Janey Ungodly rubs her nipples in a public post office. Sounds creepy. And at her advanced age, a husky crone voice is a given.
Time for a phyzz check.
Fat, ugly, and unfunny is no way to go through life, ma’am.
All the remarks about her beauty diversity got to her. Defensively, she lied,
Thank you am quite happy with my looks – am as ordinary looking as everyone else – and loved and getting banged harder than a faulty washing machine door.
“as ordinary looking as everyone else”? Ah, no. Janey, you are extraordinarily ugly, a bearer of profound physical ugliness only matched in the sheer horror of it by the inner ugliness of your character. Your immigrant props gag at the sight of you, when they aren’t stealing your jewels or making you lose your bloated witchy head on an EatEatLove sojourn.
I have to laugh at these grotesque old hags who think the world believes them when they brag about their sex lives. No one’s banging Janey Godley who isn’t a subterranean quasi-human dreg. The banging is the washing machine door vomiting her old lady tunastank underwear. Certainly, no one loves her. Whatever loser is dumping a diseased fuck in her doesn’t love her and tries to hide from her when they’re out in public.
The lameasfuck virtue signaling is just the curdled icing on the turd cake. This cancercunt dreams of “freaking out” “racists” (she does this every day leaving the house) but wouldn’t dare offend a vibrant immigrant, before whom her strident cuntery would promptly and thoroughly temper itself as she assumed the submissive posture to an invading tribe of men more racist than she could ever imagine.
You ought to consider a www boys crying group – how’s the wall coming along?
The wall? Direct hit, Janey. The Wall is completed…for you.
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