Foxy
is supposed to be hip, handsome, with it, cool. Anyone with two brain
cells to mash together realizes that bingo is a very bad game to try and
win with, and that shared across the internet it is nothing but a
scam. Here we see an actor in a shitty fursuit playing up the English
fantasy of nudity in the (warm) sun on a beach not made of icy pebbles
still slimed with the rotting wreckage of Spanish warships from the days
of the white lead painted psychopath queen these pale, spotty, black
sock wearing in badly lit pornography kipper addicted people would still
worship except she and their empire is now long gone, so they have to
look up to a royal family so inbred not a one could lace up their shoes
unaided, except perhaps the fat guy who doesn't sweat that likes having
sex with children so much.
Judging from the extras in these commercials the miasma of most, stained, yellowed panties hung over the set like distant heat lightning flickering on a summer's day.
If the English want a happening fox they should hire an American. Foxy Bingo has hired Heather Graham as their new fox, presumably at least in Great Britain someone knows who or what she is.
The Wind In The Willows was a long time ago.
Foxes, drawn by the war hero illustrator of The Wind In The Willows, Ernest Shepard.
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi!
“The Lottery, with its weekly pay-out of enormous
prizes, was the one public event to which the proles paid serious
attention. It was probable that there were some millions of proles for
whom the Lottery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining
alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their
intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned, even people who
could barely read and write seemed capable of intricate calculations
and staggering feats of memory. There was a whole tribe of men who made
their living simply by selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets.
Winston had nothing to do with the Lottery, which was managed by the
Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (indeed everyone in the party was
aware) that the prizes were largely imaginary. Only small sums were
actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being nonexistent
persons.”
George Orwell, 1984
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