For fuck sakes, these dorks could've thrown a dart at any billboard in Las Vegas and found better ideas to attach to their bodies permanently. I haven't seen people this far out of their comfort zones since the launch of Burger King's ultimate breakfast platter.
If you think that number is talking about hog dimensions, you will be sorely mistaken. It seems this attraction has stricter height limitations than Six Flag's El Toro. You gotta measure less than 4 feet tall, well-versed in THOTology and be next in line for a fight with Jake Paul. Brutal. Part 1 [HERE] Part 2 [HERE] Support [HERE]
"they not like us"; It seems to be the mantra on autopilot for half the planet right now. Most semi-coherent adults would never equate the term to needing NASA engineering to put the insides of your asshole back together again. But then 6:52 happens. More: [-1-] [-2-] [-3-] [-4-] [-5-] [-6-] [-7-] [-8-] [-9-] [-10-]
Somewhere in the next 4 minutes you may ask yourself: What the fuck led to the creation of this? Amphetamines? Mental illness? An unhealthy addiction to masturbating with a Vitamix Explorian [2:20 mark] I don't know but... another sequel is most definitely in the works. [-PART 1-]
I think this could be the downtrodden, meth-addicted little brother of the Reading Rainbow guy. They call him Black Salami and he's going to show us things.
Like the southeast Asian area of the planet treating the Xhamster comment section like a 1-sided dating app, some of these moments have to be seen to be believed. Others will call it Tuesday morning and move on. More [HERE]
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.
Today's episode isn't about the money. It's about sending a message. Specifically to the derelicts that have used the Riemann hypothesis and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture to justify paying for what you're about to see: Stop it. Get some help.
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.
The girl is [-Kesha Ortega-]. Well known. Built like a wood chipper. But the dude; He's just a bystander trying his best to appreciate the fine arts when he gets hurled into the role he was born to play. It's cinema really.
And by experience, I mean one man blowing up his beer money on the kind of sexual endeavor that would shell shock a Vietnam war veteran. Speaking of blowing up: The only thing missing from that slaughter house between her legs is someone in the background screaming wUrLstAr and Floyd Mayweather coming out of retirement to fight it.
Somewhere in the next 4 minutes you may ask yourself: What the fuck led to the creation of this? Amphetamines? Mental illness? An unhealthy addiction to masturbating with a Vitamix Explorian [2:20 mark] I don't know but... another sequel is most definitely in the works. [-PART 1-]
