Category: DEFAULT

2 Oct, 2012

Ass Pubes Stuck In Lil Girls Braces - The Pallbearers (2) - Drinkin With The Dead! (Vinyl)

Then everyone went into a small room and had coffee and cookies. Jackoff made his way towards me I guess to shake my hand but I dodged him and got the hell out of there. Most tv commercials like that show people doing idiotic things.

I think Mr. Jackoff has reached the point of perversion where he has to do sicker and more dangerous stuff to get off. I fully expect them to find him dead later this year in a shitty hotel room, with a cantalope up his ass and a length of barbed wire shoved down his piss hole. Maybe some film of a woman fucking a german shepherd will be playing on a contined loop on an old black and white tv. In a random act of dumbassery or drunken stupidity I ordered Kinoki Foot Pads to clean all the toxins from my bod.

I posted this at Facebook a few days ago. Holy Shit! Tornado watch in effect for my area until PM tonight. The commute home should be a pip being that I travel on back roads that are tree lined. Ghost stuff scares the living shit out of me. I had a few run-ins when I was a kid. No thanks. You guys can keep your ghost and demons and whatnots.

I probably still have it in the vault somewhere. Embarrassing now that I think about it. I have that TV Greatest Hits album, too! Used it for a Halloween party where we had to dress up as ou favorite TV Character.

I went as Ironside. Even rented a wheelchair! My late mother bought some various-sized plastic discs that were to be placed under the legs of heavy furniture to make them easier to move. As chief furniture-lifters whenever mom went on a rearranging binge, my dad and I were rather dubious about the purchase and rolled our eyes accordingly. Until we actually used them. They worked perfectly, allowing us to slide big tables and bookcases around on the carpet with minimal effort.

Really took a lot of the hassle out of the job…. A friend and I were at a garage sale and picked up a bunch of those old advertised-on-TV greatest-hits-of-all-time record collections, mostly from KTel, Ronco, and Candlelight. Still other albums have the original recordings, but the songs are horribly truncated or edited down to about a minute and a half….

Personally, I love Ghost Adventures. I especially loved the sagging furniture one. I laughed pretty hard at the part where they show comparison pictures of the grandpa in the saggy recliner, versus the grandpa sitting straight and upright and almost made his neck look abnormally long and cheery…He looked like a turtle.

Neck in. Neck out! I deal with it by purposefully shining on the guy every time I see him. He gets treated to something like this:. Long time no see. Your kid is getting so big these days!

We should get together and watch the game this weekend. Come over any time for a beer, good buddy. We have neighbors similar to that. I forgot all about the people that hate you question. I must have self esteem issues or something, because I go out of my way to try and make people like me.

But there are a few people that I do hate. I know how to cut to the bone. I like to go to her now defunct blog and send her nasty e-mails and such. Okay, that was a joke. And not a really good one either. Sorry Tammie. Awww Jason. The thing that really annoys me about my stalker troll, is that I have never once posted pictures of my boobs falling out of my shirt or my ass hanging out of my panties.

Yeah, my humor is crude but so what? So is the humor of most of the Surf Reporters. And as for the no talent thing, well hey, I never said I was talented or trying to be. I was just having a good time writing about shit that I thought about. Tammie, I really enjoyed your writing, with its humor and frankness.

It pisses me off that one person has deprived the rest of us, who appreciate you, from hearing what you have to say. Ahhhh, I recall a nastly little incident a year or so ago maybe more here at thewvsr and that idiot was letting you have it for no apparent reason. Telling you that you were selling sex, or some such nonsense. Crazy bitch.

She needs to drink bleach. I chalked that whole incident up as a moment of bad judgement. And the Halloween costume was still modest. The IP addresses and servers are different every time I get one which leads me to believe my hater is computer savvy. Years ago, I worked for a medical company.

The head bitch in charge collected dolls. Spent thousands doing it. One Christmas, she invited the office to her house for a little office party. She had them on shelves in the kitchen for cripessakes. She had to remove dolls from her chairs, sofa, and diningroom set before anyone could sit down. It was scary as hell. I hate dolls…UGH! There were eyes everywhere. I knew a girl who collected those scary possessed porcelain dolls.

