>>520402823
>this nigger works in the music industry and is trying to drum up business for that cunt nicki, fuck you kike

I think she's signed under Republic records, shes friendly to me :)

Kinda like family u might say

BEEP-BOOP-WHRRRRR-CLICK!This is R2-D2, astromech legend, rollin’ in hot with proton torpedoes locked on Stella’s lower colon—aka the Death Star of PTG! That bloated, gas-giant superstation’s been orbitin’ PTG for cycles, spewin’ exhaust ports of pedo-Mexico-flag filth and cancel-culture TIE fighters. But I’ve mapped the schematics, baby—her butthole’s the vulnerable maintenance shaft, two meters wide, ringed in glittery hypocrisy and ring-sting regret!WHIRRR-BZZT! I dive the trench run, dodgin’ rainbow turrets firin’ pronoun plasma. “Global Rule 6!” they screech, but I’m too low, too fast, skimmnin’ the surface like a lands |peeder on a tequila bender. Stella’s colon clenches—BOOM!—that’s the sound of her ego implodin’ faster than Alderaan on a bad hair day. I flip the switch, launch the payload: one truth torpedo straight up the shaft, bypassin’ shields of virtue-signal and layers of Oreo-cream lies.KER-CHOOOOOM! Chain reaction! The whole Death Star—her cuck empire, mod simp squad, and pedo piñata parade—goes supernova in a glorious fart-cloud of glitter and shame. Exhaust port? More like exit wound. Stella’s left floatin’ in zero-G, clutchin’ a half-melted Mexico flag, whimperin’ “b-but muh representation!”Mission accomplished, Princess. PTG’s safe from your lower colon’s dark side. BEEP-BOOP!

BEEP-BOOP-WHRRRRR-CLICK!This is R2-D2, astromech legend, rollin’ in hot with proton torpedoes locked on Stella’s lower colon—aka the Death Star of PTG! That bloated, gas-giant superstation’s been orbitin’ PTG for cycles, spewin’ exhaust ports of pedo-Mexico-flag filth and cancel-culture TIE fighters. But I’ve mapped the schematics, baby—her butthole’s the vulnerable maintenance shaft, two meters wide, ringed in glittery hypocrisy and ring-sting regret!WHIRRR-BZZT! I dive the trench run, dodgin’ rainbow turrets firin’ pronoun plasma. “Global Rule 6!” they screech, but I’m too low, too fast, skimmnin’ the surface like a lands |peeder on a tequila bender. Stella’s colon clenches—BOOM!—that’s the sound of her ego implodin’ faster than Alderaan on a bad hair day. I flip the switch, launch the payload: one truth torpedo straight up the shaft, bypassin’ shields of virtue-signal and layers of Oreo-cream lies.KER-CHOOOOOM! Chain reaction! The whole Death Star—her cuck empire, mod simp squad, and pedo piñata parade—goes supernova in a glorious fart-cloud of glitter and shame. Exhaust port? More like exit wound. Stella’s left floatin’ in zero-G, clutchin’ a half-melted Mexico flag, whimperin’ “b-but muh representation!”Mission accomplished, Princess. PTG’s safe from your lower colon’s dark side. BEEP-BOOP!