Messages of a Textually Explicit Nature VII

CURRENTLY IN MY MOBILE PHONE INBOX:

Welcome home. If that is your real name. You tanned bastard.

Today in work I farted so hard and loud I hurt myself a little. And I think someone heard. What would Jesus do?

I always wondered why I was always alone in France. I’ve cried about this for 3 years. I still want to be your mate!

Football cancelled. No-one really wants to come. Shame. Will blame you for it though.

‘The S the H the I the T the T the Y, the R ‘n’ B is shittay. You know it’s shittay.’ I just found this message on my old SIM.

Certainly. Remind me again though because my head, as you know, is like a sieve…

Dance. Boogie wonderland.

Swift comeback: “yeah? Shove it! Make with the email and then cram it!” *pants fall down, trips*

Anything strange? Fish can’t fart. Get off my billboard you dirt. Go eat your fish farts on someone else’s bus route.

Hey, I just woke up. Wanna go to the beach? : )

I miss you like that wart I had on my little finger for a full two years of my life, until I burned it off.

Assisting women to give birth: is there anything more arousing?

stigmund – he’d shut his mouth if he knew what was good for him. Pumpkin-pie-haircutted freak.

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