Quarentine, Day 11: Dear Abigail,
I have been inside this cabin for far too long. Mother is desperate for a whiskey. I slapped her and said "Quarentine". Things are dire.
Sincerely, Uri.
P.S. send Whiskey
Quarentine day 9: Dear Abigail, the parlor is no longer open and Mother has locked herself in her bedroom. I've decided to stand outside and watch the horses prance around in the fields as I sip on what remains of my Steel Reserve. Sincerely, Uri.
P.S. send toilet paper
Global warming would never compare to the importance of a strong, hard penis penetrating a bored housewife as she sits on a folding ladder while semen is being pumped directly into her vagina as her husband sits at a desk contemplating suicide.
For the past month Uri has been on horseback riding through the Kentucky countryside searching for underage high school cheerleaders to caress as his sweaty hairy chest glistened under the Rebel Sun.
Big breasted pale white bitch strutting on the western concrete under the sky that God provided. Let your fish flaps spread open its warmth and suffocate us until we are no more.