BigJimsWornOutTires
Fire
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What I'm about to share with you will piss off many wealthy authors, and some of them might threaten this forum's owner to remove me or suffer back page listings in the search engines.
Here comes the magic of Hollywood.
There Will be 300
The Chinese harlot from Beijing had fucked many men. CCP groomed, PLA ran through. But a hundred and four of them in one night? Ugh, a quest like this requires assistance from her friend, Meaghan, the Duchess of Skanks. Unlike Jinping, her friend has a distinctive vagina... or should I say, her purity brought back from extinction?
Meaghan had a biotech doctor perform vaginal rejuvenation surgery dubbed, 1950 Pussy. It was named that by Doctor Stewart after he surveyed ten thousand single women from Planned Parenthood offices. One of the questions, "Was your grandmother a whore like you?" An astounding 87% checked no. Ugh, obviously, women lies are as old as twat aroma. Back during the Roman times, for a good example, there were so many whores, they persuaded their men to conquer more kingdoms to fulfill their cock appetite.
Anyway, Meaghan's doctor reduced the unusual swelling with a permanent fix. Similar to silicone implantation but mixed with MyPillow technology. The doctor's ingenious threat absorber is designed to handle pounding, punching, slamming, and even tearing. He then tightened that bitch with suture elastic springs attached to an apparatus installed in one of her breasts. So when her titties are fondled, her pussy tightens to a Japanese anime character's. However, if the penis is uncomfortable, by pinching her nipple, the MyVagina device releases a flood of byproduct waste from her bowels for instant relief from the stress.
Serg Dominican, Jinping's public relations manager, arranged this event in Italy during the massive nightclub nationals that take place once every four years. He calls this a two-for-one deal. Intoxicated men—104 cocks without conditions or contracts? Easy-peasy. However, the tariffs are what worried the pimp the most.
After Trump enforced his new policy on global trading partners, nations like Italy used it against their citizens and blamed America. Take Russia, for instance. They jacked up the price for vodka from 430 rubles (approximately $5 US) to over 1,000, which is equivalent to $10+. Nevertheless, Russian citizens complained, "We don't even deal with America." Shaking my head. Greedy opportunists.
"I'm sorry, please, no more!" Cinnabon, Serg's girlfriend, cried in the hotel room as he lashed her with a belt because she was from America. He blamed her for the extra venue tariffs. Poor Gen Z girl, bless her heart. Those Ukrainian salespeople are the most dangerous to women. But when she met him during a protest for Ukraine in San Francisco, she had no idea what a monster he really was.
During a crocodile cry performance, Mr. Dominican sat on the concrete edge of a flower garden amidst protesters holding signs. He cried to Cinnabon, who stood beside him. Her hair was as beautifully blue as the sky, and her rainbow-colored short-shorts captured many middle-aged eyes. He said, "They kept beating me, bloody. Those fucking Russian Jew Nazis." She caressed his shoulder with a soft grasp of her hand. A man crying triggered her own emotions; she shed real tears. Meanwhile, he inconspicuously stared at her crotch while his hand blocked the view from wet, glittering eyes.
Serg had told her half-truths. Yes, Russians kidnapped him and beat the living shit out of him. But why they did this was justifiable. He was running dope to Moscow from Kiev. His product was China's deadly fentanyl. Well, one of his batches was so potent, it killed dozens of Russians. Contradictorily, six of them were North Korean diplomats. When Putin got word, he was furious. He hired a group of mercenaries to hunt that motherfucker down. And that they did. But Serg was a good con artist, a natural Ukrainian. After they captured him and beat the living fuck out of him, he convinced them that they had the wrong guy and said, "It was my neighbor... from America. Johnny." They believed him and went after the tourist. No one has seen him ever since.
Anywho, the White House Resort in Port Recanati was selected for this amazing championship of penises. But Mr. Dominican had a different approach for promoting such a blast of adult sport. Expecting no avail for some of his contestants, he invited peasants from the nearby towns to come cheer the 104. Using his clever business intellect, he promised lucky members from the audience will get a whack at the free pussy on display. However, that was a Ukrainian truth. Which means it was a lie. He had other intentions he called a surprise for the ladies.
Knowing the hundreds of iPhones that will be capturing this two-hour event, these women were going to be verified stars on X!
