First time I've seen a wife rental video where the girl and her hired gun are left more humiliated than the husband. 7 1/2 inches of New Orlean's finest essentially left them completely mute, save for some sobbing that is usually reserved for the customer service desk at Lululemon. Hilarious.
[MAKE SURE YOU WATCH PART 1 FIRST] Here it is. A live demonstration of what may be the very first evidence that sexually transmitted diseases are a conspiracy. Freddie Mercury: I'm going to get you the justice you deserve.
There's just no hiding from your past once you pull the trigger on something like this. Their Ross Store wardrobes will be forever stained. The regret can't be washed off. And the $27 paycheck isn't enough to drink the memories away. #crankthattherapist
Around the 1:50 mark she denies a handful of the colonel's secret recipe. Uh uh. If that's her idea of cutting back on carbs, I'd love to know how she celebrates Thanksgiving. But the real question is: How many 2-for-1 Golden Corral coupons does it take to make this transaction possible?
Real? Deceptive editing? The Goku of premature ejaculation? I don't have the answer this time. But just imagine if he went even further with this talent. Plan-B's entire industry would need emergency funding.
If you we're an emotionally messed up prostitute, I'm sure you would fucking hate talking about your life too. But would you hate it more then sucking the dick of a self-titled "crack whore connoisseur"? More crazy in the source link.
What happens when you let your BBC-obsessed husband talk you into the kind of Smackdown WWE would be jealous of? Here's a hint: You end up booking a legendary Iron Man match, but there's no winner.
Irrationally sized flobberweavels, a urethra that's suffered more abuse than whoever the fuck bought Barstool for $500 mil and the recreation of a classic in glorious high(er) definition. Don't think of this as the balanced breakfast you need, think of it as the one you deserve.
Pigs flying, A Manson Family Hanukkah special and clean underwear after all-you-can-eat Chinese food. These are all things I expected to see long before a man that has mastered the art of hands-free ejacs. Next time do it into the palm of a guy named Carlos. It's called the Puerto Rican Panhandle, I invented it.
Of all the ways to absolutely starch what's left of your testosterone, scarfing down Milli Vanilli's splash damage was the last fucking thing I had my bingus card. Watching a stranger crack your s/o's purple turkey just doesn't make sense to me. Then again, anytime someone makes middle aged women squeal like a 2 for 1 HomeGoods sale, eyebrows are raised.
Easily the most deplorable attempt at eroticism to ever grace my 11" Amiga computer monitor [this week]. And that's coming from a human being who's seen more than 23 consecutive mins of a Dwayne Johnson movie. My opinion matters.
Who the fuck comes up with these hybrid fetish flicks? Next time you producers want to get creative, how about coating a machete in Zoloft and fucking Logan Paul up the cornholio until he's smiling like Matt Damon on the cover of Good Will Hunting? Google it.
