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He was going to kill two birds with one Stone.

  • He was going to kill two birds with one Stone. Sharon Stone.
  • And Joss Stone. Oliver felt there were too many Stones in Hollywood so he wrote a dangerous movie script for the two as Betty Rubble & Wilma Flintstone. Sharon following her basic
  • programming courses to completion was a joke. She had the attention span of a walnut. Oliver smoked some keif he had picked up in Tangiers and contemplated means of offing the
  • one-eyed trouser snake that he'd targeted for separation with extreme prejudice. Maybe there was something stronger in that keif Oliver'd acquired, or maybe he'd always just wanted
  • to have it out with a tentacle posing as tubesteak
  • fighting through the turmoil of self-doubt and extended metaphors as the last bacon bit in a vat of green beans only to find
  • that the person who was eating it had a pork fetish and must fish it out with his fingers, even though it was so hot it blistered, and he just couldn't help himself.
  • Too cool his hand off he violently thrust it into his anus. "Grrrrrrr..." he purred as he licked his fingers clean, one by one, "Just one more, yes?".
  • He then casually shoved the same hand into a jar of olives, fished around until he found one, and shoved it into the mouth of a random passerby. The man barely had time to look
  • at the label of the jar before his head exploded. A rare but fatal olive allergy -what were the chances?! Luckily his insurance fully covered the clean-up costs. And therapy costs.

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