Fantasies, Schmantasies

Some freakish people have been landing at my lovely
Mansion, after searching for some freakish things. The
time has come to put away the freakish things, people!
No good can come of this.

It's almost enough to hurt my tender feelings. My Mansion
is not filled with black mold, staph infections and lice. So
what if HH spotted a rat as big as a shampoo bottle? It
was over by the barn, I tell you!

I do not have wench boob, or moldy pototatoes, or the
recipe for fentanyl. I do not host unsightly pr0n with
pregnant women. I am not a creepy hillbilly who wears
saggy britches and sissy stirrup pants, and lives in
booger county, missouri.

I do not spend my days human toilet training a lesbian
gymnast, telling people with rotten buttholes, "its called
speed stick its not expensive." Nor is there any truth to
the rumor that i accidentally took an extra lisinopril, had
to go to the hillbilly hospital where the doctor left a junior
mint inside after surgery, and found it necessary to hide
arm scars for blood test.

I most certainly have never said to my best buddy, "get
off the table mable, those two dollars are for beer lyrics."
Never.

And I assure you that hm fantasies DO NOT include
being diapered and spanked at church, being chased by a
red suv, a fat man in a little coat, or anthing connected
with butt biting, and especially nothing about butt boogers.

Honest.