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Me and Willy were lollygagging by the scuttlebutt after being aloft to
boy-butter up the antennas and were just perched on a bollard eyeballing
a couple of bilge rats and flangeheads using crescent hammers to pack
monkey shit around a fitting on a handybilly.

All of a sudden the dicksmith started hard-assing one of the deck apes
for lifting his pogey bait. The pecker-checker was a sewer pipe sailor
and the deckape was a gator. Maybe being blackshoes on a bird farm
surrounded by a gaggle of cans didn't set right with either of those
gobs.

The deck ape ran through the nearest hatch and dogged it tight because
he knew the penis machinist was going to lay below, catch him between
decks and punch him in the snot locker. He'd probably wind up on the
binnacle list but Doc would find a way to gundeck the paper or give it
the deep six to keep himself above board.

We heard the skivvywaver announce over the bitch box that the
breadburners had creamed foreskins on toast and SOS ready on the mess
decks so we cut and run to avoid the clusterfuck when the twidgets and
cannon cockers knew chow was on.

We were balls to the wall for the barn and everyone was preparing to hit
the beach as soon as we doubled-up and threw the brow over. I had a
ditty bag full of fufu juice that I was gonna spread on thick for the
bar hogs with those sweet Bosnias. Sure beats the hell out of brown
bagging. Might even hit the acey-duecy club and try to hook up with a
Westpac widow. They were always leaving snail trails on the dance floor
on amateur night.

If you understand this, you're true blue and gold!

(UNKNOWN)

 

 

 
 
 
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