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| fat lip, fat girl thong, low fat cooking, sexy bbw, chubby man, shower, fat burning food, large cunt, food that burn fat, fat woman sex, fat joe, big fat ass, fat loss supplement, free plumper nude, | It was during this processing time that The Crew got to bond. The black guys talked a lot about "fucking," and delighted in the good-natured busting of balls. Mullet Head would plump boobs try to convert us all to the world of NASCAR and turkey hunting, like some crazed Born Again. Fatty would usually work in silence as his cheeks grew redder and redder, with his musk escalating until it plump boobs finally reached its zenith and began levelling off. The twenty year-old "supervisor" would invariably remove plump boobs his shirt (because it was just so damn hot in there), and strut around showing off his pumped-up torso. I hated that asshole, and not only because he shaved his armpits. But that sure didn't help. During each shift there would be several gut-sinking moments when I'd silently ask myself, "What in the hell are you doing here?!" One night we were having lunch, at four in the morning, by the cash registers. Somebody was flipping through the Weekly World News, or some such thing, and there was a picture of a guy with no body below his ribcage. |
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| During my time lording over the Detergent Aisle, we were constantly out of free plumper nude bleach, and management would free plumper nude practically do backflips of exasperation. But, hell, it only came six to a box, and it took up a lot of space. If I just said fuck it, and ordered a ton of free plumper nude the stuff, entire pallets would roll off the truck later that week. Then I'd be given a raft of shit about that. I never broke the code of the bleach, and to this day little beads of sweat break out on my forehead when I see a full-size bottle of Clorox. (I have a feeling that the people of Greensboro, North Carolina use more bleach per capita than anywhere else on Earth. I really do. Goddamn, those people could buy some whiteners!) Several times a week a big eighteen-wheeler truck would arrive from the warehouse, and we'd have to process the contents. We'd set up this long metal conveyor contraption in the backroom, run each box of stock down the length of the thing, cut the tops off, and sort it into whichever aisle-section it belonged to. |
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