Teaching A Black Hole To Spit, Not Swallow | Mass Effect 2 Legendary Edition
Mass Effect 2 Legendary Edition is finally here. The gorgeous near perfect remaster and the exact threadbare excuse I needed to pollute the foyer of this channel in exactly the same saturated sci-fi orgy manner than I did all those years ago. This is one of my favourite franchises of all time and its going to show hard. Wanna see a grown man cry? Might as well stay here on the channel...it-it just keeps happening. This time it tastes like joy though so, that's a win
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Welcome to my let's play of Mass Effect 2 Legendary Edition, in this episode: Ah yes, the gobble gawk wonderlands of slurping space time like 2.5 ounces of dead grandma's love shaped spaghetti themselves, all tramp, no lady, the kind of everlasting succ damage steven hawking thought might just get his legs as solid as their half sized thighgap teatime guest where he gets to be the teabag, and the ripples of gasm would use all the letters from his cripple card, and leave him only with C to represent his passable pantless jig he just performed, with even more drool than his melting flip flop chin is used to. In case you haven't worked it out from all these wheelie wet dreams - its a black hole. And not the kind all too inflated on Jacob's planet snorting beak ornament. They will siphon in whatever they can into their lipless cavity, they are not curd or cum sensitive and will not even need to wipe before or after its impregnated by every square inch of sexually incompatible snack size reality as we know it, with every single intention to stillbirth our human zoo into another dimension with a difficulty check of 202 where the only dice we have are a snake's actual eyeballs and we can't savescum through the gristly hiss flavoured jelly rolling, because both our thumbs and the F5 key now occupy the same micropixel pinprick and they don't plan to be loving neighbors with a mutual hell squeeze contract where they both have to be saved in each other's Skype contacts as 'not just another juicy customer'. Some say you can survive into the world on the other side of that fat discounted colonoscopy of megalodon muff continuum proportions if you wear a head to toe trench warfare condom and tell the Durex space program you'll see them on the other side with one small life deleting pump for man, one giant cherry popping slog for all mankind freedom fighting for millions of sperm forever oppressed by my evil ball corporation in the scrotal panopticon. But unfortunately the CIA keep dronestriking ol' reliable every time I knit her back together and put her in my astronaut wallet, so there's gotta be something they don't want us knowing in there. Maybe the nearest black hole is what really blew Bill Clinton under the desk all those years ago, and they're keeping us at arms length from some physics defying swirly chops that can stretch their elastic sock jaw around any throbby buildings, boulders and bean combination loafs, willing to provide blowjobs in the style of a competitive eater and would only be trounced by one of mother's dry sizequeen sausage image problems she keeps hyperlinking to you to encourage you to take your squeaky spitwashed halloumi wrapped diet pills she's got you on to keep you off the girth podium she's made her gold veiny home. Even then, the physical affection we can gigadrain down our budew funnel of unrequited daddy time from the cosmic thirst anomaly x plus size mummy dearest's gravitational waistband cannot compare to the physicality being freely given and received to Liara's watermelon with a crude face drawn on in permanent marker friend whose being held captive, and like all captive watermelons he's undergoing extreme thigh torture that cannot be left on read, until he can be sold seedless to a market that doesn't like choking on unfertilized tree babies like all the ents of middle earth became extremist asexuals the very moment they entered the microsplash water slide of highly acidic vegetarian vore. The kind of bottom shelf reliable bondage you can whack out on a park memorial bench at 4:30 am to convince the police you're just some elusive roaming fox who likes to have slapstick clinking the glass plugs and saying cheers carnal desires inside of a compact dustbin, when really you're warming up your cantaloupe cumdump companion with your bodyheat and electro-ejaculating what could've been someone's desperation lunch in a jiffy.
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