Sunday, January 31, 2010

Brioche punched sliced bread in the balls.

The greatest thing since sliced BREAD?? FU bread. I've got brioche.

It's official. I'm a harrywhore.

Yup. We be making out all over town like a couple of teenagers, Brioche & I. We don't give a damn... about my ass. (No amount of spinning may correct the damage, I fear.)

But how can you resist Harry's? From the moment I pull it out of the crackly wrapping, my mouth floods with saliva like some kind of spit-dam has just burst. I feel an irresistible desire to smother my face into its vanilla softness. I breath it. I lick it. When its toasted, I want to become one with it.

The first time I tasted the yellow food o'the gods, my whole body shivered into a spastic foodgasm. I turned to it, gently stroked its edge and whispered "I love you Harry" - and we've been together ever since.

Harry must be an angel. A gift from Dieu himself, sent to relieve us from hunger pains and make our thighs swell with joy.

ALL HAIL, and pass the butter.

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