SOUTHERN GOSSIP MIX

SOUTHERN GOSSIP MIX by bigspace

WHITE DEVIL MAFIAS

Its that time again...im still on the verge of quitting this bullshit, but hey..i guess i gotta get raped before i get laid.
brand new sexy as fuck, percussion and bass as fucked out mix. I dedicate this one to everyone in the world running shit. i really hope to be a part of the crew one day. Big up the Sif Ous, Il Duce, Adam, Carla, Cathy, Unathi, Athi, Rob, Yana, Dmtri...AND FUCK CAPE TOWN POLICE for kicking my shins the other day.

WHITE DEVIL MAFIAS download

http://soundcloud.com/bigspace

BURNING BRIDGES TOUR MIX

DUN KNOW..ONE EVERY WEEK, STAY TUNED.
DOWNLOAD FREE

semi automatic

Zoop zoop...yeah, if you dont know..now you know...my hardrive crashed..yeah..everything lost..almost..found this tune i made a few months back..house vibe..kinda deep but really funky as well. Enjoy. STAY TUNED, WILL BE ON A RE-UP SOON. GOT TOO MANY MIXES IN THE PIPELINE...THAT CAPE TOWN LIFE.
WILL BE PLAYING AT CLUB VOOM VOOM ON THE 4TH OF JUNE..AND THEN 5TH/15TH JUNE AT FICTION (to be confirmed)

CURES

BIG COCKS

love these guys...my homie and comic illustrator Alaistair Laird's rap crew, SIF OUS.
people from durban just have these amazing tendencies...TENDENCIES. ALTERNATIVE TENDENCIES. loving the leather jackets and bandanas.
So much raw talent coming out of durban. Check out one of his many comic strips here...its called FREE BEER

NO HOMO

HOMOSEXUALITY IS FOREIGN TO AFRICA...My friend Andy Davis sent this to me.

BURNING BRIDGES TOUR PART 1

N CAPE TOWN ON THE 2ND LEG OF THE BURNING BRIDGES TOUR AND ITS GOING LOVELY..BRAND NEW DESIGN BY NOLAN OSWALD DENNIS...AND A GLIMPSE OF WHATS HAPPENED AND A SIP OF THE FUTURE. SEA SALT, VINEGAR, DEPRAVITY, WHORES., LIQOUR. LETS GO!

MISSING JHB

ITS WHATEVS

NASTY

"this shit is going to blow up like josh groban you sucker"- Nick Swardson

MORE MUSIC

its feeling like a good year..i dont say that very ofetn. But i like this.
This one features old Henry Chinaski...its another one for my devil worshippers.
enjoy...
DOWNLOAD HERE

ROLLIN WITH THE DEVIL MIX

Yesterday was such a horrid day, despite the release of the new cuss monthly magazine which i wrote and i aslo released my new mix ROLLIN WITH THE DEVIL its a collection of satanic rap, texas/memphis 90s underground, some chopped and screwed and other nasty things. I dedicate this mix to Kyla, she influenced it hard anyway. SABF! SATANS ANGRY BLACK FIST..BIG SPOEK FOR LACING THAT COVER WORK.

DOWNLOAD MIX HERE

SANDTON AND SONS E.P. SINGLES

Whoa! so the last time i made a rap album was in 2004 with Spoek Mathambo..SPACEGHOST
And now i return with S&$(SANDTON AND SONS) which is myself and Johannesburg Legend Bhubessi. I prodeced all the songs, and the music can only be described as music for losers,stalkers, junkies and lovers. ITS GOING TO BE A GREAT YEAR, ITS ONLY FEBRUARY.

Here are the first two singles.
1. Aaliyah 666 drug love
2. Tom peep

DOWNLOAD THEM HERE FOR FREE!

BRRRRRAAAAP!

our year...

SWAN SONG: AFTER THE FIRE

For My Nigga

Thanks for letting me know that i wasnt wrong all those times when i was a little boy thinking to myself, "surely somewhere out there there has to be someone like me, i cant be the only one". So..."lets coast". We have nothing lose and so much to gain. killing, stealing and raping... we shall purge these lands and drive out all the scum, the cunts, the bastards and the fuckers who stand in our way. Youre like the smell of sand after it rains...you make me feel better than a cigarette after a bong and a line of coke.
You Sexy motherfucker.
666 THUG LOVE, THUG LIFE. PARTNERS IN CRIME. SABF. BFF FOR LIFE.