The Rise of the Mussolinis
Ah, yes, the day finally arrived for Jinping and her backup buddy, Meaghan. Or should I say, the ketchup girl? Ugh, it's that time of the month. I hope the lickers don't mind the taste of mercury. Uh-oh... Serg pushes Cinnabon next to the girls. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrows are wrinkled, and her arms are tightly crossed. She has extra makeup around her left eye. She turns her back to the long line of men. Oh, boy... this means we have three women about to take on the 104. "Make it 300!" Serg screamed to his crew. Wow. That was unexpected. I now understand what he meant by a surprise. Shaking my head. So instead of 104 men taking on three women, it will be 300! And seeing the worried expression on Cinnabon's face, perhaps, Meaghan should share her doctor's information now. She's gonna need it later.
Two Seconds to Midnight
The event's about to begin. Cinnabon hasn't once addressed the line of naked Italians. But damn! They all have scary penises. The fuck are they feeding these guys? Bull and bear cocks? Meagan shakes her head. She walks away. It looks like we're down to two—uh-oh. Jinping is now shaking her head. She, too, is leaving. Serg cusses them in Russian.
"No!" Jinping screamed back. "You enough pay not for that big many." The ladies leave the room. Cinnabon's eyes widen as she watches them leave. She finally discerns the naked men. Their lower halves snatch her attention. Her mouth gapes, and her eyes match the shock. By the look on her face, it appears Ukrainian men suffer the same tiny penis Russian syndrome. A six-foot Tony grins at her as he holds his penis. But she sees a baseball bat in his hand. She had no idea some penises could reach the chest line. Quickly, she looks back for the girls, hoping they changed their minds. Instead, she sees a door close at the end of the deep hallway. They had to walk pretty fast to get there so quickly. She looks back at the horse cocks, then to Serg. His reaction intensifies her anxiety—he's shaking a fist at her. Perhaps this is PTSD from that terrifying Russian ordeal. Cinnabon's eyes welled with tears as her shaky leg hesitated over the bed. A bushy-eyed gentleman helps by picking her up and placing her on the bed. The Italians surround her. A hairy feller spread her legs and lifted her shirt off her backside. Instantly, his head jerks as he fans a hand in front of his nose. Ugh, she's definitely a Gen Zoid foid. She looks around for Serg. She sees him now sliding an index finger across his neck. Perhaps he's checking to see if he needs another shave. Oh, hell no, I can't participate in this anymore. Unlike CNN, this is too tragic to write. The End.
And there you have it. The Dailymail secret to writing tabloid crap using mainstream media for their writer's prompt.
Now say I have family employed by Dailymail again, motherfucker.
Here comes the magic of Hollywood.
There Will be 300
The Chinese harlot from Beijing had fucked many men. CCP groomed, PLA ran through. But a hundred and four of them in one night? Ugh, a quest like this requires assistance from her friend, Meaghan, the Duchess of Skanks. Unlike Jinping, her friend has a distinctive vagina... or should I say, her purity brought back from extinction?
Meaghan had a biotech doctor perform vaginal rejuvenation surgery dubbed, 1950 Pussy. It was named that by Doctor Stewart after he surveyed ten thousand single women from Planned Parenthood offices. One of the questions, "Was your grandmother a whore like you?" An astounding 87% checked no. Ugh, obviously, women lies are as old as twat aroma. Back during the Roman times, for a good example, there were so many whores, they persuaded their men to conquer more kingdoms to fulfill their cock appetite.
Anyway, Meaghan's doctor reduced the unusual swelling with a permanent fix. Similar to silicone implantation but mixed with MyPillow technology. The doctor's ingenious threat absorber is designed to handle pounding, punching, slamming, and even tearing. He then tightened that bitch with suture elastic springs attached to an apparatus installed in one of her breasts. So when her titties are fondled, her pussy tightens to a Japanese anime character's. However, if the penis is uncomfortable, by pinching her nipple, the MyVagina device releases a flood of byproduct waste from her bowels for instant relief from the stress.
Serg Dominican, Jinping's public relations manager, arranged this event in Italy during the massive nightclub nationals that take place once every four years. He calls this a two-for-one deal. Intoxicated men—104 cocks without conditions or contracts? Easy-peasy. However, the tariffs are what worried the pimp the most.
After Trump enforced his new policy on global trading partners, nations like Italy used it against their citizens and blamed America. Take Russia, for instance. They jacked up the price for vodka from 430 rubles (approximately $5 US) to over 1,000, which is equivalent to $10+. Nevertheless, Russian citizens complained, "We don't even deal with America." Shaking my head. Greedy opportunists.
"I'm sorry, please, no more!" Cinnabon, Serg's girlfriend, cried in the hotel room as he lashed her with a belt because she was from America. He blamed her for the extra venue tariffs. Poor Gen Z girl, bless her heart. Those Ukrainian salespeople are the most dangerous to women. But when she met him during a protest for Ukraine in San Francisco, she had no idea what a monster he really was.
