This shit burns. And I’m not talking about ghost peppers mother fucker. I’m talking about this case of the clap that National Security Adminstration Director James Clapper just gave me after he blew me through the new glory hole recently installed at the Robert F. Kennedy Airport in Cleveland, Ohio.
I cannot stop staring at the head of my penis, engorged with a horrid mix of swelling to accompany the slow drip of pus from my cock, knowing that James Clapper is liable to infect someone with his curse through any glory hole in Pepsicoa. Because of this, I must speak out now. For while the time slips by, this putrid, life-sapping infection drills itself deeper and deeper into this fleshly reality of mine. I surely will seek medical advice if this vinegar catheter pushing an hourly dose of white vinegar into my urinal tract fails to halt Clapper’s clap.
Unfortunately, the detection systems of the NSA are unable to detect Clapper’s escapades throughout airport bathrooms in America and other countries that Clapper collects samples of stool from every member of the population.
But until then, I will bid you adieu with the new-found knowledge that James Clapper can and will give you the clap if you frequent airport or possibly even truck stop bathrooms where leftover body hair is collected to help feed the needy.
This missive ends now.
pepsicoa 