and squeeze the malt one mantu. she got wet, tell me the elements. in dermal croc and one not with nature. wild watchful own yelnya belarus in the early nineties, when we all fell so low, when we handed over the keys to the gates to the enemy, when he was the host in our house, and the liberal commissars took our girls to brothels, when everything was trampled down and nothing the holy evil of the world decided that it had won, that the story had ended, that it was time for the scum dealers in the belarusian case of bill chervona white rot. how cruel, they were wrong. there is no lie, the truth is always one truth. my name is grigory ozarenok. this is the secret spring of politics. hello , the first stone from the tower of babel of the trading civilization fell out, when our dad suddenly won on the continent, where one soros' drunken hiccups caused cataclysms and a shock threw him out with a powerful peasant hand, took him by the withers and over the cordon but as it was, just take western loans. buy bush's legs, th