"How much candy would you like from the pick and mix baby daughter?" My daddy asks. "Can I have 12 computer encyclopaedias and a cutie crotch please?" I reply.
"Do you really need 12 encyclopaedias my peachy prostate cancer?" My daddy hockey dad says.
"Are you body shaming me daddyo?" I scream largely.
"No of course not you are the shape of a Wagamama stripper my darling scratchy scone!"
"Thank you papa!" I scream silently while constipated.
"I will buy you this candy if you twerk for me." He says. I gasp.
"But you are my birth father!" I say.
"That doesn't mean you can't shake your bottom for me my hella horse!" He smirks. Suddenly I jump into the pile of cow pat and consume all of the esteral elements.
"Wow daddy this tastes like trash! Fetch me my pick and mix or I'll blend your womb and your spinal cord." So he went to get my pick and mix but it costed 30 golden buzzers so I drank my urine.
