Mister Anderson

It's been one wig since my last conflation.

Last night as I slept and dreamt I had the usual shamefully erotic thoughts. It was the oft-repeated wanderlust wherein Ivanka Trump creeps into my cupboard in the middle of the night an admonishes me to rub powdered silica gel into her asshole while she bounces her tits off my skull and whispers 'Onward christian soldiers'. I have to admit it's starting to feel a bit rehearsed, she's not a particularly skilled actress.
So there ...