Head over to my weather-proof gambler's den (stop snooping). Drop a couple quarters in a day-baseball contest. Judge, you mongoloid fuck: smack some long dongs all over these red socked racial realists. Who shall be my pitcher on this sunniest of sports matinées? You look quite dandy, Mr. Jacoby Junis (and I like your name). Slide snugly into my coveted top spot and throw those 98.3 mph fastballs quickly and—oh, can you not hit any batters? Can you throw an off-speed sinker to lead-off hitter Bubblegum Jones? He has a propensity to swing at garbage below the zone. Please, K that fat slobbering Chaddington Bear so hard he spits out his chewing tobacc-gum.
Hey, as long as it is bat-ball season, the snoreswing references will continue to manifest in this testosterone-soaked vagina monologue. Like I said hours ago, I threw some 💵s at King Draft and hoped, in his gracious graciousness, he'd throw me a few money-colored bones back. Times passes, blah blah blah. Instead, this absolute King Dick fucks me in the ass and doesn't even spare me a dime (?)
Aaaaah, well; yeah; um. It's OK, though. There's a #WNBA game I've researched for the past ten seconds I'm fully confident about betting $100 on. Tell me that I shouldn't do the thing. I'm begging you guys to take this fat hundo from my broke-ass and put it to good use (education, porn subscriptions, Rocket League crates). Spongebob voice: 10 minutes latah. So, before I typed all that nonsense I realized I have negative $2.84 in my Draft Killmyself account. FUCK. I'm out of here, the DFS God Himself is after me and oh fuck he's here and I only have enough to p—BANG.
Not sure what dis is but I guess I'll hit Publish?
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