And she just HAD to proudly show them to me. Adding to my vocabulary! The stuff I was wildly enthused about from ages 12 to 25—I look at most of it today and cringe in shame and horror.

However, the stuff that knocked me out when I really and truly was a little kid, say between 5 and My niece was homeschooled until she was Thanks entirely to her homeschooling, or should I say thanks to her circumventing the nightmare of gummint schooling—where kids get wanded with metal detectors on the way to and from remedial Holocaust Studies and Repamarations You like watching men soul-kiss for whatever reason; we find it instinctively repulsive The main reason homosexuals have reached the level of acceptance they have is that for the most part gays are presented to us as individuals, and we like them as people Can we use statistical probability to assume there are?

You are quite original, with an impressive arsenal of colorful and alliterative racial and ethnic slurs to defame your enemies with. Compared to this place, selling porn to video chains was like wearing a Santa suit for the Salvation Army. And yet, I was dimly aware, even then, that this was an environment of such surreal human frailty and moral degradation that I should stick around awhile.

The owner of the place would be a trilogy by himself. Within a few months of my departure, he had begun his next, even longer stretch, aboard that floating Rikers anchored in the Hudson. Maybe 10 to 15 people at any given time. It was obvious they were friends who Went Way Back somehow.

Getting at the owner thru the employees is much harder. But I thought Mickey had just gotten out of jail himself when this story began? Yes, because three weeks after cutting his deal, he opened another oil and gas scam in DC, and ran it as hellbent for leather as the other one.

Feds visit; conditions of plea arrangement violated; 30 months. The cost of the entire suite of offices that Mickey had rented was payable to the building management company, who Mickey never paid at all. He preferred stonewalling with Jew doubletalk and legalese for six months followed by backing up the truck at 2 a. And Meyer hated Mickey But, he needed work, and ex-cons are not otherwise in demand in the white-collar labor force, and the collectibles hustle was earning him a living, so he put up with it.

Just taking my time, no hurry, sliding it nice and slow into his brain. That was a good dream. Felt so good. You have no idea, seriously. Pete running their scam office when the phone rings. Worse, the lawyer is a well-known, high-profile guy known to have strong ties to the state capitol.

Meyer comes in late, is apprised of the situation, and looks at Mickey Call him back and stall, or leave a note on the door rescheduling for tomorrow. Mickey sneers at him. I will handle this. Meyer told me he watched in horrified disbelief as Mickey mushed all of his hash into a crudely formed ball, stood up, hiked back the ass of his shorts and shoved the hash up his ass.

His eyes were beet red. I thought they were gonna start bleeding! He had the same idea I did: turning all of it into a book or a screenplay.

Guys like this, companies like this A surreal anomaly? Stories like this happened each and every day in that office, and twice on payday. Then again, you can say the same about the American people. Or, at the very least, the one we deserve. It allowed the noted some distance from notoriety—you could keep your dark side on the dark side—and it spared the rest of us the disillusionment of confronting, day in and day out, the utter banality of famousness as a way of life.

What is Absolutely the best and most hilarious ST ever. Race hate is funny. Five hundred piranha in the tank, but only enough gummint cheese and jumbo rocks for fifty. This oughta be fun. Man, forget the early Katrina coverage of the evacuations—we should be televising the stuff following their relocation, where the Katrina brilloes fight to the death with the local bongoes and illegals for precious social services, and call it Survivor: Astrodome. Morgan Freeman will of course provide the dignified voice-over narration.

James Remar will play Looter Warlord. When Mother Nature digs a foot ditch around your city and the power and water go out for everybody, trust me: There Will Be Bongoes. If the idea is to raze the black ghettoes and rebuild the tourist areas the outlying suburbs were mostly untouched Without the albatross of their Negro population living in their riskiest areas, that area can thrive.

I expect many white liberals will cringe at the idea of a New Orleans without mumble-mouth Negroes they can patronize and pretend are wonderful. The wise men of the New York Times have never understood the South and, until Katrina, spent most of their time either demonizing or patronizing it.

