I entered the teleporta-potty, not knowing.

I entered the teleporta-potty, not knowing.

Not knowing that it had a malfunction. This teleporta-potty didn't teleport poo like it was supposed to. It telported me the pooer. Teleporta-potty corp. had been illegally dumping

babyturds for several months before the Teleporta-potty corp CEO was able to identify the problem, and the clean-up pooperation lasted for almost a whole year and

many mothers were distressed, the whole of the UK had turned into the worlds biggest poopathron.

But that's not what I want to say about mothers from the UK. I have, in my time, "known" a few British mothers, and let me tell you something striking. They all, I mean, ALL

they take on these shaken' shags. No normal man would do for the multi-orgasmic Queen Mother and Susan Boyle. No they needed men like 007 and Favio for their tristes

And they were simulsimultaneously modelling their cars in front of the audience. Androids and folded story ideas were in the front row, gurgling with delight at the sky in front.

Slurping with pleasure at the gentleness of mysterious fluff …down...over the mountainous mounds of jiggling embrace...DOWN...to the cavernous cottage masked in thatch haste…found!

The next morning, after I awoke, tired from the previous night's climax--my skin still moist and tacky--I looked at the empty spot on the bed next to me. I don't recall her name.