Swimming Meet

Hi kids, I'm a mini-camera. I observe and (in this quickie) decipher, I guess you can say, what I see:

I'm attached to the upper wall of the uterus in Cantara's love patch. It feels from the mere touch on the front of the camera lens that it is hot in here- wettening too. (Luckily, this is all an illusion in the mind, so don't take it too seriously.)

All of a sudden it launches the offensive. It is a mammoth- six and a half inches on the outside and on the inside the Chrysler Building. A Mammoth with veins and tan completion, making the entire wugina a slip and slide for its in-out, in-out action.

This speeds, it goes slower, it's a jackhammer, it's a slug. Cantara is giving Roscoe a good value of time in her vice grip that is mushed with a softness and instant pleasure reader. Waves are on the way; the meteor must've dropped smack dab in this girl's ocean.

Rapid-fire expansion packs with a loaded .44 magnum in true Scorsese fashion "in her pussy." It is nano-seconds and then the Van Halen eruption from the vaginal walls along with a flood that makes the Amazon seem wimpy by comparison is upon her.

The focus suddenly reveals the torpedo shaking and clipping out its round all the way down through the Chunnel.

"Look at it, viewers, swimming around like a Spaniard."

Or more actually a mini-Roscoe tadpole clone designed to drive the big casillac to the dealership circle-sphere.

Banana/mule juice, benoit-ball blasting remains, s-p-e-r-m (woody's unit, pun and no pun intended) is the everlasting- lasting the span of time allowed- presence and reminder to the pool of Cantara of what five minutes of Roscoe can leave behind.

Life. Shit.

I pan down like Kubrick in Jupiter and beyond. Many die, the retards attack the wall- finding them shortcut thingamajigs- to the blood stream, spermicide and the douche disqualify much of the elite, for taking hormone steroids.

The Magnificent secen are remaining- neck and neck, tail and tail, one headed and two headed- and now the odds have increased in favor of the underdog force.

Two eggs await the stork's pecking, certainly unwittingly. The seven are on the scene after the field known as fallopian has ended and the crazed system of ovary has not prevented them from reaching their charted destination.

Three to one, four to two, peck peck, peck, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, all night the whole way through....

TWO MAKE IT!

A second hen egg appears for there to fall five to two: Roscoe gets two seven pound baskets, one labeled Roscoe Jr. and the other names Tancara, are in his sight. What does he reply after a nine month hiatus?

"What's white, Chinese, and doesn't quite have my eyes? It's today's magic word, boys and girls—BASTARDS—can you say this word? You'll hear it from everyone in New York, at the least."

And that's how Roscoe married Cantara, but not first without a pre-nup...