Being pansexual doesn't mean having sex with

Being pansexual doesn't mean having sex with pots & pans. I learnt this the hard way and my ban from the Kitchen Dept in Harrods is beyond harsh. The government of Qatar will recei

ve my request to have sex with it soon. Oman sent me a polite rejection. I had a short fling with Cambodia, but it's a constitutional monarchy. Anyway, I discovered I was pansexual

meaning that any kind of pan really made me hot. Cast Iron Skillets really got me cooking. I left my girlfriend for a sauce pan once. Pots, no way. Any pot turns me off.

I told her to fork off. She's potty. Casoletta on the other hand is a different kettle of fish. She's a dish I'd bake cookies with. I haven't found the recipe to garnish her danish

but I'll keep trying different flavors of seduction until her resolve melts in my mouth. I've already banged all the pots & pans so it's time to settle down with Casoletta to make

children's nightmares. There come the hinds now, and the fires of hell are nearby. The Guileless One was full of guile and now his neck wears a smile. Somebody's name is written on

His file folder but he claims he doesn't know the name. He has a list of all the names, except this one. His notebook is filled with handwritten research done at night in a library

in Pittsburgh that is devoted to compiling every name ever thought of in all the world. Even the kooky ones. But none of these rang a bell to him. He had just about given up when

he found exactly what he was looking for. The name stared back to him from the store across the narrow street. "Olivander's wands," read a creaky sign. He had found it.