Dear, Marianne: please stand by for The Boss

Oh, hey Hallie Jackson… long thyme no C.

Need Plasma

Kneed Plasma? Ewe got it, Babe… take it a güey, Flaco.

Nevermind the fetuses, here comes The Jersey Shore, but seriously, if them dumb country LaWjers in Alabama–Texarkana wish to begin life at the very seed of conception that’s fine with U.S., because lemme tell’ya Bitch, Eye got BleüBalls and each one of them little motherfucking armanditos [to bee], require WIC. So there’s that, Bobby O’Rourke.

…[C]uddle up, cuddle up (that’s Secure Hatch, in D.A.T. toc)

—– Anuncio de Donnie Deutsch, follows:
Does your significant other’s Glande swing to the Right?
Don’t deez-pair, and keep your Squelch-on.

In Local nEwes, it’s a listening silence 14 of July weekend in La France, and them Sirens are some reel Daughters of Delfinos, which in Paris, Texas transliterates to them IT Application Progeammers are real Son’s–of –Them-Bitches.

Eye mean, to resurface the skin of the site with a “title” counter matchWICK is just krüEL, Radio France ; especially when the Freq of Kenneth is all like, “it’s Listening Silence mode for E–3’s and below”.

It’s cruel, Radio France! What are you? American Border Patrol little agents? Or was it the potion #9 that Twitter Jack infused you WIT.

ÖÜÏ report, Ewe decide.

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