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Ewe know nothing, Lorne Michaels.
We [the staff] already knew about the surveillence on the fucking scenes of the one who fucks H.O.R.S.E.S. and the “resurrected” önë. It was evident on both the “Johanna” sketch and, the Cheating sequence at the L.A.B. between that Colin Jost character and that big Black asian WHO explodes just like Nina Simone on that L.I.V.E.v.i.l. temple of yours. Anygüey, Lorne, te comento que that intrussion happened either at the end of 2016, or during the beginning of 2017. We [the staff] informed the C.H.A.I.N. of concern, and A.L.L. parties involved in that situation @The RealUnitedNations (F.A.O. annex in R.O.M.E.) however, all parties ignored and/or dismissed this motherfucking S.C.o.U.T.’s report. The Paris Prefecture knew all about it also; it’s part of the P.A.S.S.I.O.N.
Anygüey, Lorne (if that is your real name), gonna roll over and M.A.S.T.U.R.B.A.T.E. now without taking my pants off, and you are welcome “pour ce moment ». It was a pleasure playing the role of the central character on your Diner de Cons, or some French remake of that flick (2008, starring The Ant). And, yes we did noticed the two scratches on our neck when i, armando segovia, woke-up this morning. The message is Crystal Clear, especially when a used syringe is left behind, sitting at the bottom of my bed of recycled roses, which is French for a cardboard box. Thanks for the A.I.D.S.. Ahora vamo’ a ver S.I.D.A.
Say hello to the “ghosts” and “spooks” who follow u.s. [the staff] from your motherfucking foward observation posts.
And Lorne, one mo’thing, “sweet-cakes”, can öüï please, S.V.P. motherfucker, —with sugar on that Juan Nieves colonoscopy sketch— have the Book of Numbers of that pretty little French burlesque coach, she is fucking hot, she is even hotter when she prance them rosbif l.i.p.s. around a G.R.A.N.D. piano like a camel toe wrapped on a Union J.A.C.K..
Unless of course, Lorne, that particular cunt is also getting her comprehensive coverage from the motherfucking G.E.I.C.O. gecko, —on the motherfucking Bill Maher Show?, Eh.
P.S.: Bill Maher, you fucking werewolf Ewe. What’s the matter, prick! If the farts on the Texan guest —on your show, of course— don’t fucking smell of C.O.T.T.O.N. candy, then the W.A.L.K.E.R.S. on your set are not allowed to call out the bullshit that it is going on outside of them ‘circles and squares’ on the Law and Order sketch of that Lorne Show.
Anygüey, par de Putos, Saint BartholoMEAOW sends his regards from Saint–Ferdinand des Ternes, en París, Francia; y en Sevilla también se cuecen habas, Mr. Penelope Cruz.