https://soundcloud.com/triston-for-dummies/pool-house
What’s the muthafuckin’ deal consumers? Ah yes, Igh’ve replaced my usual sexually explicit (and derogatory) adjectives for all of you stumble bums who tune in for my weekly, sophisticated-ratchet musings because in this installment, Igh will be addressing how the glube tube (namely advertising) finger fucks the sense out of our brains until we are seaux aroused by the thirst for material goods, we’ll spend the money we were supposed to give that knock-kneed stripper who let us buy the Golden Ticket in the champagne room, but got pregnant off of the pre-cum from “just the tip” or our PSO bill money on bundles of Brazilian even though you haven’t permed your kitchen in well-over the life cycle of an earthworm. Seaux grab your snacks, your thinking caps, and a thesaurus for you basic math heauxz and let’s get the shit-talking poppin’!!!!!
We are living in a social media/reality television world in which every seemingly intelligent fuck feigns for the best of every fucking thing with the unhinged sense of entitlement that used to be the sole reserve of insane, Roman Emperors or members of the Billionaire Boys Club or the Royal Family or trust fund babies and ditsy, overly-bleached blonde socialites who’ve never heard of Dollar Tree. The more the consumer wants, the less satisfied the consumer feels. Happiness seems perpetually out of reach. Why? It exists at the cash register, but once the price tags are ripped off, the temporary elation is drained from our souls leaving a longing for another fix like a crack head who ran out of orange slices and is $3.18 short of being able to buy his next rock seaux she fishes a Chapstick out of the trash can at the rental office of her low-income apartment’s rental office and goes on a hunt for dicks with little self-respect to wrap her cotton-mouthed lips around. Maybe somewhere along the way the consumer started believing what the little, electronic master-deceiver (that being the television) was feeding him or her. The consumer is taught, neaux trained, to live the dream and at some point begins to believe that he or she is actually living the dream, but in actuality the dream is just that, a dream. And the dream isn’t seaux much just American anymore. Oh neaux, the dream has gone viral and now the consumer is not only forced to believe that Rolaids literally spells relief, but alseaux that unless he’s walking around with a spotted genet in a diamond-encrusted collar on Louis Vuitton leash, he needs to lie back down and revisit his dream for some tweaking. Real life doesn’t work in the way in which it is portrayed on television. Bitches ain’t out here buying $18 drinks and throwing them in the faces of other bitches who are draped in head to toe Givenchy. Well, maybe in LA, New York, or Miami somewhere….Las Vegas, but certainly not at Scooter’s or the Rockin’ R or Ice Event Center. And very few are able to geaux to the bank and fill up a Prada backpack with bills just to geaux to the strip club and make it rain on a bunch of bastards who’ll be stocking tampons at Walmart or taking massage therapy classes at Platt College the next morning. Real life’s an often fruitless quest for intimate and patches of happiness, interspersed with toil, police brutality, divorce, DUIs, bad haircuts, recycled weave, over-priced box sets, child support, stomach bugs, feet looking like hermit crabs in too little open-toed shoes, repetition, cornrows that don’t quite reach the base of the neck, gas bills, sexual dysfunction, EBT cards, Justin Bieber overload, and WASPs. This is real life: waste ground, bums in unmarred Sketchers eating tender meat left on Church’s Chicken bones from the dumpster behind Stripes, which often turns out to be disappointing scraps of bad breath, greasy gristle because this is real life and more often than not, real life sucks, but doesn’t swallow. That’s why it’s such a crushing mystery that half the time your tv is eager to stick happy-go-lucky dimwits in your face. Muthafuckas who live in a world that does not involve bills and car problems and socks with holes in the pinky toe and rancid pussy and spinners that attach like Lee Press-on Nails on a 1991 Chevy Caprice Classic.
