Teach Difference Between Sk- And Sc-

It is also Palm Sunday when the rising semo give fuck

So always the case. I tell everyone (wife, daughter, mother, brother) "I do not break my dick, Sunday can not see you and hear you in the morning I go to the bike that I've got the race in June, then later in symbiosis with the sofa and remote control of Sky. "
Me ripensacce spit in the face.
My mother-in-law (born holy woman from one of the intersections Eichmann between a Doberman and a steamroller, track) when I call the shorts "that come to you so do the barbecue."
Now.
In the previous sentence are crap in pairs, the first come from you. My mother-in-law, by itself, does not even look at the time. My mother-in-law, alone, do not even use toilet paper. My mother-in-law, by itself, does not emit gases as by-products even digestive problems.
My mother-in-law moves in a pack.
you, my father (poor man that I love and who, for reasons unknown to most people, like my mother-in-law), son of my mother-in-law dickhead (referred to one of the two, is the same ), the companion of a dick, daughter of dickhead otherwise said Rosemary baby.
The second is the shit we barbecue. The barbecue
I do.
Now, I understand that you like the stuff done on the barbecue, but to do it, it took hours for a jerk who has smoked, seared and burned his eyes, sipped every asshole who has not even turned on a television that transmits a cooking program but believed Visscher (sausages've been through in the ice before cooking? Senno are not good. And the pork ribs are slaughtered by the light of the moon, the sixth year of using knives and mother of pearl millet that this is not you hear the wild? Are you using a fork and not the normal bucasausicce 2000?) and that, moreover, must remember the taste of baking all. I
.
plus What are vegetarian.
Over the years I got at least one thing, a condition from which there shall be disregarded: I make the barbecue and cook everything, but should never miss the beer. They do, this is true. So
laying the bike, you go to buy sausages, ribs and bacon for everyone, just the charcoal and cook. All with my wife yelling orders in a whirlwind vacuum cleaner, bed linen beaten and stuff hidden in the closets.
My mother-in-law arrives in time. The son lives in paris asshole. Stepping out of the house had two choices: turn left and take the easy connection or turn right and would not slip as no one in the casino blocking traffic for the ROME MARATHON sporting event advertised for six months who know well the kids and ratatuoille type mice.
What I tell you to do? Right.
start to eat? Noooo then the kid is offended. The infamous dickhead bitch the teacher has even phoned to say "do not start without us, ten minutes and we're there," something like an hour and a half before you get really.
Cute as fine an officer.
Not to mention the bitch of a daughter four years ago even if below, carefully choosing the carpet in the living room as a target we were not even in the big Lebowski and snatching from the hands of my little daughter Irene decides to take anything. I allowed myself tell him to stop and mom took me aside and explained to me that nononono, Carlottina not be shooting that is still sensitive and she is convinced that children should be left alone and free to express themselves, all while the baby takes the anti-Christ ' album that my daughter was coloring and pulls him laughing before his eyes. To which I would reply, "Look, you're right, your daughter is sensitive and must be left free to express MA, or you take it and take it away from me before or Irene's face turns red his sensitive ass in the face, and then I make him see how freely you cut your tires free fucking free suv you have left free to express themselves freely on my roses. " Took
his daughter and he did not again mentioned.
They bring the cake. The usual
fucking puff pastry. Seventeen years you know. Seventeen years that I attend your home and you mine. Seventeen years that every fucking dinner, christening, dinner, Christmas, Easter, birthday party or baby Satanist, and you always with puff pastry. But they pay you? You are members of a secret Masonic lodge for the spread of milfoil? You are aliens and communicated through the layers of pastry? Not the fucking mimosa sacher but na, na charlotte, a fruit tart. What does it cost?

Needless to say, have left home or after the first twenty minutes of Private Ryan.
I still have to finish cleaning.
I hate them. All.