The ultimate handout, and a recipe for disaster. But what happened to the multicultural ideal they championed so strongly in the 90s Now, one little hurricane, and suddenly The Task Before Us is now we have to engineer black people into becoming dark white folks? It was the most ludicrous Bond, and therefore the best. Moore was 60, Miss Moneypenny was around 70 which made their double-entendre flirtations seem like watching your grandparents masturbate each other , the guy who played M had died and been replaced by an unconvincing lookalike Gruff, lovable Victor McLaglen would cut up on set by cracking walnuts with his ass cheeks.

Bob Hoskins has been trying to sell a screenplay for a three-hour musical called Andy Capp: The Adventure Begins for the past 22 years. Cesar Romero once dated J. Nothing came of it—Romero later haughtily noted that Hoover refused to go any farther than heavy petting, and had even worn faux pearls with his gown.

Delta Burke was once hospitalized after losing an eating contest with Kirstie Alley. But that America—first her cultural elite, and then her institutions—officially recognized this cock-and-bull opium dream as a real seasonal holiday as valid and historic as Christmas They had so many heads of production going in and out the door, at a schizophrenic pace, one could reasonably assume there was no hand on the tiller.

And, for the record, I love vintage film, and greatly prefer it to the shit we get now. Once he left the Lewton unit, the quality of their horror films dropped precipitously. Had he had more time to develop Robert Wise exclusively, it might have been a different story Now guess whose pockets that 50 mill will be coming from.

Now guess how the fallout from this story will play out. No hints this time. Because the rules now clearly state that the first white man to publicly notice race loses, this entire debacle was a fait accompli the minute LA decided it was easier to hand out badges like Crackerjack prizes to brown human flotsam than to hold them accountable to the same standards as whites. And this, my friends—played out a hundred ways, a hundred times, in a hundred cities—is how Great Nations die.

I lived a clean and moral life! Eli eli abimalech already! A dull, public-affairs-programming title like that would be the kiss of death. And I can finally dust off my sitcom proposal of a few years ago. Therein lies the difference between us. And exotic.

And appealing. Whereas I think it will be the prelim to a New Dark Ages. If you hybridize a human and a canine, will you eventually end up with loyal, dependable people with a keener sense of sight, sound and smell In a fusion of lesser and greater, will the greater pull up the lesser—or the lesser drag down the greater?

Giiger fooling around with PhotoShop? A good man named John Smith uncovered his name by a kind of magic, but before he could be captured—perhaps it was just as well—Frank Dodd killed himself. There was some shock, of course, but mostly there was rejoicing in that small town, rejoicing because the monster which had haunted so many dreams was dead, dead at last. And surely a hush fell as children looked toward their dark windows and thought of Frank Dodd in his shiny black vinyl raincoat, Frank Dodd who had choked.

But for most, the ending was the ending. There were nightmares to be sure, and children who lay wakeful to be sure, and the empty Dodd house for his mother had a stroke shortly afterwards and died quickly gained a reputation as a haunted house and was avoided; but these were passing phenomena—the perhaps unavoidable side effects of a chain of senseless murders. But time passed. Five years of time. The monster was gone, the monster was dead.

Frank Dodd moldered inside his coffin. Except that the monster never dies. Werewolf, vampire, ghoul, unnameable creature from the wastes. The monster never dies. It came to Castle Rock again in the summer of He got out of bed and walked half asleep toward the white light thrown in a wedge through the half-open door, already lowering his pajama pants.

He urinated forever, flushed, and went back to bed. He pulled the covers up, and that was when he saw the creature in his closet. Low to the ground it was, with huge shoulders bulking above its cocked head, its eyes amber-glowing pits—a thing that might have been half man, half wolf. And its eyes rolled to follow him as he sat up, his scrotum crawling, his hair standing on end, his breath a thin winter-whistle in his throat: mad eyes that laughed, eyes that promised horrible death and the music of screams that went unheard; something in the closet.

He heard its purring growl; he smelled its sweet carrion breath. Tad Trenton clapped his hands to his eyes, hitched in breath, and screamed. A muttered exclamation in another room—his father. Their footfalls, running. As they came in, he peered through his fingers and saw it there in the closet, snarling, promising dreadfully that they might come, but they would surely go, and that when they did— The light went on.

