You know by now I'm a sucker for sob story letters. Granted, most of your pleading correspondence do end up lining the cage of my obese cockatoo, Mr. Dick-Spaniel. But once in a while, one of your tear-stained emails find their way into the small part of my heart where real emotions still live and I become touched. Like EgoReader 'Grant' who claims that I am completely dismissive of all the hotness that lies within the borders of French Canada. I think it's called French Canada, but I'm sure somebody from there will tell me it's called something else in French.
Specifically, I guess I'm a Quebecist of some sort, prejudiced against the sextastic you find if you get lost in Upstate New York and accidentally keep driving north. Even more specifically, Grant can not believe that prodigious model Christelle has never graced our colorful pages before and this is some kind of outrageous infamy. I don't know about all that, or even why French Canadians get so dramatic, but, if revealing a dramatically attractive nekkid visual artist from the land of poutine will cause a cessation of hostilities between our two tribes, I'm not going to withhold the boobtastic. Enjoy.
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