Tortured Mountain Model

Pedigree Disvalidatah up in this moldy icy Myspace She-He Beast Kennel!*!*!*!*! Your flagrant, fleshy skin flute futures are of no consequence to a being of my overwhelmingly muddled anatomy. Look at that Chinee Man all indifferent and murderous on my goat-body haunch, he don't give but a crown nugget of his John Woo 'Fralaggletite' Crown bout yah overnight Wi-Fi leeching, V.D. getting @$$es neither. We here on this here mountain, with our 2 but loyal mini patrons auditioning for my berries and all, with this mutha f*ckin escalator leading to my mutha f*ckin palpitating shiny contoured mutha f*ckin strawberry garland friendship choker, defining my manny ego cranial just to tease you supposed purebred mutha fathas into learning the trooof of yer situation. Which is to say, Y'all ain't pure, and the mutha f*cking tea kettle booty hood affixed to my wierdly backlit goat bits can attest to that fact. We here to spread menace and country-ass merengue pie guts on regal rows of swisher sweet disembowelled blunts all ova ya Eukanuba Kennel Club 3rd Place Certified Bitch Ritual Laminates. That is to say, I got these wobbly little shag carpet covered legs that can barely buoy up the weight of my mountain owning keister, and me and the Indifferent John Woo Head with his sly-man Ray-Bans need some retribution for the DNA LowBall Foul that went into making me this mutha f*ckin fruit pie deity that I be. Look at that escalator, purebreds, ya'll want little Smucker's Preserve workers taking samples of yer fruit-goiters to increase they dwindling profit potentials? Give me that pure, or I'ma disvalidate it with my tea kettle booty and its menacing hiss, and perhaps the semi-transparent ice-elf ho that I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of been following me around can break you off some of that ill crystal magic she fabled to possess and get me some soft rubbery new legs to go with this model-ass smile of mine. MyGen Profile Generator
Who I'd like to meet/ mate/ kill:
That mark-ass Guantanamo Bay Surgeon who promised me that a Chaucer recitation and a steady regimen of inhaling melted g.i. joe bonfire fumes wuz the only way to anesthetize my fine, parcelled goat bod during the surgery to have that sophisticated but indifferent ass Woo head removed. Fool Woo Talker made a deal with that Surgeon while I was only 70% under (hearing but paralyzed) that he'd barter for his life in exchange for accepting a cursed jewel crown that makes its wearer's other head burst out with Strawberry Goiters every time he be all insecure about his last model shoot. I'ma pedigree pimp that mut-ass Doctor.Oh yeah, and that pseudo-invisi elf stripper who I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of. I wanna meet her real bad.