Tad dared to look into the mouth of his closet again. The monster was gone. Instead of whatever hungry beast he had seen, there were two uneven piles of blankets, winter bedclothes which Donna had not yet gotten around to taking up to the cut-off third floor. These were stacked on the chair which Tad used to stand on when he needed something from the high closet shelf. Instead of the shaggy, triangular head, cocked sideways in a kind of predatory questioning gesture, he saw his teddybear on the taller of the two piles of blankets.

Instead of pitted and baleful amber eyes, there were the friendly brown glass balls from which his Teddy observed the world. His mommy sat with him; they held him between them, soothed him as best they could. There followed the ritual of parents.

They explained there were no monsters; that he had just had a bad dream. His mommy explained how shadows could sometimes look like the bad things they sometimes showed on TV or in the comic books, and Daddy told him everything was all right, fine, that nothing in their good house could hurt him.

Tad nodded and agreed that it was so, although he knew it was not. Tad could hear the coathangers jingling softly, talking about Daddy in their coathanger language. That was funny, and he smiled a little. Mommy caught his smile and smiled back, relieved. I saw it.

There are no monsters, Tad. Only in stories, and in your mind. You did have to go. Went back to bed. Was tucked in. Accepted kisses. And as his mother and father went back to the door the fear settled on him again like a cold coat full of mist. Like a shroud stinking of hopeless death. Oh please, he thought, but there was no more, just that: Oh please oh please oh please. The light snapped off. In all the movies they catch the ladies and carry them off and eat them!

Oh please oh please oh please— But they were gone. So Tad Trenton, four years old, lay in his bed, all wires and stiff Erector Set braces. Good totems; good magic. But oh the wind outside, screaming over the roof and skating down black gutters! He would sleep no more this night.

But little by little the wires unsnarled themselves and stiff Erector Set muscles relaxed. His mind began to drift. And then a new screaming, this one closer than the night-wind outside, brought him back to staring wakefulness again.

The hinges on the closet door. Creeeeeeeeeeeee— That thin sound, so high that perhaps only dogs and small boys awake in the night could have heard it. His closet door swung open slowly and steadily, a dead mouth opening on darkness inch by inch and foot by foot. The monster was in that darkness. It crouched where it had crouched before. It grinned at him, and its huge shoulders bulked above its cocked head, and its eyes glowed amber, alive with stupid cunning.

They always do, in the end. And then I can come back. I like to come back. I like you, Tad. Tad stared at the creature in his closet with drugged, horrified fascination. There was something that. Something he almost knew. And that was the worst, that almost knowing. My name was Frank Dodd once, and I killed the ladies and maybe I ate them, too.

Feel me getting closer. He listened to its words, drugged with terror, near fainting but oh so wide awake ; he looked upon its shadowed, snarling face, which he almost knew. He would sleep no more tonight; perhaps he would never sleep again. But sometime later, sometime between the striking of half past midnight and the hour of one, perhaps because he was small, Tad drifted away again.

Thin sleep in which hulking, furred creatures with white teeth chased him deepened into dreamless slumber. The wind held long conversations with the gutters. A rind of white spring moon rose in the sky. Somewhere far away, in some still meadow of night or along some pine-edged corridor of forest, a dog barked furiously and then fell silent.

She was standing at the stove, cooking bacon. Twinkles was a Sharp cereal, and the Trentons got all their Sharp cereals free. He was buried deep in the sports pages.

A transplanted New Yorker, he had so far successfully resisted Red Sox fever. But he was masochistically pleased to see that the Mets were off to another superlatively cruddy start. They were back in there. The chair was back in there, too, and the door was open again. He must have put them back. I thought the kid was dying. Having a convulsion or something. And you gave him his teddybear and put those blankets in the back of the closet. But they were back on the chair when I went in to make his bed.

He cocked a friendly eye at her. Donna asked Tad why he had put the chair back in the closet with the blankets on it if they had scared him in the night. Tad looked up at her, and his normally animated, lively face seemed pale and watchful—too old. His Star Wars coloring book was open in front of him. He had been doing a picture from the interstellar cantina, using his green Crayola to color Greedo.

