Dear Ridiculously Dressed One in a Unicorn Yoga Pants One Piece,
Please I am writing this massage to you with a weight stuck in my aorta of which I know that is only place where blood flows up and outwards, or is it down and to the other head...if I were male, I would be expected to know this and forget it during periods of arousal, but that's not important now. What my template tells me to say is that you can help me in this situation that I am now, since Ray Harryhausen is daid and he took all his sword-fighting skeletons with him that might have protected me from Hellary's suicide flying monkey squadrons. Because I have her emails. And soon she'll assume that you do too.
I am so sorry to intrude into your privacy now that you know that I have Hellary's emails, so you might want to make suicide preparations too. Jeffrey Epstein didn't. I know you will be worried because this scene was put into Airplane after being cut from Mars Attacks, though the chronology doesn't really work there, but I just wanted you to know that we're all counting on you, since you resemble an abacus. I saw your profile in the internet when I am looking for a reliable chart that explains which of the 57 gender choices I am required to decide to be in order to be registered to vote democrap for the next hundred years I'm dead. And when I found your profile, I immediately called the police and told them that it was you that stole their commode so now they can come to you and have something to go on.
Why this is so is because I have prayed over it and see that regardless of it being an empty Coke bottle, goat head baphomet or Illuminincompoop symbol, it is only you that can help me.
When I introduce myself you see immediately instanters why I need help: I am Mrs. Sofia Hazmat and I have been suffering from being ceaselessly pursued by the EPA and OSHA ever since being born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus that dumped it's toilet contents on Highway 41. Now they tell me that I have few days to leave and I'm not sure where to go. I was told that you'd tell me where to go.
I hope that's not some joke thing from Monty Python's flying yoga pants.
I am originally from Uranus, but was relocated to (Lhasa) China in a failed TV mockudrama, so I had to settle for a job cleaning up around email terminals in a fly-infested internet cafe based in Africa Burkina Faso since eight years ago. Having done this well, they promoted me to a business woman with a marked name, dealing with methane exploitation.
Now that I am about to end the race like this without any idea that my racing tyrannosaur tripped and fell out of the gate, I decided to let you know that I have a modest raunch in the Sonora Desert where at I have gradually raised a herd of 2 Million crotch crickets which are highly prized in Africa for their drumsticks. Having learned that Jeffrey Epstein didn't kill himself led me to decide to donate all the proceeds from my Sonora Desert raunch to Burkina Faso which I instructed the bank to hose down generously with anti-bacterial douche formula, before bottling and marketing it to St Andrews Missionary Position Home in Burkina Faso. Y'know...home of the inflatable Bela Pelosi sex toys that led to her husband not wanting to have sex with something that leaked and squeaked and looked like her. So he refused cataract surgery and went with big framed Yugos instead.
But my mind is not at rest because I am writing this letter now through the help of my computer beside me sick at knowing that all these years I've been named for a chemical spill.
I blame that white cat meme that's so popular for the time being.
I also have 6.5 Million reasons that Hellary lost the election in 2008, 2016, 2020, and for any elections hence that she keeps herself alive to run in with her formaldehyde drips and cosmetic surgery that has her looking more and more like Kathie Griffin.
If you agree to help me with turning all of this into a made-for-cable movie about unicorn sex therapists invading Liechtenstein, I will instruct the bank in Burkina Faso to transfer all I have there to the first foreigner that texts the nation-wide key word to 200-200 on the hour, and I will ask that you wait to do so after I have gone, so that they can't give me shit about having told you to do that.
My email isn't byc.by@aol.com but it belongs to someone who'll wonder WTF when you write to them.
PLEASE REPLY ME AGAIN WITH THE ANSWERS TO THE QUESTIONS
BELOW FOR MY CONFIRMATION THAT EPSTEIN DIDN'T KILL HIMSELF OR KENNY ON SOUTH PARK:
1. Full Name:
2.Your age:
3. Your Sex:
4. Your Nationality's Sex:
5. Country of Sexual Residence:
6. Telephone Number Sex And If It's Any Good:
7.Your marital status;
8. Your marital's sex;
9. Is your marital any good at sex:
10. Is your marital the one screaming at the white cat in all those memes:
11. Sand to me your picture or a picture of someone other than the white cat in the meme;
You have to assured me that you will act has I have instructed you if authorities in Liechtenstein have been in touch with authorities on Uranus and they've also figured out by now that Epstein didn't kill himself.
Your fairly toxic friend,
Madam Mrs. Sofia Hazmat
Neither I nor the break-taking pet rocks thought to hear from Ol' Sofia after this edit.
We were wrong.
Next up: Part 2.
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