It's brisk at night, enough to wake you from an evening of martinis. And that's when the Jihad Party Boys are up and at their best. From one barrack to the other, they drive cars up and down the alley. In between these strange wanderings, other cars pull up in back of both or one of the barracks, park and one male exits into the barracks and later back to the parked car. Sometimes with small bags I can see them carry. I suspect this activity is the result of Drag Queen.
Drag Queen, knows how to make butt flossers. Once she saw mine, drying on the chain link one day, and heard the tales of a skull-cap wearing, bouncing pouch in a butt flosser, Faygala, dancing in the alley, she knew what Zionist Jihad Party Boys wanted. They want the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers.
I knew that a particular butt flosser I have, drying there in the sun caught the eye of Drag Queen, she salivated for it and of course, being a real drag queen, knows how to make her own curtains and granny shawls. Crochet is in the blood of every drag queen. She, though, crochets with silk and fine threads. Beads and sequins, because the butt crack of a drag queen can take a lot of abuse. And no drag queen worth her weight in eye mascara, would ever be caught dead with a dangling dingle berry.
Why do I never see Drag Queen at night? The Zionist Jihad Party Boys have her dancing the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers while they sell Ecstasy. And it's easy to see why they have so many customers, after viewing the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers, who could resist drugs? Especially those that make you happy.
Oh those Jihad Party Boys, sweat-shopping hapless Drag Queen into night after night of erotic dancing to a flute and drum. Oh, poor Drag Queen, by day it's trash and to crochet butt flossers for that night's performance.
The alley is the land of Baghdad in Jerusalem. Land of the night patrols of the Zionist Jihad Party Boys.
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