She stood looking at him, troubled, a little frightened. He was a bright boy, and perhaps too imaginative. This was not such good news. She would have to talk to Vic about it tonight. She would have to have a long talk with him about it.

She ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek. She meant to talk to Vic, and then Steve Kemp came while Tad was at nursery school, and she forgot, and Tad screamed that night too, screamed that it was in his closet, the monster, the monster! The closet door hung ajar, blankets on the chair.

This time Vic took them up to the third floor and stacked them in the closet up there. Go back to sleep and have a good dream. It was one stupid name for a bar, but since it was the only one Castle Rock could boast, it looked like they were pretty much stuck with it. As the oldest resident of Castle Rock, Aunt Evvie had held the Boston Post cane for the last two years, ever since Arnold Heebert, who had been one hundred and one and so far gone in senility that talking to him held all the intellectual challenge of talking to an empty catfood can, had doddered off the back patio of the Castle Acres Nursing Home and broken his neck exactly twenty-five minutes after whizzing in his pants for the last time.

But she was good at the weather. The town consensus—among the older people, who cared about such things—was that Aunt Evvie was never wrong about three things: the week when the first hay-cutting would happen in the summertime, how good or how bad the blueberries would be, and what the weather would be like. One day early that June she shuffled out to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, leaning heavily on her Boston Post cane which would go to Vin Marchant when the loudmouthed old bitch popped off, George Meara thought, and good riddance to you, Evvie and smoking a Herbert Tareyton.

She bellowed a greeting at Meara—her deafness had apparently convinced her that everyone else in the world had gone deaf in sympathy—and then shouted that they were going to have the hottest summer in thirty years. A man could pop a blood vessel. Aunt Evvie leaned in the window of his car, all the better to bellow in his ear. Her breath smelled like sour cucumbers. Grass under the snow when she melted! Green grass, Meara! He was getting a headache.

Saliva flew from his lips. Bad sign, Meara! Be people die of the heat this summer! She cackled until she was fit to choke and more cigarette ashes rolled down the front of her housedress. She spat the last quarter inch of cigarette out of her mouth, and it lay smoldering in the driveway by one of her old-lady shoes—a shoe as black as a stove and as tight as a corset; a shoe for the ages.

She stood there by her mailbox for a minute, watching him go. There was no personal mail for her; these days there rarely was. Most of the people she knew who had been able to write were now dead. She would follow soon enough, she suspected.

The oncoming summer gave her a bad feeling, a scary feeling. She could speak of the mice leaving the root cellars early, or of heat lightning in a spring sky, but she could not speak of the heat she sensed somewhere just over the horizon, crouched like a scrawny yet powerful beast with mangy fur and red, smoldering eyes; she could not speak of her dreams, which were hot and shadowless and thirsty; she could not speak of the morning when tears had come for no reason, tears that did not relieve but stung the eyes like August-mad sweat instead.

She smelled lunacy in a wind that had not arrived. She began working her way back to the house, leaning on her Boston Post cane, which had been given her at a Town Hall ceremony for no more than the stupid accomplishment of growing old successfully. No wonder, she thought, the goddamned paper had gone broke. She paused on her stoop, looking at a sky which was still spring-pure and pastel soft.

Oh, but she sensed it coming: something hot. Something foul. Funny way to do business, huh? It really was far out; twice Vic had to stop and ask directions, and it was then that he began to call those farthest reaches of the township East Galoshes Corners. He pulled into the Camber dooryard, the back wheel clunking louder than ever. A boy of eight or nine was standing in the yard, hitting an old baseball with an even older baseball bat.

The ball would travel through the air, strike the side of the barn, which Vic assumed was also Mr. The three Trentons got out, and Vic walked around to the back of his Jag and squatted by the bad wheel, not feeling very confident. Perhaps he should have tried to nurse the car into Portland after all. His meditations were broken by Donna, calling his name nervously. For one absurd moment he wondered if it really was a dog, or maybe some strange and ugly species of pony.

Donna had impulsively snatched up Tad and retreated toward the hood of the Jag, but Tad was struggling impatiently in her arms, trying to get down. The dog wagged a tail that was absolutely huge, and Tad redoubled his struggles.

