Porch Pervert

Bake bird, me Alaska.
Uber-schtilten mive before the plains, be doors again, over by the horror.

"Store #1 was here," he looks calmly to the pony, tied up as 'antsy', "now I see the Dove bar wrapper here. What's this got to do with all this source citation?"

(Beef here)

Pony looks off on bonders. Scoffs. A dull sussurant wheezing overcome by the gynaclergy.