Blue-balled midgets, schizophrenic autists, Miley Cyrus' fan base... this woman's sexual clientele is more well-rounded than IHOP's farmhouse breakfast. Unfortunately there's no visuals of penetration. But what it lacks in nightmares... it makes up for in California's voting pool.
There's only two people on Earth that should never be caught fishing for brown trouts: Lindsay Lohan in her 'i'll snort Tide Pods' phase, and this chick. She's 19, anti-semen and dumber than a mailbox on Sunday. In other words: she was BORN for eFukt.
Kinda off topic, but 8 hrs ago it seemed like a good idea to eat 64 slices of American Cheese and wash it down with a bottle of gin. Then someone had the gall to say Have a good morning to me. Listen mom, unless you have a sewing kit and extensive knowledge of battle wounds, your request is permanently denied.
Amber Rayne climbs to the top of America's Most Wanted. Alanah Rae is in desperate need for Dr. Phillip. And the girl at the end has no officially listed name, and that's the bottom line because Stone Cold Steve Autism said so.
A happily married couple is currently pushing the boundaries of amateur porn. They're both jizz fanatics that mix their love of semen with public escapades. I wish I had a friend with a wife like this.
Anastasia Rose becomes the next spokeswoman for Charmin Ultra Soft. Riley Reid reaches peak brain rot. Kenzie Reeves masters the art Yondu's arrow. And this "Gala MV" girl... well... there's no coming back for her. What the fuck?
Two things you should definitely abandon before agreeing to have sex with total strangers: Self-respect and Beef-a-roni. One of these is more important than the other, and I'm just gonna let you figure out what order they should be in.
Go ahead and label this the blurring of lines between equality in the work place and PTSD, as illustrated by sex acts that have led more adult diaper sales than In n' Out's Animal Style. Never before has adult entertainment made me prouder of my cataclysmic cache of Walmart rewards points.
Everything in life has a proper explanation if you open your mind. Except the homie trying to scrub daddy his dirty walnut on a Tuesday afternoon in broad daylight around the 1:45 mark. NORAD will hear about this.
Another chapter closed in a book that Barnes & Noble insists on displaying in the Sci-Fi section. Normally read in the dimly lit corner of a trailer park that doesn't show up on Google maps, surrounded by Newports and half-eaten cans of Costco's finest meatball ravioli.
The lore actually goes deeper than you could have ever imagined. It's not about the volume of anonymous vagabond cocks. It's not about the money. It's about sending a [fucking] message.
A rousing assembly of women that don't believe teh night is over until their clout levels have reached unmeasurable proportions. Reminiscent of a reoccurring dream I keep having involving Brock Lesnar and Long John Silver’s Cocktail Sauce.
