Nainstalovat Steam
přihlásit se | jazyk
简体中文 (Zjednodušená čínština) 繁體中文 (Tradiční čínština) 日本語 (Japonština) 한국어 (Korejština) ไทย (Thajština) български (Bulharština) Dansk (Dánština) Deutsch (Němčina) English (Angličtina) Español-España (Evropská španělština) Español-Latinoamérica (Latin. španělština) Ελληνικά (Řečtina) Français (Francouzština) Italiano (Italština) Bahasa Indonesia (Indonéština) Magyar (Maďarština) Nederlands (Nizozemština) Norsk (Norština) Polski (Polština) Português (Evropská portugalština) Português-Brasil (Brazilská portugalština) Română (Rumunština) усский (Ruština) Suomi (Finština) Svenska ( védština) Türkçe (Turečtina) Tiếng Việt (Vietnamština) Українська (Ukrajinština) Nahlásit problém s překladem
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⢺⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿
⣿⣿⡏ ⣀ ⣤⣤⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣦⣤⡄ ⢀⣴⣿
⣿⣿⣷⣄ ⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⡧ ⢀⣤⣶
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣮⣭⣿⡻⣽⣒ ⣤⣜⣭ ⢐⣒ ⢰
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣾⣿ ⢈⢿⣷⣞
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣿⣿⣷⣶⣾⡿ ⣿ ⢻⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿ ⢘⢻
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿ ⢹⣿⣿⡇⢀⣶⣶ ⢽
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿ ⢸⣿⣿ ⡟⢿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⡿ ⣿⣧⣀ ⡀⣴ ⢘⡙
⢿ ⣴⡟ ⡃
KFC has some of the weirdest ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ advertisements and publicity campaigns I have ever seen. Now, I understand the crispy colonel, who doesn't want to see Sanders in his tighty whiteys with his massive bulge stickingout. Seeing him as a football coach, now that was amazing. Just imagining him slapping the asses of and ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ those muscular young men aroused me in a way that I could never imagine. I became so jealous, I wanted to kill those men just so I could be with him myself. Why would they deprive me of my Colonel, my precious and beautiful Kentucky Prince?
I often dream about Colonel Sanders, beating me in the face with his colossal, crispy drumstick as I guzzle down his mashed potatoes and gravy, perhaps even indulging in the bits of macaroni and cheese he has stored in his glorious, Kentucky-shaped rectum.