Our “thirsty for every glimmering morsel of consumerism flashed before our coked-out eyes” attitude is constantly being shaped and molded, neaux fuck that we are literally being brainwashed just by living in the world of aspirational television; aspirational being a wildly popular term among those who make a living by taking up residence in TV land and broadcasting their Keeping Up with the Kardashians lives into our Roseanne Barr realities. It’s a fuzzy world in which the majority of people are thin, Caucasian, attractive by European standards, witty, sassy, cool, fun-loving, thoughtful, carefree, and happy, and enjoy a life of cocktails, Black cards, STD-free sex, backstage passes, paid appearances, and shoes to fill every void in their low SAT score, but Igh attend an Ivy-league university personalities. The basic theory behind aspirational programming is that if you watch beautiful, fun-loving people on the TV who have every garment from the runways of New York Fashion week and every gadget Apple makes, you’ll somehow be convinced that these animated mannequins are your friends, whereas in reality, of course, you’re essentially just an average Joe, staring at them from the other side of a room that probably has been shit in by an army of pets over the years of existence or at the very least has been vomited in by some drunken teenager or alcoholic parent. It seems every other show on TV these days has some sort of aspirational undercurrent, but where did it all begin?
Like everything evil that exists within what we know of the universe, it came from an unyielding obsession with the sweet nectar of pussy. Igh’m just fuckin’ with y’all. It legitimately arose from the world of advertising. If you geaux back and trace the evolution of advertising, you’ll clearly see that many early advertisements were actually functional things; the shit people actually needed. They were essentially just a step up from televised postcards with motion here and there; like little more than animated, flickering billboards designed to install the practical virtues of the products they were pushing. Basically on some you have carpet. Carpets accumulate all kinds of dust and debris and shit. Vacuums were designed to pick dust and debris and shit out of carpets. We sell vacuums. Buy one from us. Here’s how much they cost. Forced/fake smile. #Vitameatavegimin. But as consumers began to realize that most products were basically the same (because it’s all just stuff, isn’t it?), advertisers began attaching extravagant fantasies to the products they were hawking and this fantasy was an opulent, decadent vision that could be all yours for the price of something that tasted like a refrigerated human organ inside chocolate or that smelled like the combination of a fart and the used dental floss from a bad case of hangover morning breath after a night of violent vomiting filtered through a dryer sheet.
Blame it on those ol musty, neaux deodorant wearing, hairy pussin poppin’, Vienna sausage dick slangin, LSD trippin’, flower sniffing hippies. As people yanked the sticks of the 1950’s out of their asses and the sixties swung into view, cool became the primary obsession of every muthafucka who could still have lucid thought….be that at the hands of intoxicants or the lack thereof. The lucky, cool ad facades lived in a world of glamor, travel, foxy Berka babes, and nicely coiffed hair. Seaux Igh guess you really can’t blame the hippies. Igh mean body odor, bad breath, unprotected sex, and drug abuse were a hard sell back then. And of course instead of hair goop. Hair goop isn’t bourgeois enough. They were actually enticing you with a membership card into the upper echelons of the elite; buy this drivel and you too can be one of the fortunate, happy ones with good insurance and plastic surgery that rarely gets botched and good credit; complete with an enviably cool lifestyle. Then the seventies arrived and everything outdoors was seaux fucking atrocious that drug abuse seemed like a fucking holiday, but luckily the two or three members of the population who weren’t outside rioting or being bombed or trampled on or spit on or sprayed with water hoses or stomped out or handcuffed to one another were indoors being distracted by eerie images of market, aspirational living. Yeah, outside looked like Old Town in Sin City and the shit they were showing on television ads looked like Leave It to Beaver or some shit. As the eighties approached, the advertisers’ desirable vision of the highlife stuck and they knew that consumers were chomping at the bit to suckle the teet of that lifestyle. Conspicuous consumption was being celebrated for its own sake and perhaps the consumer could get his or her hand on luxury every day if they said fuck being responsible with our hard-earned income. Fuck saving. Let’s blow this shit on cocaine, clothes that looked like they were designed by a collaboration between the Parker Bros., Mattel, and Geoffrey from Toys-R-Us, and bar tabs. However, somewhere along the way, the glitz and aspitational values of commercials leaked out and started infecting popular dramas. That’s right! Television shows just became commercials with plot twists.