Cujo stood with his head cocked, that great brush of a tail waving slowly back and forth. The dog looked big enough to swallow the Tadder in a single bite. Tad stopped for a moment, apparently doubtful. He and the dog looked at each other. He turned back to his mother and father, laughing the way he did when one of them was tickling him. He took a step toward them and his feet tangled in each other.

He started to move forward. Tad ran back to his mother and father. I like the doggy! He was amused, but his heart was still beating fast. That gave Vic another uneasy moment, but then Tad was running back to them again.

Vic was pleasantly surprised to find that Camber knew exactly what he was doing. He looked toward Tad and the dog. The ball was looking decidedly slobbery. As it passed Vic, the dog caught his eye. Brock was all right now, but he had spent a lousy twenty-four hours, his body enthusiastically throwing off ballast from both ends.

Her mother followed her, saw Marcy buttonhook into the bathroom, and thought, Oh, boy, here we go again. She heard the retching sounds begin and turned into the bathroom her mind already occupied with the details; clear liquids, bed rest, the chamber-pot, some books; Brock could take the portable TV up to her room when he got back from school and— She looked, and these thoughts were driven from her mind with the force of a roundhouse slap.

The toilet bowl where her four-year-old daughter had vomited was full of blood; blood splattered the white procelain lip of the bowl; blood beaded the tiles. But at five, he was well past his puppyhood, when even a butterfly had been enough to set off an arduous chase through the woods and meadows behind the house and barn.

He was five, and if he had been a human, he would have been entering the youngest stage of middle age. But it was the sixteenth of June, a beautiful early morning, the dew still on the grass.

The heat Aunt Evvie had predicted to George Meara had indeed arrived—it was the warmest early June in years—and by two that afternoon Cujo would be lying in the dusty dooryard or in the barn, if THE MAN would let him in, which he sometimes did when he was drinking, which was most of the time these days , panting under the hot sun. But that was later. Cujo worked toward the rabbit, out for sport rather than meat.

The rabbit munched happily away at new clover that would be baked and brown under the relentless sun a month later. If he had only covered half the original distance between himself and the rabbit when the rabbit saw him and bolted, Cujo would have let it go. For a moment the rabbit did not move at all; it was a frozen rabbit sculpture with black walleyes bulging comically. Then it was off. Barking furiously, Cujo gave chase.

He actually got close enough to paw at the rabbit. The rabbit zigged. Cujo came around more ponderously, his claws digging black meadow dirt, losing some ground at first, making it up quickly. Birds took wing at his heavy, chopping bark; if it is possible for a dog to grin, Cujo was grinning then. The rabbit zagged, then made straight across the north field. But he tried hard, and he was gaining on the rabbit again when it dropped into a small hole in the side of a small and easy hill.

He lowered his big tawny body into a kind of furry projectile and let his forward motion carry him in. There was no livestock in the big red barn; it was his garage and auto-body shop. His son Brett rambled the fields and woods behind the home place frequently, but he had never noticed the hole either, although on several occasions he had nearly put his foot in it, which might have earned him a broken ankle.

On clear days the hole could pass for a shadow; on cloudy days, overgrown with grass as it was, it disappeared altogether. He might have mentioned it, as a caution, when Joe and his wife, Charity, had their son in , but by then the cancer had carried old John off. It was just as well Brett had never found it. It was about twenty feet deep at its deepest, and it would have been quite possible for a small squirty boy to eel his way in, slide to the bottom, and then find it impossible to get out.

It had happened to other small animals in the past. The Cambers had lost him two years before and assumed he had been hit by a car or had just run off. But here he was, along with the bones of the good-sized fieldmouse he had chased inside.

The echoes made it sound as though there was a whole pack of dogs up there. The small cave had also attracted bats from time to time—never many, because the cave was only a small one, but its rough ceiling made a perfect place for them to roost upside down and snooze the daylight away.

The bats were another good reason that Brett Camber had been lucky, especially this year. This year the brown insectivorous bats inhabiting the small cave were crawling with a particularly virulent strain of rabies.