DIZASTER

WOW..this is a Lebanese battle rapper from California...funniest person ever. He likes to stomp his feet and shout...rap battles..jesus christ.

A LETTER TO PERCY ZVUMOYA

The Gastronomic Public Enema: Percy Zvomuya

By: Montle 26 year old Moorosi. (No gang affiliations…vigilante justice)


Usually I only pick up newspapers to wipe my ass when I run out of toilet paper, but it was a Sunday and I was visiting my parents, they have 4 ply toilet paper, which feels like wiping your ass with a silk shirt, while newspapers feel like wiping your ass with a lesbian’s moustache.

Newspapers? They’re the tumble weeds of the modern day west, they’re left in the rain to get stuck on our shoes, hobos sleep on them and use them as car washing rags and of course they wipe their asses with them too. I know someone who once wiped their ass with the Time magazine issue with Barack Obama just after he was sworn in as president.” you used the cover?” “It’s the first page, why not?”

“I have lost count of how many people I meet who identify themselves primarily as writers. Most of the time they are journalists, DJs, students, people who have at one point or the other sat down to post a blog, tweet, write down a rhyme…”

I remember reading this and breaking into “gastronomic” laughter, especially at the “write down a rhyme part”, it was slightly personally poignant and which is what made it funny in the first place. Suddenly a Sunday at my parent’s house didn’t seem that bad, but then I carried on reading, and I said to myself “Wow, Percy Zvomuya is one retarded wet back.”

In the latest issue of the white guilt ridden Mail and Guardian, one can find an opinion piece by Percy Zvomuya, a person whom I correctly assume (I’m allowed to do that) is of Shona descent and PROBABLY 75 years old in a wheel chair. "I'll beat an old man up,i'm not afariad"- Zach Galfianakis, The Hangover.

The measly corned meat and baby potatoes of his article is that young writers and editors in South Africa are not well read and need to read more Achebe and more Achebe. His examples are based on his tedious sojourns to poetry readings in Melville and at Real Men Talk. Wow. Let me say, Percy, your research skills are amazing, as the young kids say these days, “you’re a fucking legend”. You’re a grown man who still hangs out at varsities going to WH Auden’s readings and bitching about how the students don’t do their home work. I’m guessing you never actually went to school yourself, but that’s okay, because you know what they say “Bru, you don’t need to study to do journalism”. Percy says things like “gastronomic cliché” (do you mind if I call you Pussy instead of Percy?) funny guy, funny. I can see he used to be a playwright for a junta in a bush somewhere, dreaming of grandiose scenes of your plays being performed by Zakes Mokae. But now you are in the city, with nothing but a heart full of hate, a screen filled with the empty words of a mere critic and of course a mouth full of Chinua Achebe’s dick. Chinua Achebe is awesome, but I don’t think he’d like you very much, you’re quite retroactive, “anti-revolutionary”, “gay”, “what you have in your trousers is rubbish”.



And speaking of gay, which is not a problem but it would be great if you would just come out the closet and save yourself the trouble and heart ache, come on man, you’re a city slicker now, its even hip these days brother. Percy goes about how publishers and editors are to blame for the amount of bad writing by local aspiring writers, and he bases his example on Kopano Matlwa’s Spilt Milk. I haven’t read her book, and I doubt I ever will, but I do know that she’s very easy on the eyes, very easy on the eyes. Percy sat down and interviewed her, and he could do was sit there and think about literature when right in front of him sat a girl who on most normal occasions would probably caught dead with someone that looks like a child soldier, but today she was at the mercy of the journalist, Percy had her in his hands, but then he put her down to the ground gently as he silently called her filthy names. But then again Percy did go to Real Men Talk.

Percy also hates bad grammer, he’s going to love me and my editor. All these commas and full stops make us wet our shorts.

Throughout his article Percy constantly name drops. This dude is so funny, he’s like a 16 year old American tourist partying in Johannesburg “yeah, I fucking partied with Pauly D from Jersey Shore”. But what’s so funny about his name dropping is that he’s always saying that his friends are in the process of publishing books, what I want to know is when can we read your big book of critiques? It’s going to be a great read, I have faith in you man. Were black brother’s man, yeah. Woo fucking hoo! I hate to sound like Steve Hofmeyer or an axe yielding ignoramus baying for foreigner blood, but Percy, this is South Africa, everyone whose dick you suck so much aren’t South African writers.

