I pulled my underwear and pants down to take a shit this morning. My shit was green from a bottle of Shiraz the night previous, but that's normal. I looked down to see something truly fascinating. On the stretchy rim of my grey boxers was one word: USAMASTER.
Master of the USA. I suddenly thought to myself, where are models begging to felate me? Where are the scores of fans throwing money, meat and chocolate covered strawberries? Where ya all at?
Then it occured to me, no one knows, because I wear my underwear underneath my jeans. A mistake that won't be happening again.
I had another thought as I sat upon my porcelin throne. How else can I let people know who their master is, besides wearing underwear over my jeans? Fuck yeah, the internet. So here it is.
If you're a woman, please, come felate me. If you're a man, you need to give me money.
Or felate me.
That is all, I'm waiting.
Master of the USA. I suddenly thought to myself, where are models begging to felate me? Where are the scores of fans throwing money, meat and chocolate covered strawberries? Where ya all at?
Then it occured to me, no one knows, because I wear my underwear underneath my jeans. A mistake that won't be happening again.
I had another thought as I sat upon my porcelin throne. How else can I let people know who their master is, besides wearing underwear over my jeans? Fuck yeah, the internet. So here it is.
If you're a woman, please, come felate me. If you're a man, you need to give me money.
Or felate me.
That is all, I'm waiting.