The mathematician arose with a compulsion towards tea and biscuits accompanied with a black Cavendish basin to set ablaze. Alas, such desires, much like carnal counterparts, would seem to go unfulfilled more oft than not. No milk and honey flowing from divine cunt was found in the neighborhood about the mathematician’s position in space-time this morn. Rather, corporeal erotica satiated the ravenous hunger of the mathematician’s inner demons.
Over lunch the mathematician described the Cunt:
Oh yes, Ann, she is quite the Cunt…a linguist too! Her linguistic expertise involves the most carnal of communications!
Unamused the bitch looks on with tendered disgust imparted by her electric glare. Disappointed, the mathematician retreats to the thought of an ideal day in an improper existence. Interruption ensues, as a fleshy hammer prepares to knock in the cloacal obsession. An advert presents itself.
“Take care not to produce a posterior rose as you investigate near the coccyx with your phallic delights!”