket, wrote in
<KeednfpoFryQr03eRVn-tQ@comcast.com>:
> Gazwad wrote:
>
> LOL my sympathies.
>
> I'm in the USA.  May I ask:  what's a bint?  :)

A woman, usually a thick one.



--
For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down
in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived
it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which
are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely
impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas
how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquillity, when the
bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points
of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of
dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem,
is but a dream within a dream.

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Gazwad wrote:
> ToolPackinMama <laura@lauragoodwin.org>, the boozing guttersnipe and
> lustful bum-prodder who likes wicked butt balling with moose, and whose
> partner is a scarlet-lady with a pestilent cock pocket, wrote in
> <KeednfpoFryQr03eRVn-tQ@comcast.com>: 
>
> A woman, usually a thick one.
>
>
>

She's American, probably thinks you mean thick through the middle rather
than thick in the head.

--
Zaphod B
 __________________________________________________
_____

"He grinned two manic grins, sauntered over to the bar
and bought most of it."

**The Restaurant at the End of the Universe**

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