Victoria’s Secret is empty, on account of the Great Sloughing, I suppose. But I still can’t get any service. The girl behind the counter, vacant, practically drooling, shows no interest in my wife’s lingerie needs. Instead, she offers to take me into a dressing room and try on some outfits for me, at which point I realize, duh, she’s a zombie, and I have to take her out. The manager yells at me for not using my silencer, and then says they don’t accept American Express, or anything American.
Tax Payers Get A Lap Dance
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