I remember that yellow ice cream scooper. I remember pulling the trigger and the feeling of the swooping, scooping motion across my scrotum. My bag fit it like a glove. We went into the bedroom, scoop in hand, then I left. I measured out exactly one pound of delicious, nutritious pasta, meat sauce and all. I returned bent you over and packed your asshole with complex carbohydrates, one scoop at a time. I don't really eat pasta, but you struck me as a marathon runner. Your b-hole looked like Sookie: fat and not into getting her lower back near her tail scratched. I gently whispered, "Only two scoops to go baby, I just have to remove your perineum with these garden shears." Your pussy smelt really bad; it made my cock smell bad. Later on, we ate BLTs from the coffee joint on the mountain.
The Alberta crushers hold tight to their rank, astral-gazing grindcore, staring down abyssal torment all the while. Bandcamp Album of the Day Mar 31, 2020