I had a rough day today. I went out of the house with my pants on my head and then I shit my pants, or lack of pants, while on line at the bank. There were questions from security but I gave them the slip, but then did the shatting of the pantlessness which occurred. At that point, running down the street became as problematic as stuffing a van full of tender age children and taking them to a factory where you force them to tie you up and teach you about modern things. I had so much of that warm, soupy turdmeal running down my plump, heavily scarred thighs (I've done a lot of unnecessary surgery on myself over the years) that I cried for the first time since having a hairless, fully grown brown bear inserted completely up my rectum when I was five years old. My father was a scientist of questionable scientific training who worked for the German government during the 1930s and 1940s. He was not my birth father. He did not give birth to me. I was ripped from the arms of my mother in the hills of Slovakia before my parents were shot and I spent years having live animals inserted and sealed inside of my body and being mocked at government functions. I remain loyal to him because of the Reich version of Stockholm Syndrome (it is a less delicate syndrome, i.e. more intense).
My name is Behr. If we haven't met then please give me your wife or daughter's phone number.
I have to go get cleaned up. I've gotten thick, rancid turdsubstance all over the keyboard and screen of this monitor and it is getting to where I can no longer see the words on the page.
Does anyone have any masculine napkins? (I am masculine).
This sort of thing has happened a lot when I have stayed at the homes of other noders (people from the node). I lose control because of the animal-based damage to my system and creamy turdcustard gets all over everything in their home. I try to use all of their towels so as to evenly distrubute the tragically hip turd oatmeal that comes out of me like very pourly mixed concrete and sticks to things with the same level of authority.
This summer I am going on tour throughout the country to promote my new book, Berhardt Goats Tips for Success in Business which some Random House just cut me a check for sixteen million (my average advance on my books) on and I haven't even thought about writing it yet. I could give you tips for being a successful writer but I am much more talented than you are and there is something wrong with your hair. It makes me sad just to look at you, but I do need to stay at some noder homes during my tour. All that I ask is (a) I be given my own private room with kitchen, (b) No questioning of what I am doing is allowed, (c) I can choose any sixteen items in your home to take when I leave, including people. Also, I don't like toilet paper. I like fresh, brand new towels for ass wiping, especially when I've have a rich, thick, meaty movement down my thighs. Honestly, friend, I would use the brook behind the house or climb into your tub and spent the rest of the day there but I don't like the way cold water feels on my genitals, especially my three-ball scrotal assembly (with mechanical inferences).
A romantic relationship is also something I'm still striving towards. If you are a lady, let me ride you for a few months really hard and then decide if you want to stay with me. This offer as well as the houseguest offer are on the table, but I ask that you write me a check for expenses, especially if you live far away from Utica which is where I am hiding out from the brave men and women of today's modern FBI currently (for crimes).
Contact me if you want me to stay with you for a few months this year.
My friends.