hmm, strange. Here I am thinking the whole "i'm training to turn my uterus into a parking garage for hellcats" was no longer a lucrative financial path worth pursuing. And then the last girl went ahead proved me wrong.
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.
Consider this a 4 minute tutorial on why you should always stay away from those folks that consider a $50.00 Mernard's gift card a form of foreplay. Remember Norman Vincent's words: “Always shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll still land among the hepatitis."
4 out of 5 physicians would advise against this kind of behavior, especially in public venues. But a life of chronic digestive and reproductive complications doesn't really seem to concern these prodigies. Big risks = more clout. And more clout = more fashionably retarded short form content.
The farther below the equator you go, the crazier behavior you'll find. A novel concept, and one that's officially reinforced by the pair of donut glazers walking the streets like it's fucking fashion week. Just being an observer might give you Hep-C.
Skanky country girl and dopey get real nasty. Either she's on her period or she just can't handle it. Either way she's not bothered at all and licks the bloody snickers bar clean.
AKA "how to ruin your reputation on a global scale." Usually it's a good thing if everyone gets laid at a party... but not when they all fucked the same chubby std collector.
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.
I want to admire their passion, but the Jurassic Park remake around the 0:40 second mark is in severe danger of receiving a cease and desist. Discover more reasons to keep that $19.99 in your pocket every month [-HERE-].
Poor prosti gets sandbagged by a local gentleman who's only sexual experience involves Walmart's checkout line & Colt 45. But apparently her dugout is built for the major leagues, cause despite his John McLane ingenuity... she still walks away with a smile. Fucking amazing.
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.
