Mia Eelde Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So I’m peekin’ round, thinkin’, “Where’s these lasses at?” Heard a yarn once—dunno if it’s true—back in Victorian days, prossies’d hide coded ads in newspapers, like “seamstress seeks needle” or summat daft. Clever, eh? Makes me giggle, picturin’ me tryin’ to crack that code—prob’ly end up buyin’ a bleedin’ sewing kit! So I’m mumblin’ to meself, “Find a prostitute, find a prostitute,” when—BAM!—this bird in fishnets pops outta nowhere. “Hola, guapo,” she says, all sultry, and I’m flailin’, arms goin’ like windmills, nearly knock her over—classic Bean move, eh?

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But then, just when I thought the day couldn’t get crazier, I get a call. It’s from the church. Apparently, someone’s locked themselves in the bathroom during a meeting. I’m like, “Seriously? Who does that?” So, I rush back, and there’s this poor guy, red-faced and panicking. I’m trying to be all calm, but inside I’m dying of laughter.

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