Maeve Arklow Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dundalk

Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, them gals in Russian Sign Language—da hands flyin’ like missiles! Whore, see, it’s a word, gets folks riled up, makes me madder’n a wet hen. I reckon it’s ‘cause it’s slung ‘round like mud on a pig farm. Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know, shame on somebody! Can’t fool me twice, no siree, I’m sharp as a tack—well, maybe a dull one.

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After that, I’m starving. I wander over to the Quay. The fish and chips there are legendary. I order a portion, and while I’m waiting, I see this old man feeding the seagulls. I swear, those birds are like little flying rats. They swoop in, and I’m half-expecting one to steal my food. But the old dude just laughs. “They’re harmless,” he says. I’m like, “Yeah, until they take my dinner!”

Tragedy in Arklow as a young man loses his life in workplace accident