He was told not to read the book, but why

He was told not to read the book, but why the hell did the old man sell it to him, if not to read? When the demons started crawling from the hole in the floor, he began to wonder

who wrote the book love. He screamed, "Tell me, tell me, tell me who!?!" The demons dragged him to Barnes and Noble. The pushed his face into the Sex & Relationships section. Books

toppled from the shelves as he crumpled onto the floor. A particularly thin book on locating the G-spot hit him squarely on the head. He blinked and picked up the book. "G spot?"

That's it! The G spot! He didn't need to read the book to know the answer. He stood up, replacing the book on the shelf. Bring it on. The last time he'd been layed out like that

was back in the days when Oprah Winfrey used to have a scarf attached to her left shoulder for to apparent reason. Then again, back then, girls used to have crispy bangs, too and

were able to form coherent sentences without rambling for too long and becoming incomprehensible and annoying, and French.

I only speak English and Ethiopian, and i'm not really sure about the second one anyway, which is probably why French poetry is not really my cup of tea. The French Language lacks

Russian while splitting infinitives or pubic hairs with your tongue just adds up to a grammatical orgy of genetival inflection. Often after the first few words of Finnish, women

will make quick getaways, as underneath the quiet, tough exterior of the Finnish male lies a dramatic and emotional soul contemplating the über-pain of existence.