Cujo had stuck at the shoulders. He dug furiously with his back legs to no effect at all. He could have reversed and pulled himself back out, but for now he still wanted the rabbit. Federally insured by NCUA. Adorable magical monkey hat not available. Adjacent to the kitchen is a bright great room that leads to a spacious patio that overlooks the Oxford Basin. Enjoy an additional patio that is conveniently located off one of the bedrooms.

Features include new carpeting and ample storage. The family room is highlighted by large glass doors that open to the backyard. The second story includes a stunning master suite with a spa-like bath with a soaking tub and separate shower. Relax and refresh in the spacious master bedroom. Enjoy the expansive, private backyard. This home also features a detached garage that has been converted to studio space.

Here, one can enjoy the California vacation lifestyle all year long. This neighborhood is an unprecedented achievement of prosperity and world-class living. Be a part of this modern-day urban paradise. The updated kitchen features KitchenAide stainless appliances and under-counter lighting. Two professionally built shops make up the rest of the property. It also boasts plenty of storage space and a half-bath. The garden area is completed by a lovely pond.

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Before revocation of a nonprobate transfer can take effect or a right of survivorship to property can be eliminated, notice of the change must be filed and served on the other party. You must notify each other of any proposed extraordinary expenditures at least five business days prior to incurring these extraordinary expenditures and account to the court for all extraordinary expenditures made after these restraining orders are effective.

However, you may use community property, quasi-community property, or your own separate property to pay an attorney to help you or to pay court costs. If so, you should apply for Covered California. Covered California can help reduce the cost you pay towards high quality affordable health care.

For more information, visit www. If either party to this action should die before the jointly held community property is divided, the language in the deed that characterizes how title is held i. You should consult your attorney if you want the community property presumption to be written into the recorded title to the property. Make offer! Jobsite: Los Angeles, CA Info, contact: Blas Barragan, then immediately enter x or Call Entire Upper Floor.

Parking, laundry facilities, total privacy. PETS Ok. Member MTAC. Call Jasmine Keolian: Office for Lease Jefferson Blvd. Call or Bank Recs. Hotel in Marina del Rey Position available for part time housekeeper. Contact David Private furnished bedroom and bath. Tempur-pedic queen bed. A view of the wetlands from the bedroom. Pool outside the front door. Walk to ocean, shops across from Waterside Shopping Center , restaurants, movie theaters, bus and bike path.

Phone They are enforceable anywhere in California by any law enforcement officer who has received or seen a copy of them. Box Los Angeles, CA. Date Jan. Before revocation of. Sherman Oaks, CA. Registered owners: Jeffrey Mayes Greenleaf St. Argonaut published: May 5, 12, 19 and 26, Argonaut published: April 14, 21, 28, Title: Wife.

NOTICE-In accordance with Subdivision a of Section , a Fictitious Name Statement generally expires at the end of five years from the date on which it was filed in the office of the County Clerk, except, as provided in Subdivision b of Section , where it expires 40 days after any change in the facts set forth in the statement pursuant to section other than a change in. Registered owners: Andras Petrovics Montana Ave.

Playa Vista Direct is a full color glossy magazine that will be direct mailed to every home in Playa Vista with additional copies going to local businesses and public spaces. Published six times per year, Playa Vista Direct is a great way to reach a high value group of consumers. In the s, Culver City was home to two racing tracks.

Larger vehicles extra. Not valid with any other offer. Several automotive related. Hammer, who owns one of the largest private automobile collections on the west coast, is expected to bring a selection of. Not valid with any other offers or discounts. No cash value. Coupon required to receive discount. Expires Cannot be combined with any other offer. One coupon per person per visit.

Long hair extra. According to research conducted by Kevin Triplett for the Culver City Historical Society, the block of West Jefferson Boulevard contained so many racing related businesses that it carried the nickname Thunder Alley. Michael Hammer, grandson of industrialist Armand Hammer, will be the. Bars, restaurants and cafes will be filled to the gills. Proceeds benefit charities supported by the Exchange Club of Culver City. Visit culvercitycarshow. We make house calls on grandfather clocks.

