Cometh the hour, drinketh the tea. Ceylon succours! Brist to thy mill, my decimo modulo. Undergunned and outperforated, nudibranches sprout multifariously from the Great Orme's latitudinous valve. Press thy lips to the slug's salty slime, scrotfurtler, and dance visceral fandangos where the moominfish fair grint.
Crank my ever-yodeling gramophone and slurp forth the delightful drips of:
The great overhanging beermat of [email protected] stands ever-vigilant to receive and process your unfortunate wailings. Forgive them, for they know not what they don't.
Twenty minutes. No refunds.
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