Some women that happen to look like rejected "Lord of the Rings" characters find themselves in a cheap hotel room, making a porn movie so atrocious that even the producer wouldn't show up to film it.
What happens when modern technology moves too quickly for humans to predict the next catastrophe? Porn. The answer is and always will be porn. Today's flavor is what might as well be an alpha version of Skynet attempting to end human population via suicidal gooning. We're fucked.
These porn producers, always so preoccupied with if they could, but never stopping to wonder if they should. I can't even imagine how awkward this scene must of been to film for everyone involved.
A socially inept goober gets a job getting jerked off by a hottie and manages to fuck it up, dashing his dreams of porn stardom in the process. It's like the movie Rudy, if Rudy was thrown out the game before ever playing and never scored.
Apparently Clayton Bigsby has an extended bloodline we were completely unaware of. Practice what you're about to see here & I promise - those pesky NPC'S will never scream "racism" again.
I don't know which ANTIFA rally that last girl ditched to shoot this scene, but her hygiene makes about as much sense as the 43,000 volts she pretends are running through her labia every time a guy named Ranjeete slaps down 50 Rupees on her "PubLiC cUmShOWs" ala Chaturbate.
Reminds me of something my grandpa used to say: Your output is only as good as your input. Not since the the trailer for Terminator Dark Fate have I been so disgusted with women over the age of 40.
Dog The Bounty Hunter once told me the daywalker is one of, if not the most elusive creature on our planet. Decades of evolution have molded them to be some sort of cockroach/human hybrid. You'd think their survival skills would be S-tier, but all I got out of this was a lower credit score.
Today's visuals couldn't get better if you slammed an Ambien cocktail and hit the boardwalk wearing nothing but a smile and Walmart's finest body spray. Speaking of New Jersey, not even [-carl-] himself would be caught $7 dollars deep in whatever spawned in the last clip.
Pretty much a public service announcement on the importance of knowing your limits before inking a deal. Some live to tell the tale. Others, are memed for life. But all have an abnormally intimate relationship with Newport cigarettes and Klonopin before the age of 25.
That feeling when you realize a backdoor studio in Japan with a $300 makeup budget is closer to the source material of the Resident Evil games than any official movie and whatever the fuck crawled out of Netflix headquarters put together. 2 thumbs up, would Jill off into my sandwich again.
Anybody have the technical name for this phenomenon? or a real explanation? Specifically one that doesn't involve voodoo dolls, Penn & Teller or Planet Wing's suicide sauce. I want answers.
