we are saved!
like many nations across our trembling world, the tribe has suffered in this time of need.
whereas we once assumed our finances sound, we are now struggling in the currents of debt. so much so, that we have contemplated the once unthinkable – the sale of rudy’s prosthetic golden phallus.
what a nightmare.
how wonderful then that an angel of hope should magically appear!
the letter, yes, the letter! as we’ve been chanting every dawn. click the image and see for yourselves!…
patricia, bless you, and also your oh-so-helpful husband.
let there be no confistication!
soon there will again be saddles and swordfish for llama polo.
meat! meat! meat!
and no longer must we sacrifice our own young to the gape of the tree troll. though i have to say i think the austrians overcharge.
and, please, all of of you, call or fax yourselves to thank our benefactors for their so very good deed. i know they will be most grateful to hear from you.
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Have you actually called?
Financial distress is for others. Monetary irreproachibility and fat bellies are for us. Anal bleeching is for all. After all we must give something back.
I have read the generous missive. I have submitted, given all my names, sur and otherwise, have entered and gone under and have resurfaced after the requisite seven days (although I would have favoured three days, if only to be closer to my one time saviour, ol’ roll-away-the-stone Jake); and I here do declare that chrysophallic Rudy can keep that limp thing he so hopefully strokes; I’m taking the loot and setting out upon this spinning oblate sphere to corner the market, to gather and hoard every bonbon there be – Bobo be damned, the aliens be mine!
fine, but beware the north woods, lest the aliens make you theirs…
Holy F*CKING SH*T!!!!!! I just got a cashier’s cheque for $45 million in the mail. Sorry if I beat you all to the paydirt but I bloody well know a good opportunity when I see one. Accordingly, I’ve just maxed out all of my credit cards and line of credit and signed off on the second mortgage and I’m celebrating with a much-deserved orgy of sturgeon roe, rhino horn and grizzly gall, not too mention the washdowns with 1907 shipwrecked Heidsieck champagne and all that fine breaking-bad crystal meth, and pipe-draining designer Medellin angel-snow laid out over the nipples and navels of Barbie-engineered pornstars. Charlie? Charlie?!! Get off the phone with your dad–but tell Marty I said hello–and bring Heidi over here! She needs her klum candied.
Man, who gives a royal f*ck about globalization and the great fiscal meltdown. I’ve got my own problems like where next I’m going to experiment with the contents of my newly arrived vat of Cypriot cold-pressed, virgin olive oil. Huh? What a second. What’s that? There’s no “U.S”. in front of that $ sign on the cashier’s cheque? What? It’s got a BF?! No, sh*thead that doesn’t stand for ButtF*ck! That’s Burkina Faso. Holy F**********CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!