Reading pregnant furry poetry is just how I wanted to be spending my Saturday night.
Just imagine, this was someone's roommate. Oh God how I feel for that person, where ever they are.
I wish the whole furry community was just an April Fools' joke.
It means that somewhere in your ancestry a brother fucked his sister and bam, the furry gene was born.
I get all my environmental issues explain to me by a guy who jerks off to pregnant half-woman half-dog vaginas.
Woah, the irony.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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