“At times I feel that the best writing that has come out of Africa is from the older generation- the people born in the 1920s, 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, writers such as Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Mongo Beti, Mariam Ba, Ferdinand oyono, Dambudzo Marechera, Charles Mungoshi, Sembene Ousmane…” Nadine Gordimer and JM Coetzee are the other only South African writers Percy mentions. Dude, you’re just mad that Kopano has a book and you don’t, and I can understand that. Take a deep breath, close your eyes and give yourself a hug. What i'm trying to say in Basic English without using terms like “gastronomic” is that the basis of your argument is as good as trying to make love to an elephant with a rat’s penis. How the hell is reading any of these writers going to improve the level of writing? I don’t get it? I really don’t. Did ever occur to you that influence is a relative thing? Did it ever occur to you that there are plenty of black guys who like Joseph Conrad? Achebe must be barn dancing in his grave. I read Heart of darkness it three times. Once for school, twice for fun.

“Are there many young writers working at the moment who are worthy of these forebears? I have to tread carefully now as some of these writers are my friends. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Dinaw Mengestu, Hisham Matar, Jose Eduardo Agualusa and Sello k duiker aside, can we think of writers who are worthy of the average readers attention?”

Ha, ha, ha…or shall I say “lol” Percy just won’t stop with the jokes. First of all those writers names sound like they were taken from fusion food restaurant menu, or they could be carpenters, there’re names are so long I couldn’t even bother to copy paste them into Google…I once heard that Sello K Duiker likes to drink so I guess that’s okay. O.k., heres a list of writers who are worthy of the readers attention and they are also ummm my friends, Andy Davis, Rodger Young, Max Barashenkov, Brendon Edmonds, Robert Cockroft and Anneli Botes. (Just joking about Botes, I don’t know that bitch).

“Since men have learnt to shoot without missing the birds have learnt to fly without perching”- Chinua Achebe, so I guess since haters like you will always keep hating the younger one’s will always keep tweeting with our bad grammer, spelling and obscene abbreviations. Whether its our obsessions with Rihanna get her ass beat up or were eating sushi out of a white woman’s anus, nobody really knows why we do these things, and nobody ever will, and that’s the beauty of it. Rock and Roll bitch.

The Philanderer

A woman suspected of having an affair is driven out her home by a rather jovial mob.

Whistle and Cock Blowers: Just Do it!

Whistle and Cock Blowers: Just Do it!

By: Montle Moorosi



For some reason a lot of journalists think that they’re private detectives, Humphrey Bogart’s with champagne glass formats instead of shots of whiskey. They see themselves as these archaeologists or seekers of truth and even as martyrs or soldiers in their war on words, “were just playing our parts”. Connie Bogart Chung. Then when they retire from journalism the first they do is write a detective novel in some idyllic run down shack by the sea, or end up running the D.A. and Cape Town.

“Ja I’m writing an article about how air conditioners are racist because they don’t take the black man’s tropic equatorial genetic make up into consideration” -Journalist

The ANC hates journalists, and I can see why. Journalists have really bad taste, and I’m not talking about making up facts and stories like I do or putting pictures of dead naked white men on the cover of tabloid newspapers, journalists are in bad taste because they are lousy if not sloppy dressers and although they know a lot of big words like “contrived”, “personal hygiene” is the only word they have never stumbled across or “followed a lead into”. Most of them are actually way too smart to be doing journalism and often studied things like financial accounting and are just either trying to piss of their parents or suffering from the final stages of chronic bourgeois guilt. And of course some of them just did way too much Quaaludes in the 70’s and had orgies with IFP operatives in burnt train carriages and never really came back from it all. In school they learn to sleep on their stomach’s everyday and they have their left bottom ribs removed so they can suck their own cocks to the sound of the lecturer saying “FOURTH ESTATE”. And did I mention that they also want everything for free? Fuck it, I mean if you wanted to do a story about me because you found out my vagina was actually a singing piece of calamari I’d want at least R1000 you cheap motherfucker.


