dChan
nogoathomo ID: 9d7355 April 16, 2022, 3:37 p.m. No.16089054   🗄️.is 🔗kun

>>16072393

for only $10.5 million a day batjoto can

>>> frolicking's in a cape with a butler

with starving israeli juws >>16072359

 

>>>and whine bout trannys

cause flesh eating tweaker nazis and faggot movie

>yuge gape in sodom and gamorhea plot

with a barge and an island

nogoathomo ID: 9d7355 April 16, 2022, 4:10 p.m. No.16089242   🗄️.is 🔗kun

>>16072393

for only $10.5 million a day batjoto can

>>> frolicking's in a cape with a butler

with starving israeli juws >>16072359

 

>>>and whine bout trannys

cause flesh eating tweaker nazis and faggot movie

>yuge gape in sodom and gamorhea plot

with a barge and an island

nogoathomo ID: 9d7355 April 16, 2022, 4:26 p.m. No.16089316   🗄️.is 🔗kun

but they larped farts and suckeled foreskins for thousands of years of fake history in the dark taint of a complex scam in little foreskin hats

nogoathomo ID: 9d7355 April 16, 2022, 4:29 p.m. No.16089324   🗄️.is 🔗kun   >>9340

>>16089322

>>>temple died

 

>temple sacrifice by IKEA

 

>>>>>burned babylon down

 

>drunk homos panic

 

>>>>>and no one cared

 

>cause peanut butter in the desert

peter and paul in a thong for a psalm

nogoathomo ID: 9d7355 April 16, 2022, 5:21 p.m. No.16089584   🗄️.is 🔗kun

Club Super Sexe is located at 696 St. Catherine, just down the street

from the place where Conrad had spun into his dance frenzy on my last

trip. According to my colleagues who run the Super Sexe, there are 80

dancers on the roster, but there were only about 20 still working this

late on Thursday night.

There was something unsettling about the crowd, which consisted of

major pimps and boyfriends—wild-looking Canucks with 14-karat gold

chains and black biker sweat shirts with chopped-off sleeves and the

dumb, nervous eyes of animals who sense they're in trouble but don't

quite know where it's coming from.

There was also something unsettling about the dancers, which was so

foreign I felt I should bring it up with the natives, just to be sure I wasn't

ignorant about some bizarre Canadian tradition.

"Is it fatigue hysteria," I asked, "or does that woman have hairy

legs?"

"Well . . . ah . . . yeah," Terrence said without much of his usual

conviction.

Just about that time, a woman came to our table and offered to

dance—Montreal's watered-down version of lap dancing. Terrence qui-

etly decHned, and when the woman was a safe distance from the table,

I leaned over and in a desperate whisper said to him, "Ye gods! Another

woman with hairy legs. …"

"No, you're mistaken . . . take off your dark glasses," he said.

"Don't lie to me, Terrence," I said. "The woman has hairy legs. I

have not been in the business this long for nothing, and my eyes at this

range are like those of a snow falcon. Do all Quebec women have hairy

legs?"

He pretended not to hear, and it was just as well. It was 2:55 a.m. —

the last dance—and I knew from my professional experience the girls

were in the dressing rooms packing their things, eager to get home, and

nobody was in the mood to discuss issues of hygiene.

~j

Montreal is a strange city. It was built about 400 years ago on an ice-

bound island in the St. Lawrence River by renegade Frenchmen who

thought they had found the New World and would soon own it.

This has not come to pass—or at least not yet, according to the hard

rockers who speak for the Free Speech Quebec Separatist Party who

identify mainly with the I.R.A., Puerto Rican nationalists and the ghost

of Chiang Kai-shek. But they say it will happen soon—that the long

screw of history is still turning and the war is not over yet.