fingers? Fuck you, you ponce
As the youngest growing up on a farm with, at one count, two calves, a sheep, three dogs, two cats, a litter of kittens and a kestrel living in the kitchen, plus assorted humans, you learn pretty quickly that the only way to survive in these dark times for humanity is to lurch across the table with a broad sweep of the upper limbs and retreat, armed if possible, to a dark corner to lick your dinner off the inside of your forearm.

Fucking fingers. Don't know they're born, some people.
(pounana Slept well, and dreamed of large women, on, Fri 5 Nov 2010, 0:55, Reply)