Anton Harber

If only Habermas, Foucault and all those other bores had realised what they were doing talking about public spheres and places of “rationale debate” what kind of evil cacophony they were composing with a crude ensemble made up of “objectivity” on the shoe string bass, “who, why, when, where” on the tin can drum and Deborah Patta on the vocals singing a maskandi version of Strange fruit. The media industry is something like the Tower of Babel. I remember when the Black Journalist forum was started and only black journalists were allowed to join. The uproar this incident caused made no sense to me at the time and it still doesn’t. White journalists were mad because they weren’t allowed to join the black journalist forum. Now first all why do journalists even need a forum? Isn’t it clear that what they need is Dettol and some life coaching seminars? The black journalists wanted a forum where they could discuss “black journalism” what that is I don’t know, but I’m assuming it means very long stories about jazz, hair products and sickle cell disease. What’s more retarded is that the white journalists were crying like bitches to be a part of this, writing about Zuma’s used condoms or the beauty of wicker furniture (let alone owning the media) wasn’t enough for them. It was like a child with Down syndrome crying and begging in the mall screaming at the mother “mama, I want elephantiasis”.

But you know what, it’s a democracy! Woo hoo! So I guess they wont be made into bars of soap anytime soon, nor will their heads be shrunken and be used as paper weights like God intended them to be. But what I still don’t understand is the ever present or “effervescent” hygiene problem this class of workforce are inflicted by, I mean, they aren’t construction workers or abortionists. I am told that Mail and Guardian journalists are some of the best paid in South Africa second to the Sunday independent, yet the founder and now current head of Journalism at Wits, Anton Harber smells like those tiny smelly balls you get at the back of your throat after a heavy night of drinking or a bout of hay fever. And his suits look like they were stolen from a morgue in Helsinki. A very rich man. Maybe sometimes eating sushi out of a woman’s ass is a way of preventing yourself from having delusions of grandeur that you’re an “everyday hero” as opposed to the not so sad reality that you’re a rich motherfucker with a small cock. Money can buy you a bigger cock and a bigger house. Like the 12 yr old Chinese kid making shoes said “Just Do It”.

TITS AND ASS

So...Im writing a book of short stories which is going to be illustrated by my friend Nolan oswald Dennis, the book (www.mafutaink.com)...heres some examples... its going to be called TITS AND ASS.

CHICKEN AND FISH

TWO GIANTS...

NINJA MAN AND SIZZLA..LOVE THIS STAGE SHOW

LITERARY RETURN

Oh how they shunned your dear fellow narrator...ive been chewed and spat out like a suppository in a German womans ass. But like all things which come from the mouth like words, i managed to survive. And so i sit before you once again, humbled, my tail never between my legs becasue my tail and ears were docked as a young man, i was supposed to be a blue blood.

and so...here's a little story wrote a while ago...not my best work, but not worst either.


Beverlea

A short story by: Montle Moorosi

My girlfriend is trying to kill me, well, I don’t even know if she’s my girlfriend really, she lives 2 minutes away from me with her parents in the home that they’re renting that is 4 houses away from the house that they’re renovating which they hope to move into once they pay off the bank, their daughters varsity and school tuitions, their heamorraghing extended family and of course my girlfriends R20 000, of which R7000 is mine. Last week the sheriff reposessed their treadmill and some furniture and I’m supposed to be sad even though my balls are swollen and look like dead foetouses from Avartar. I only see my “girlfriend” twice a week and this time together is usually spent chaperoning each other on our mundane errands like going for haircuts, paying parking tickets and never having sex or even making out for longer than 15 seconds.

“Maybe God taking away their wealth is his judgement on their frugal ways?’ I said to myself while suddenly feeling myself getting aroused as I page through a book about child birth with graphic black and photos from the seventies of really big wet and fat vaginas with what I assume are children’s heads popping out of them. The good and wise Lord struck down the tower of Babylon with his Zeus like cock and balls because the whores were not clean and they had no understanding of customer service and we cant forget about how our almighty Jesus Christ cursed the tax men out of his citadels because they forgot that pimps aren’t supposed to pay taxes or sleep with each others wives. And who am I to question the word and actions of the Lord? God is Good, God is great. My hand slips and my mind wanders to endless plains of wet grass, fresh mango tree’ sweating and mulatto women with soaking wet pussies and mouths as my four walls unfold in front of me and become vast white beaches and my hell becomes a rack of ribs served with a ice cold blow job from Mary Magdelene with a mouth full of cocaine and Cognac.