Then the good ol 80’s rolled around and everybody was addicted to shoulder pads, patent leather, jeri curls, and hairspray. But aside from that, opulence obsession skyrocketed and the talking heads of television production pounced on their prey. This first became apparent as shows like Dallas brought the billionaire lifestyle to the salivating masses. Catch that? FUCKING BILLIONAIRES!!!! They said fuck these thousandaires and millionaires. Let’s get these nigga’s noses wide open for an entirely new bracket of wealth they probably have never even conceived and sure as fuck haven’t been aspiring toward. Dallas was a sumptuous and conspicuously decadent nighttime soap opera detailing the existence of a family of impossibly wealthy, American oil tycoons living empty lives. The show is known for its portrayal of wealth, sex, intrigue, and power struggles. Although it was clear that money wasn’t bringing the Ewings happiness, it was impossible not to envy them. Igh mean who the fuck gives a shit about happiness when you can buy any and everything you could ever imagine…..including people if it tickled your fancy? Dallas was a massive hit, which chimed with the money worshipping eighties, which is why other markets, including the BBC, tried making their own version. Howard’s Way, in which the sun-kissed, country, oil barrons were replaced by the ditsy, cerebrally-ramshackled yacht set, starred a flock of freeloading curmudgeons, gousers, and killjoys racing to acquire swag-wagons and excessively unhinged drinking problems; the winner being the one who hoarded the biggest treasure trove of red things. Getting ahead involved endlessly barking business-flavored badinage at one another. In short, by virtue of being transmitted during the mid to late 1980s alone, Howards’ Way could be described as almost a textbook time capsule of Thatcherite values (Thatcherism describes the conviction politics, economic, social policy, and political style of the British Conservative politician Margaret Thatcher, who was leader of her party from 1975 to 1990. It has also been used to describe the beliefs of the British government while Thatcher was Prime Minister between May 1979 and November 1990, and beyond into the governments of John Major and Tony Blair. An exponent or supporter of Thatcherism is regarded as a Thatcherite), in its portrayal of the years of boom and bust, of individual aspiration and enterprise, and the conspicuous consumption of wealth and liquor and pussy. Shows like these helped shift our perception of tycoons and the importance of money itself.
Game shows are a sure-fire indicator of how the consumer’s relationship with money has changed. These shows prove time and time again that people will geaux to any lengths for money (like licking honey off the gooch of a morbidly obese person who hasn’t been sponge bathed in over a month) and thereby solidifies the notion that the love of money is indeed the root of all evil for a great many fucktards out there. Not too long ago, everyone on game shows was friendly and bubbly and precocious and nice and the shows themselves largely revolved around the simple pleasure of participating in a glorified board game on a gaudy set with some corny, smiling bastard with questionable teeth and hair seaux stiff it could be sponsored be Lego. Once the game was done, the contestants were delighted to accept mere products as prizes. Look Cindy!! Igh won a brand new toaster…complete with a loaf of bread…face ass. And the whole shabang ended on an upbeat note as the fun gang of beaming neighbors waved goodbye to the cadavers back home spitting snuff in an old Green Giant can whilst scratching their netherbits and coughing up pieces of their souls from tobacceaux abuse. But now, cold-steel menace and raw money is the order of the day and the game is a dog-eat-dog accumulation festival culminating in a bitter dispute. See these muthafuckas today are out for blood and if you stand in the way of that paycheck, you just might end up disfigured or maligned.
Another augury of change is the shifting portrayal of wealthy people on the screen. Remember when we all thought rich people were only rich because they lied, cheated, and took advantage of others. Well, many of them still do, but most of us now see this as “The American Way….or possibly “The Global Way”. It is the norm, the status quo, what’s necessary to get where you want to be in life. Right? Back in 1985, while their lifestyles looked glamorous, fictional billionaires like J.R. Ewing were clearly the bad guys. Twenty years later, actual, living, breathing big tycoons were being celebrated and the more explicitly ruthless they were, the more brightly their stars shone…and the more bitches wanted to suckle their semen and niggas wanted to stand in their shoes and fart on a balcony that stands above the rest of the world or some shit.
Money is terrible. It has totally taken the piss out of the concept of humanity. Were there neaux concept of money, there would be neaux concept of rich and poor. It’s just a depressing way of boiling our wonderful world down to a set of gray and green, soulless, bodiless little numbers and using them to screw each other over aggressively and without lube…or spit. Once you’re sitting on enough racks to be able to afford someone to both wipe your ass and subsequently wash your hands after you’ve shit, TV encourages you to invest it all in a box made of bricks. Rich people used to stop us from noticing how rich they were by tinting their car windows or hiding behind high walls where you couldn’t rob or kill them. But now TV allows you a peak behind the gate and frankly the fuck shit is acutely distressing.
