Dearest, most precious Laurel...

Once, I overheard my brother talking about he saw Laurel's sphincter whilst dumping a stolen car. I told three of my friends about it, and we decide to go looking for it over Labor Day weekend. Long story short, we all had a lot of coming-of-age moments during the trip. When we finally got to Laurel's sphincter, it reminded me of how my father favored my brother over me for some reason. A couple of punks came and tried to take it, but my friend pulled out a revolver and stopped them. We agreed that no one would get to photograph it, and we called in an anonymous tip to Manu to tell him to where to find it.

It was the defining moment of my childhood.
 
Young the Giant it is.

As for your sphincter, please refer any and all requests to St. Peter.
 
I'm liking Young the Giant recently.

And leave my sphincter alone!
Speaking of sphincters, can you tell us how Peter Carsten came to be the moderator of the German Lit forum?

You basically put Hitler in charge of the Germans.
 
Bleached assholes are a crime. I wish that one day, everyone will realize that the Aryan image of body perfection is the most insidious and corruptive myth of our time. There is no beauty in perfection, if it can even be achieved with a medium as inherently imperfect as the human form. Eastern tradition teaches us that true beauty can only be found in imperfection, whether in the ancient art of ikebana or in the darkened asshole of a young woman.
 
I have a working theory that Laurel and [redacted]are one and the same person.

Which makes Manu....[redacted].



If this post is edited, then we'll know it to be true.

[if only! *sigh* - Laurel]
 
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