Luna Letterkenny Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

The Hicks and Their Friends

You'd figure after 8 seasons, using words like whore to make puns such as whora secord, whorey feldman, or whora the explorer and the best one.

First off, I head to the café on the corner of the Market Square. You know the one, with the best scones in town? I’m all set for a nice cuppa and a scone. But guess what? They’re out of scones! Like, how do you run out of scones? It’s a café, not a rocket launch! I’m fuming, but I settle for a muffin. Not the same, but whatever.

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