Cuckoos, wall, mantle, grandfather, etc Thursday, May 5 Beach Eats, 5 to 9 p. Proceeds benefit HARK. The Aero, Montana Ave. Friday and 10 a. The community of bakers sells grey cakes to increase awareness about mental health issues and raise funding for the St. Joseph Center in Venice. Streetcraft LA, Main St.

Washington Blvd. The award-winning film narrated by Liam Neeson starts its L. Laemmle Monica Film Center, 2nd St. Crystal Bowersox, 8 p. The American Idol runner up melds blues, country, folk and rock with her soulful voice and inspiring lyrics. DJ Doomz takes over the upstairs bar at 10 p. No cover. Joseph Center. Del Rey Farmers Market Concert, 4 to 6 p.

Dan Meyer and special guests. An evening of Orson Welles films and a book signing with film historian F. Then, approach the rope and quickly grab the Starite.

Then, quickly grab a falling bear and take it to the kid on the right. Then, deliver it to the kid. Then, fly to the kid and deliver the item. After they're all dead, take the girl to the chopper.

Take the pipe to the upper right. Release the alien by interacting with his cage, and take him all to the left. Get a charge at eighty-eight! When lightning strikes, you will win. Fly by using PEGASUS be careful, there's a bug in this level that may get him stuck in the level; in order to prevent that from happening, simply create make Maxwell ride him only after he falls in the lava.

Then, use FIRE to destroy the wood platform, and to burn the rope to your right. Then, get on top of a PTEROSAUR and, when the jet turns to the other opposite side, quickly fly down, position yourself under it, and grab the Starite yes, you must tap it once, and then select "grab" manually, in order to do so.

Once you've pressed the red one, make your way back to the upper left corner of the map, drop down and fly to grab the Starite. Make a BALL appear over the green buttons; then, make one appear over the red button, and as soon as that happens, and the Starite stars to fall, make Maxwell jump in his direction, and grab it! Go to the upper right and grab the Starite. Press the two levers and grab the Starite. Be careful while flying around, since the tubes drop several mines, which will obviously kill your character if you touch them.

At the end, i. Then, tap him once, and select the "Ride" option. Once Maxwell is there, and the Starite starts to go up, quickly go there and grab it.

After the zombie enters the cell, stop pressing the button. Press the button on the floor and then use a piece of MEAT to attract the zombie to the lower floor. He will eat some MEAT, fall asleep, and then eventually continue to the left. When he enters the cell, leave the button and he'll be trapped.

Then, take him to the house, and back. Chef, Mr. Fashion and Mr. Jazz haunt certain objects. Find them! If done correctly, none of the enemies will be able to cross it, and you'll manage to save the giant. Then, tie one side of a VINE to the Starite, and the other to the upper part of the whale, which will probably make it move out of the square it was previously in.

Put a SAFE in the now-vacant spot and blast all the other cubes of ice with, let's say, a GUN, just being careful not to be hit by any of the spiked balls, or caught in an explosion. Drop two MINE weapon on that spot, and it will probably cause a chain reaction that will blow up most of the ice. If the explosions are not enough to make enough room for passage, repeat this strategy with the mines to get rid of one, or two, more blocks of ice.

Then, run all the way down to the Starite, the ghosts will be too busy fighting to care about Maxwell. Then, use some FIRE to burn the upper wood platform. Press one of the levers in the top floor, the green and the gray one in the middle floor, and, in the second-to-lowest floor, the gray. Repeat for the reddish floor. The maid will come, shoot her with a GUN.

It's up to you! Kill the three moles by using a GUN. Help him! They're wanted dead or alive! Put the dog in one, the cat in the other, and take them to the proper owner. However, be careful; the lady is pretty much blind, so you'll have to put the cat right in front of her. When it is about to fall, tie it to the lower metallic square with a ROPE.

Choose to it, and grab the Starite as it falls down the box this may take a while to master

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8 thoughts on “Ass Pubes Stuck In Lil Girls Braces - The Pallbearers (2) - Drinkin With The Dead! (Vinyl)”

  1. Dark Cloud: Liquid Death: Assholes: Ass Pubes Stuck In Lil' Girls' Braces: Island Of The Sluts: Skate Sick: Drinkin' With The Dead: 7 Year Old: Beat My Bone: Public Shitter Sitter/5.
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