During a crocodile cry performance, Mr. Dominican sat on the concrete edge of a flower garden amidst protesters holding signs. He cried to Cinnabon, who stood beside him. Her hair was as beautifully blue as the sky, and her rainbow-colored short-shorts captured many middle-aged eyes. He said, "They kept beating me, bloody. Those fucking Russian Jew Nazis." She caressed his shoulder with a soft grasp of her hand. A man crying triggered her own emotions; she shed real tears. Meanwhile, he inconspicuously stared at her crotch while his hand blocked the view from wet, glittering eyes.
Serg had told her half-truths. Yes, Russians kidnapped him and beat the living shit out of him. But why they did this was justifiable. He was running dope to Moscow from Kiev. His product was China's deadly fentanyl. Well, one of his batches was so potent, it killed dozens of Russians. Contradictorily, six of them were North Korean diplomats. When Putin got word, he was furious. He hired a group of mercenaries to hunt that motherfucker down. And that they did. But Serg was a good con artist, a natural Ukrainian. After they captured him and beat the living fuck out of him, he convinced them that they had the wrong guy and said, "It was my neighbor... from America. Johnny." They believed him and went after the tourist. No one has seen him ever since.
Anywho, the White House Resort in Port Recanati was selected for this amazing championship of penises. But Mr. Dominican had a different approach for promoting such a blast of adult sport. Expecting no avail for some of his contestants, he invited peasants from the nearby towns to come cheer the 104. Using his clever business intellect, he promised lucky members from the audience will get a whack at the free pussy on display. However, that was a Ukrainian truth. Which means it was a lie. He had other intentions he called a surprise for the ladies.
Knowing the hundreds of iPhones that will be capturing this two-hour event, these women were going to be verified stars on X!
The Rise of the Mussolinis
Ah, yes, the day finally arrived for Jinping and her backup buddy, Meaghan. Or should I say, the ketchup girl? Ugh, it's that time of the month. I hope the lickers don't mind the taste of mercury. Uh-oh... Serg pushes Cinnabon next to the girls. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrows are wrinkled, and her arms are tightly crossed. She has extra makeup around her left eye. She turns her back to the long line of men. Oh, boy... this means we have three women about to take on the 104. "Make it 300!" Serg screamed to his crew. Wow. That was unexpected. I now understand what he meant by a surprise. Shaking my head. So instead of 104 men taking on three women, it will be 300! And seeing the worried expression on Cinnabon's face, perhaps, Meaghan should share her doctor's information now. She's gonna need it later.
Two Seconds to Midnight
The event's about to begin. Cinnabon hasn't once addressed the line of naked Italians. But damn! They all have scary penises. The fuck are they feeding these guys? Bull and bear cocks? Meagan shakes her head. She walks away. It looks like we're down to two—uh-oh. Jinping is now shaking her head. She, too, is leaving. Serg cusses them in Russian.
"No!" Jinping screamed back. "You enough pay not for that big many." The ladies leave the room. Cinnabon's eyes widen as she watches them leave. She finally discerns the naked men. Their lower halves snatch her attention. Her mouth gapes, and her eyes match the shock. By the look on her face, it appears Ukrainian men suffer the same tiny penis Russian syndrome. A six-foot Tony grins at her as he holds his penis. But she sees a baseball bat in his hand. She had no idea some penises could reach the chest line. Quickly, she looks back for the girls, hoping they changed their minds. Instead, she sees a door close at the end of the deep hallway. They had to walk pretty fast to get there so quickly. She looks back at the horse cocks, then to Serg. His reaction intensifies her anxiety—he's shaking a fist at her. Perhaps this is PTSD from that terrifying Russian ordeal. Cinnabon's eyes welled with tears as her shaky leg hesitated over the bed. A bushy-eyed gentleman helps by picking her up and placing her on the bed. The Italians surround her. A hairy feller spread her legs and lifted her shirt off her backside. Instantly, his head jerks as he fans a hand in front of his nose. Ugh, she's definitely a Gen Zoid foid. She looks around for Serg. She sees him now sliding an index finger across his neck. Perhaps he's checking to see if he needs another shave. Oh, hell no, I can't participate in this anymore. Unlike CNN, this is too tragic to write. The End.
And there you have it. The Dailymail secret to writing tabloid crap using mainstream media for their writer's prompt.
Now say I have family employed by Dailymail again, motherfucker.
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