Another Kennedy Reetard

This is a famous painting of Eunice Kennedy, the reetard lady who just died just before her reetard brother Ted The Lady Killer died. Lookit this thing: it looks like a scene from Nightmare On Elm Street. Eunice looks like she eats human flesh, and she's got a platoon of reetards in tow and there is a glorious somethingorother going on in the sky as if all of creation is happy that this pack of unnatural monsters is roaming free, making a mockery of normal creation. Now, according to the queers, dykes, commies, muslims, satan worshippers and did i say queers?....running this country, this buttugly mess of Kennedy inbreeding is a great symbol and monument of terrific virtues: because she made a big public show of taking care of reetards. These people who hang around reetards do so for one reason: to play with their cocks, balls, tits, and pussies. Period. Because that's usually the only good things on the fuckers, and their cocks, balls, tits and pussies are usually always of the high octane variety. They fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and when they aint fuckin' they're masturbating. Shit, I'm retarded. I gotta find a Kennedy to play with my balls. These people workin' with reetards are ALWAYS finding a reason to get their hands on their cocks and tits and asking the reetards to jack them off and drink their jizz and the fuckin' reetards dont care, this is all they do, this is the only part of them that functions, their fucking crotch-circuits. You show me someone working with reetards I'll show you someone who is NEVER horny. It's an ongoing, 24 hour a day jackoff marathon and tit-sucking festival. If it ain't bathtime it's beddybye time, touching balls, touching twats, touching tits. The fucking reetards don't know the difference, if you don't play with their balls one of their own kind is going to five minutes from now. And it ain't as though these concrete-brained fuckmonkeys have MEMORIES. They forget what happend almost before it happens. And besides, their gonads are the only things they are even halfway aware of at all, the fact that it's you playing with 'em and not themselves playing with themselves, is hardly noticed by these red-eyed goon-faced, saliva-dribbling steel-bending hellhounds. If you ever want to have a billion dollar reality-show hit on your hands just follow a few people who "work with reetards" around with a camera for a few days, and bring a few towels because that camera lens is gonna get a lot of jizz and pussyjuice all over it. There's a reason why reetards never stink: they are being given baths all day long. There's a fucking long line of "helpers" just ready to soap-down Benjy's ten inch boner and 12 pound balls and Gertie's hot juicy tits and trim slim vayyy-JYNAHHHH. There's never a shortage of dude's scheduling themselves to give dog-faced
Brenda with the cheerleader's ass a cock-massage between her volleyball glutes and squirt a hose-load of white pecker-mud onto her backbone. Yeah: reetards; Nature's way of making dating for losers possible. Oh, is it time for the Smith Twins to take their shower? Here, let me get in there with you so that you clean everything. Ok Suzie, you wash your sister's pussy like this and Carla you clean your sister's nipples with your tongue and then you both clean my penis with your mouths like it's a candy tube, and then we'll all go over to Billy's room and see if his penis is big today or small today, ok?" Yup, workin' with reetards: it sure beats dating. And the expression "I hope I get lucky" has no meaning. Because you ARE gonna get lucky.