MTV Cribs was a highly successful variant of Through the Keyhole (A British comedy panel game show created in which some annoyingly rich son of a bitch shows us the rewards society (most likely us poor schmucks who are slaves to consumerism) has granted them for being important and successful and loved and better than everybody else #NARF; and you have to guess who in God’s name they are. It’s effectively just a shopping channel of things that could’ve been yours if you’d been born important or seaux beautiful that people hate you in real life or were you able able to rap, sing, or act exceptionally well rather than sitting on your butt in Lawton watching MTV Cribs after you get off of work at Country Mart. MTV Cribs dangled the aspiration of carrots seaux impractically out of reach, they might as well put it on a million mile long stick and tie it to a rocket that’s been fired into a black hole. What the fuck do Igh want to sit up and look at the Grado at the Playboy Mansion for all day or the $85,000 a night hotel suite Jay Z rented for Beyonce to shit in when Igh stay in the Gub or the POW’s (That’s ‘pussy on welfare” for all of my non-Lawtonians)?
It should come as neaux surprise that people have always wanted nice houses, obviously they’re not crazy, Igh mean it’s sleeping on a pile of dirty gym socks versus a Sealy Posture-pedic; but back in the day, your options very limited were limited. A house was a house. If you were poor you had to live in a cramped tent with a gaggle of musty relatives with bad breath, bad teeth, bad backs, bad feet, and cholera or the plague. If you were middle class, you had a bigger home that looked more like the Monopoly houses as opposed to a fort built by a 5-yr old and if you were a member of the aristocracy, let’s keep it 100, you lived in palatial bliss like Prince Akeem, Queen Aoleon, and King Jaffe Joffer. For the most part, people largely accepted whichever kind of hovel of a shit hole piss parlor they’d been allotted and then in the eighties, glamorous TV ads made “the dream” seem easily attainable…..much like Barbie’s proportions. But having purchased the gilded and glimmering roofs over their heads, people really didn’t know what to do with themselves. So people kind of lost their shit and started desperately scrambling about trying to spruce their homes up in a bid to kill time and stick it to their neighbors. Igh’m sure this is where the concept of the interior decorator emerged. TV soon noticed this and began offering up cheapo home improvement guff castles, taking the concept of interior design and marrying it to the concept of people slinging any old crap together and generated several hundred hours of television in the process. Igh mean who doesn’t want a golden mermaid with sea salth breast milk dripping from her nipples hanging over their fireplace, right?
Seaux the absolute ultimate in homemade pornography has to be pornography made from homes themselves (neaux not a sex tape you nassies). Igh’m talking about televised aspirational showrooms such as the type which offer a tantalizing glimpse of the kinds of dream homes the consumer too could be dwelling in if only he or she had several hundred-thousand dollars to wipe his/her gooch with and/or six months of leisure time to spare. The hosts of these shows present them in the manner of enthusiastic curators leading the consumer on a personal tour around a museum of cozy, middle class satisfaction. They’re like Bob Barker only with Ken Doll hair, a tool belt, veneers, and a pumpkin patch complexion….and have y’all noticed that they all usually spit a little bit when they talk and have raspy voices? Largely though it’s an envy generator as the consumer looks on, moving from mild interest to outright fury. Why can’t Igh have a marble bathtub with a champagne spicket? Why can’t Igh have carpet made from the fine hairs on the lower backs of Malaysian newborns? Why can’t Igh have a ceiling fan made from the bronzed legs of mannequins? Thanks to shows like this it somehow feels like it’s not enough to just own a reasonably okay house anymore. Instead the consumer can feel a lingering sense of failure for dwelling inside anything other than an architecturally fascinating 4000 ft. translucent diagram, with a gigantic pool filled with the sweat of Aphrodite in the middle for the consumer and his/her kids to take completely for granted and never use.
Food is another aspirational touchstone with y’all’s hungry asses. Well, not literally a hunger in your ass…..maybe for some, but y’all get it. It’s not good enough to simply heat up a meal anymore. Neaux, today, the consumer is supposed to be some kind of gastronomical show-pony with a signature dish of his or her own. “Leigh Leigh girl come taste some of my special ramen noodle casserole gurl. You know Igh cook my shit with chicken broth and put that rotisserie chicken meat from Walmart in it. Grab you one of them Styrofoam plates on top of the refrigerator. Wayment, get three. They the Family Dollar brand, seaux they thin as wind.” Once upon a time cooking shows used to concentrate on the business of cooking whereas today’s cooking shows are far less about food and far more about lifestyle. “Bitch you like my Michael Kors apron and shit bitch? Ross bitch. Ross!” If the way the consumer feeds his or her family has become an aspirational lifestyle choice, so is having a family full stock. Ya dig?
Today, even offspring have become living, breathing status symbols. Children are inexplicably held up as far more than a good thing, but like enchanted forest deities whose every bodily function should be applauded like they’re a Mozart concerto. There are sickening playgroup franchises devoted to keeping them entertained. Then you have the reality shows that want us to geaux ape shit over little girls painted up like Annabelle and prancing around a stage dressed like Marie Antoinette. And advertisers know how much parents adore their kids seaux they pop out aspirational ads that prey on our paternal instincts; and heighten the sense that these magical imps need supernatural protection. One problem with treating kids like delicate, Faberge eggs is the consumer becomes seaux dementedly paranoid about any misfortune befalling them that he or she ends up sealing them indoors around the clock, effectively locking them in a prison that serves organic food in which every surface has been sprayed 86 times with anti-bacterial disinfectant before their little fingers can touch it. So they sit their indoors, growing up in the flickering glare of aspirational imagery; soaking it all up—brightly colored kid’s shows, which make superstardom seem seaux attainable and desirable; swanky, seductive advertisements where a celebrity tells the consumer “you’re seaux special and Igh like your face”; and glossily-packaged celebrity pittle, which largely consists of banal footage of silly adults romping around like children, dressing up, drawing, playing with their soft toys, dressing up, tickling each other, making and doing, dressing up, playing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, dressing up as their moms, dressing up, climbing the trees, face painting, and dressing up.
One natural consequence that comes from exposure to this kind of piffle is the kids who watch it grow up wanting to be treated like celebrities themselves; becoming self-obsessed little emperors in the process, and the parents are left scampering about trying to fulfill their every waking desire seaux that they don’t have a meltdown in public and expose generations of family secrets like “Igh hate you mom. You vagina is a rotting hole where the lost souls of the slaves that granddad owned hang out and cook chitterlings and pig’s feet all day. Igh hope it swells shut and you implode. Better yet, Igh hope you walk in on dad eating Aunt Kelsey out like Igh did, you cunt!” For evidence, look up some old episodes of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16. This shit can’t even truly be classified as a show. It’s more an orchestrated smear campaign against humankind in general. Some of it is punishingly depressing. It’s a strange thing that teenage aspirations have morphed from being able to pull off a pretty good BMX trick or having fewer acne blemishes or getting a date that isn’t hideous for the important school dances to being showered with adulation like they’re Lady Gaga and Elton John crossed with God. Make neaux mistake, the next generation is going to be even more horrible because they will be the children of these bedazzled children of the corn.
Way back in the day, people only achieved a level of what might be termed celebrity by displaying a remarkable level of talent and Igh mean they performed at a level that was truly worthy of attention. Whereas during this current befuddled and confused period of human history, it’s apparently possible to become famous merely for inhaling and exhaling on camera IF your makeup and edges are on fleek or if you have ice blue eyes and face tattoos. The galaxy of fame has a complex, ever-shifting hierarchy. Burning brightest are the proper stars; actors, and musicians, and the like. Some become supergiants like Beyonce’ or Brad Pitt and they’re alseaux insanely powerful and get to rub elbow (or genitals) with the rulers of entire continents and shit. If the Zayn Malik called a live, globally televised press conference during which he plucked out two of his chest hairs and said he’d hand deliver them to the first viewer to turn around and murder a member of their own family, thousands would perish.
Then there’s the newest cluster, not really stars at all, more huge balls of anti-matter who act as sort of sanctioned hate sponges, feeding off the animosity of the general public; growing bigger and bigger until they implode. You know Kim Kardashian or famous Viners and Instagram models and comedians and shit. The sheer amount of disdain many people harbor for these uberfamous anti-celebrities is staggering. They hate them and hate them and hate them with the same dogged indignation of racists, but they can’t stop looking at them. Igh mean if they aren’t looking and them and following their every move, how can they hate and bemoan them effectively?
