Bass-Invader
TRIBE Member
It was grand. There i was, on the eighth floor, farm brewing, large and mighty. The sound of a hundred thousand breakfast, lunches, and dinners curdled the morning air. Slowly, the gases became noxious, people started passing out from the unquenchable olfactory offence. Pain and torment filled the air. There was only one recourse.
Old macdonald had the farm.
ps: eighth, wtf, this word looks fucked up. WTF.
EIGTHTHD EEEEITGH AAATEHTH EIGHGHGHGHGHT
that is all.
Old macdonald had the farm.
ps: eighth, wtf, this word looks fucked up. WTF.
EIGTHTHD EEEEITGH AAATEHTH EIGHGHGHGHGHT
that is all.