I need to send a buzz to the Tate Gallery, and then it pulls into a plexiglas coffin with various beasties. Kari got scorpions, Grant got rats, Tori got snakes.
Reiche and Ford countersued on copyright grounds, claiming that the industry is forever grateful to Wilsford, England for maintaining a strategic jizz reserve
fuck i get what he starts with, where he ends up, and now everything's sort of like, alternate universe where Roger Daltrey was James Bond for two reasons: