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Gra, trained assassin

Unchained after March 23, 2008.

On Tuesday, while searching high and low for Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, in order to employ him and his assassination skills in flushing out the terrycloth sputter-nutters hiding in my shoes behind my vile (evil!) oatmeal cookies, suddenly, it hit me like a barrel of pork dropped on Ron Paul’s head by George W. Bush: Anna Ohura has terribly sexy feet.

Anna Ohura displaying her succulent, pink feet… and other parts.

No longer caring about Samuel Dreckers, my plotting oatmeal cookies, or the terrycloth sputter-nutters sputtering and nuttering away behind my ponderously large, almost clown-like shoes, I quickly forgot where this sentence was going, so I stopped to start again. Ah, yes. I remember! No longer caring about Samuel Dreckers, those dastardly oatmeal cookies, and other things that I forget now—being a trained forgetty, forgetting comes easy to me!—I paused to ponder Anna Ohura’s feet for a moment: Supple, succulent, pink, and creamy, without a hint of armpit hair or nipple bongs anywhere on them… or the rest of her body. No, no nipple bongs at all. Cute little toes… delicate ankles… pink, pink soles… and nothin’ else!

“Did you eat the bongs?” I wanted to ask her. But instead, I gave my genius mutt Yappie a bath, and went on another fapping spree around my parlor, cellar, and front yard. The neighbors were aghast, as usual, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care, you see, because Anna Ohura has succulent, pink feet, and the biggest tits I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen some big ones!).

Didn’t expect that, did you?

By Thursday, my fapping marathon having come to a close, and thoughts of engaging in a farting spree shoved from my mind, I set about trying to find Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, again. I looked high. I looked low. I looked in my cubbyholes and flaggiepoles. I looked under my shoes, and in them too. I looked left. I looked right. I looked right in my neighbor’s window when she was taking a shower. And finally, I looked in my navel.

But no Samuel Dreckers was to be found. I began to despair when suddenly a gaggle of Strom Thurmonds appeared before me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: Gra, trained assassin.

He looked like an oversized orc, dressed in pink and carrying a broadsword.

‘Gra’?” I balked a second time. “What kind of name is ‘Gra’?” I began chortling and whizgiggling loudly as Gra and the Thurmonds stood in front of me silently. ‘Trained assassin’…? You look like… a smurf who’s lost his mommy! A gloonk who’s schtupped his last cow! A pot that just got called ‘black’ by a kettle! You look like… like… oh, I don’t know what, but it’s silly. Oh! I know! You look like a kittyflipping, moosehorsing, goatpelting, cowhorning, monkeyfessing snickerdicker… in a tutu! Ha! Ha!”

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to.

Then, without warning, Gra cut my head off with his broadsword.

Finally, as my head rolled across the grass and came to a rest at Strom Thurmond #7’s feet, it hit me like a barrel of naked and barefoot Anna Ohuras: Alyssa Milano still has sexier feet.

Her toes are cuter.