Jennifer Tilly

Jennifer Tilly.

Nuff said.

I’d love to go to Austria, visit yer man Fritzl and pick his brains about basement and holding tips.  Obviously up to the point that he got caught, but the logistical experience he’d have in managing a project like that could prove useful.  Then I’d built a basement, kidnap Jennifer Tilly, and make it her new home.

Then I’d give her a butt plug in the shape of Charlotte Church and tell her she had better make it fit by the time I got home.  Then I’d go out, locking the basement door behind me, and go about my business.  I’d go to the post office and do some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d go to the bank and do some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d go to the shops and buy some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d park outside the local girls school during rainy basket ball practice, with a massive horn.  Why would I have a horn all this time?

Because at home, in my basement with a bottle of Don Carlos for lube and a near collapsed sphincter would be my little sperm receptacle, Jennifer Tilly.

Each time I’d enter her, she’d squeal in that cartoon like voice that nothing fills her like my four inch golliath.  If I closed my eyes it’d be like fucking an autistic Betty Boop.  And you’ve no idea how much that turns me on, it shouldn’t, but it does.

Her slutty grin that screams: “Squirt it here”.

That glint in her eye that says all she wants to do to please me is gargle my balls until I paint her face.

That movie she did where she was a lesbian movie with some other chick and they play an awesome game of Find the Bean.  It’s called Bound and made my the Matrix people before they made the Matrix.  It’s just spurterific.

Anyway, by the time I’d be finished with her she’d have a vag like a parachute, an ass like buttermilk, toes like dehydrated chupa chups and tits like over inflated, then deflated balloons.  All of this in exchange for fresh uncirculated air and genuine sun light.

Ok, now nuff said.