[what you know]: Anyone that's had a TV on after 1:00AM between the years 1997 and 2003 are still trying to get this fucking theme song out of their heads. [what you don't know]: Doug "hobgoblin" Stanhope had the approachability of post-nut clarity Clint Howard. I demand a reboot.
I don't know why anyone would post such things of themselves onto such a terrible place as the internet, but whatever! Come ride the shit train with me on a journey into the awful side of amateur pornography.
An aryan idol sexually trolls the hotel bell hop in order to win a "contest" that may or may not even exist. Regardless, Michael Cera is here to help. Although I'm not entirely convinced he's ever done this before.
This girl is ridiculously cute. I want to hold her hand. I want to smell her hair. I want a 3x5 inch cut-out of the computer chair fabric that was blessed with her vaginal discharge. Until then, this gem will have to do.
Another posse of preoccupied partially sentient protagonists wondering if they could but never questioning if they should. These things would have never happened if they just gave Jeff Goldblum the Oscar.
After seeing so many of these situations, sometimes I find myself asking; "Surely this is a planted setup?" I simply refuse to believe anomalies this brazen would be shown less audible disgust than someone being told the McFlurry machine is broken when they get noticed.
This self-titled pimp from Arkansas goes by "Mrlongstroke2015" and today he has invited two ratchets over for a threesome show. One problem: the girls just beat him up.
What's mine is yours. And what's yours makes her think walking away from that 4-year degree in Anthropological Gender Studies of Amazonian Tree Frogs to do this instead was a bad idea.
It truly never ends. Let's just label this one the Shawshank Redemption of "wtf, your load tastes like Alan Greenspan's deceased asshole" Alan probably isn't actually dead, but I trust that the implied mental image is still effective. Game on.