“Hello? Can I come in?” I place my bible on my lap and cross my legs.
“Yes, come in”
“did you check the newspapers today for jobs?”
“yes mother, there was nothing much, only something for the municipal which I’ve already applied for. But I also found a new interesting passage in Corinthians about striving for one’s dreams in the face of insurmountable terror, its very interesting, I’ll give it to you to read once I’m done re writing it onto my chart of inspiration so I can ponder its greatness and the Lords wisdom over and over again, PRAISE HIM, PRAISE HIM LORD!”
“Okay, just keep at it, job searching is a job itself you know, because the lord say’s ‘he who hath giveth and taketh the bread, is a man who hath suffered beyond a mule and a quarry of dolomite’.
“YES! YES MOTHER PREACH! EH HEH! PRAISE HIM! EH HEH! MY LORD ” I say to her as I stand up and sort of half jump whilst frantically searching for my hankerchief so I can either wipe my brow or swipe the sky in elation of God knows what.
“ok, well dinner is ready, your father made Curry. And go and get your clean clothes from the laundry room when you’re done eating, and if that wet back burnt or shrunk any of your shirts again you come and tell me and I’ll fire her quicker than she can say home affairs.”
“Of course mother, with Gods grace you can do it”

I get on my knees and pray for forgiveness for having distastefull thoughts about half breed women and our mother Mary. “Actions speak louder than thoughts and my actions are righteous but my mind wanders like the lost black sheep in the city of Sodom waiting to be raped by an Australian… but Lord please forgive my right hand, for it does not know what it does, they forced my hand Lord. They forced my hand !”.




Another pleasure dead is another dog wasted on the highways trying to get back home after chasing a bitch on heat. As the world gradually dwindles its support of my need for the small things which keep me happy like worshiping the Lord, playing my accordion and getting the odd blow job here and there I start to wonder if maybe the Lord confused my birth and accidentally cursed me to this life of mediocrity by swapping my life with Ray maccauly’s during his divine and intricate process of creation. Maybe I should buy a hamster? But they piss too much and that combined with old wood shavings wouldn’t make my mother too happy…I could get a corn snake and hide it in my sock drawer but then people would think my allegiance is to Lucifer, but then again maybe all these kaffirs would finally leave me alone and I can finally be a man respected for the fear he instills in men and the semen he injects in women. David Koresh, Barrack Obama, Eugene Terreblanche were all men of God with great followings, and maybe I too will have women at my feet and they will feed me grapes with their pussy lips and spit wine into my ass and I will shit it right back out into their mouths and watch them become intoxicated of my soul. I will be a real God and they just don’t make them like that anymore for some reason.

On most days when I’m not reading the bible or selling counterfeight cigarettes to cane cutter shop owners I like to listen to country and western music and take long walks in the park, I also like to take flu medication to numb the pain in my heart and of course the shame of masturbating up to 5 times a day on a regular basis to black porn which I think I kind of hate but I still watch anyway because I’m too broke to download my own porn so I’m just sort of stuck with what I steal from my Zimbabwean and Zambian friends who aren’t really my friends. Yes I really do have a girlfriend and Her name is Leandre, but everyone calls her Lea, but what everyone does not know is that Lee and her winging vagina are in cahoots with each other to ruin my life.

Leandre came back to South Africa 3 years ago after living in Germany and working first as a line worker in donut factory, she made the holes in the donuts in a assembly line full or polish and Armeninan women and then within a year she became a a music video director and she returned to South Africa with a splendid portfolio of films, a list of famous men she’d fucked she’d written at the back of a New Young Pony Club flyer and a German accent, yes she picked up a German accent. I actually always admired her for that, even though she once cheated on me with a homeless man who dressed up in what they call “street wear” and had a tattoo’s of Chinese shit on him. But I always admired a German accent on a Congolese woman.




We once to hartebeespoort for a weekend, it was here that I first heard her and her vagina conversing together while she thought I was passed out from drinking too much wine and eating too much wild game meat. In my short spell of sleep I dreamnt I took Lauren Beukes out for a veggie burger at Royale and then i took her to the offices of One small Seed and fucked her on the floor with everyone watching and cheering on as she screamt “ Don’t cum inside of me !”.
“eehhhh…I’m sick, I cant do it my love” I thought that lord of the rings was playing on the television, but it was clearly two voices coming from the bathroom.
“But were on holiday, I want to please him”
“tell him were bleeding my precious, and tell him that were feeling gassy from the game meat…stick your fingers deeper, it wont come out if you keep pussy footing like that”
“I wish he would just rape me and get it done with”
“But my precious, were bleeding, rapists don’t go for bleeders.”
Then a drum started playing alongside some African chants that went something like “ jhoo bhoo bhoo eh!”, I check the television to see whether Lady Smith Black Mambazo are on Vh1 but its still an episode of Mythbusters where theyre trying to prove whether “pulling out” can actually prevent pregnancy or not.


