I can smell the lit joss sticks in the heathen shrine over there, It appears to be some kind of obese cat avatar, a Garfield buddha with mirrors and plastic plant garnish. Its alien to my eyes like the smell behind the sandalwood is to my nose but the ear-holes know the bing bung of the break beam door alarm, its a universal code that has brought tonight's honey hued harlot out from a cubicle in the back. The Cruise Dog has never been good at foreplay but a fist full of my pinapples later and I is face down on paper towels. She's giggling and I know its at my bants, not the way I accidentally dropped the towel from under my hairy white paunch, to let ping ping know exactly what's up, if you know what I mean.