Problem is, as C. Moore's other writings have already revealed to you, it isn't so easy to convince people that apparently matter - judges and so forth - that this very message isn't apparent to C. Moore on every single tight little muscle butt he sees.
Seems like the UK legal system is bent on fixin' old C. Moore. Curin' myself of my prede-lick-tions. But tell me, your honour, is she or is she not lookin' at herself in that mirror wonderin' how many accidents in pants she's gonna cause today? Is she or is she not aidin' and abettin' C. Moore in his so-called "anti-social" ways with her choice of glootwear? Seems to me, your honour, that C. Moore is the VICTIM here.
Have I really acted, as you say, "outrageously"? I put it to you, sir, that the outrage was really the choice of outfit. The outrage was the public display of divine glootage.
C. Moore freely admits that questionable decisions have been made by my good self. Joining Eleonora on stage, a sweaty hand on each cheek, was not the best. [C. Moore's infamous on stage appearance was made right after he had snapped the above pic - ed.] C. Moore needed a new set of teeth post-incident. Julie Bonnett's heels sure packed some power, believe. No excuses, lesson learned. Stage is for glootage display, not for C. Moore. Ensuing lifetime ban not unreasonable methinks. Still, je ne regrette rien. Knowin' Eleonora's glooteal hardness even for that fleeting moment before the pain began was worth every penny of the hospital and dental bills.
And most recently was I in traction after trying to help out the above. Am sure those hot pants told me she wanted to know how hard her deadliftin' was makin' that ass. Was sure, and AM sure. Anyway, next thing C. Moore knows is that he's finding out how hard she can punch him in the balls. So you know, she can punch HARD.
Like I said, VICTIM!
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