“Who were you talking to on the phone last night?” I asked her the next morning in a brain thumping haze of a hangover, “nobody, you’re insane, you drink too much”. I was vomiting.
“So who was playing the bongos then? I didn’t see anyone wearing sandals around here”
“You’re stupid”.
“How’s about a hand job then?”

Beverly has been missing for 5 months, she disappeared right after she sent a flurry of crude messages to her best friends Lee and housmate Frederick, a Congolosese sculptor who takes too much anti-depressents and generally has a great way of “killing the vibe” with his long sullen face, musty under arms and inexplicable mop of hair on his head. Bev is a sexy mulatto with a high IQ and a wallet to match, she’s the type of woman whom you’d eat a three course meal in front of while she takes a big old smelly beer shit, wipe her ass for her and then bite off her dingle berries with your teeth as a digestif.

Lee and Bev had become friends under some strange incestual circumstances which are common place when livivng in cape Town. Apart from their love for Keith Harring, Mint Granita’s, white wine and Johnny Depp’s performance in Whats eating Gilbert grape? lee and bev didn’t have much in common except that they had slept with the same famous men and somewhere along the line they were like “fuck it, let dead dogs die with their jizz and lets be friends”, but then somewhere along the line Bev eventually got fed up with Lee and her vagina always talking foul about her and never really being around to console her vagina when it started talking crazy things to her and she didn’t know anything about such a tiresome situation. Beverly drove an old grey Ferrari from the 80’s, she never refurbished it, everyone wanted to fuck her or love her, even the fags did, and then she sent some text messages along the lines of “ eat my poo and die” to everyone in her phone book except for me and then she died and reappeared five months later. God is great, his power is divine, Lazarus, Jesus and Beverley.
Some people told me she commited suicide, and some said she got aids and went to Bali to go die silently by herself. I asked around the for the real facts and whether she’d left a will or not, but I heard nothing, and now here she was, standing right in front of me at some art fag party where I’m trying to sell some heavily cut mixture of kat, Omo and meth and hand out flyers for my church group next week.
Her vagina has clearly stopped talking her to because her yellow caramel Malay skin was glowing like she’d just had triplets or was fucked by a child soldier with a mans name as she stood there in a bubble dress that was slightly hiked up and showing off her new summer body and mind that just said “Like the burning bush in the dessert, I appear here only for you to show you the way of the Lord”.

“Hello Beverly, I see youre still alive and well…really well”
“Are you bummed?” She say’s with a flick of sass in her French manicured finger.
“No, I actually kind of missed you, I poured out some liquour for you”
“Were you hoping I was going to drown in heaven?” That’s why I always liked her, her love for death is equal to mine, she wants to go out in a hail of bullets with her parents watching while I suck on her clitoris and a high school marching band plays Pomp and Circumstance.
“Don’t be like that, you know I’ve always respected your disposition, we were supposed to be like Julius Ceasar and Cleopatra you and I.”
“You know I like you” she say’s with her legs slightly parted and her hands on her hips, her eyes starring intensely into mine while I shy away genuinely smitten and trying to hide the bulge exposed through my skinny jeans.
I then get a text message from Lee that reads “ I love you babe, good nite,x.o.” Does that mean she’s drinking Hennesey?
“Well Beverley, I heard you’re going to London, where would that leave me if you like me so much then?” I don’t know where I learnt to talk like this, usually I start off by telling women their turds smell great before I even get to eat their turds if I’m lucky.
“ you can marry me and come with me, we can travel all over Europe on a train and I’ll bring in the bacon while you do whatever it is you do”. I don’t know if that was an insult but I was still thoroughly aroused.
“Visas are just really hard” she said after some time.
“That’s Gods will baby, that’s God’s will…and with God’s grace…we can do it”.
“How’s Lea doing?”
“Lea’s dead baby, Lea’s dead”.

I never did get to go to London, my Visa application was rejected, but I did get to have sex with Beverly that night. Even though Beverly was cold and stiff and her neck smelt of formaldehyde she was still warm and accommodating even though she had sand in all her nine holes. I think we came at the same time but I’m not sure because I had to rush home not only because I heard the grounds keeper approaching but I also forgot to PVR Top Chef for my sister while she’s out of town on church business. Praise Jesus it feels good to get laid.