Showbiz garbage rags exploit the fact that consumers both hate and love celebrities, which is why their every imperfection gets looked over and circled by magazine’s vile, hypercritical, self-loathing, pudgy in the mid-section and my waist trainer is pinching a nerve staff. It won’t be long until they start offering an interactive online service which lets their disgusting readers zoom in to each photograph in infinite detail like it’s Google earth. Tagging and logging each miniscule flaw seaux that the uglies of the consumer base can build up a comprehensive overview of just how many spotted, little, horrid bits can be unearthed on the surfaces of the world’s most beautiful women. If even the world’s most inherently gorgeous people are subject to that kind of scrutiny, how can Jane Doe possibly compete? Well, she can’t, obviously, because unlike them she’s built like a glop of mashed potatoes and all of her ends are seaux split that her hair looks like a broom from Dollar General after a week of use, seaux her entire life becomes one long, slow emotional breakdown. Still at least neaux one’s judging ordinary people, apart from the television.
It’s little wonder that the normal, ordinary person feels worthless, because the aspirational whirlpool is, if anything, speeding up. Celebrities and anti-celebrities are sprouting up everywhere you look and the existing ones are getting more and more famous and flaunting their extravagance in our faces, not only on TV, oh neaux. Now they are flashing their opulence in our faces by way of our phones. Every image on television and our phones, ahem Instagram, is growing more glamorous and dream-like by the moment. The advertisements are becoming more unhinged in their desperate quest for things to aspire to. Even every day products have lost their minds and they don’t even have minds. And as for food, even dog food, which used to be advertised with a sort of gruff matronly-friendliness, has become a gourmet signature dish for the consumer to plop down in front of some four-legged Caesar. “Nigga my Yorkie eats better than your entire bloodline!” Even MTV Cribs evolved into something more extreme with the incredible Teen Cribs. How is the consumer meant to aspire to be someone’s child? WAYMENT!!!! Seaux your child’s weekly allowance is equivalent to my yearly salary and their club house is more furnished than the home Igh’ve paid a mortgage on for the past forty years? And the worship of money, just raw money, got worse; seaux bad that rap videos look more like satirical visions of empty excess. It’s actually not clear who these videos demean the most, the women, Black people in general, or the viewer. #BUSSIT
Before long, behaving like a massive, swaggering twat wasn’t just acceptable, it was openly encouraged. It is celebrated. It is praised. Faced with all these unattainable dreams, it takes little wonder that seaux many people in seaux many places got themselves wedged seaux deep in debt. People bought houses and bragged about how the value kept zooming up into the skyline. In fact, they didn’t seem to be houses at all, but exotic coin shitting machines. It was all a collective delusion and none of it was real. None of it is real. It’s just dust. And it wasn’t just homeowners. The whole world had dreamed itself into a wistful, financial thought-bubble, which inevitably popped. And what could the consumer do then? When the money ran completely dry, seaux did all the consumer’s dreams and they’d lost the one thing they were clinging on to, their aspiration kennel; their home.
It’s a huge thumbs down to all these prettified, insidious televisual delusions. It’s best to hammer shut the dream flap seaux the consumer doesn’t want for the over-inflated imaginings anyway seaux that we will be content to sit at a desk for eight hours a day. If it all gets to be too much, just switch your TV off. Stop living off some kind of rubbish trip and actually enjoy yourself in the state of your reality. Save yourselves. The TV is really brainwashing you. Why do you think you’re more addicted to spending than you are to saving and investing? If they keep us salivating for wealth and aspiring to look like wealth, we’ll continue to funnel money into their glory-holes, further cementing their wealth and our poverty.
ARTWORK BY: _LATEETH (Latif Trice) Geaux to his page and see if you correctly identified each character he’s drawn and if you follow him on Instagram, be sure to tag @tristonfordummies in a comment and let him know Igh’m the reason you discovered his work….shit do it even if you don’t follow him. And follow me you baldheaded cunts. NARF!!!! #Yomp
Post Script: People fear what they don’t understand and since many have not taken time to understand the ongoing sting of the system of oppression that is racism and how it affects the mentality and behaviors of Black people are quick to criticize the symptoms rather than addressing the illness. Society is sick and if you are ridiculing the parents of Mike Brown during their time of loss or otherwise being flippant with how you chose to voice your opinions regarding this matter, then Igh truly pray that you develop an infection in your genitals that causes you to smell like pickled octopus placenta boiled and soaked in apple cider vinegar.
thetristonfordummies 