Becky Bagels foolishly thinks her road trip to the swampland is going to be an uneventful one. That is, until her travel guide delivers the kind of backdoor beatdown that insurance companies are suddenly starting to add in-network coverage for. Many such cases.
Any female that signs up for a Woodman scene more than likely has an undiagnosed neurodevelopmental disorder. And she is no different. A handful of WWE finishing moves has her pastrami butterfly goopafied and no other man will satisfy her again. #gg
I've never liked golf... or any sports for that matter. I don't see the point of putting balls in holes for points 'n shit, but when the goals have been replaced with holes, you have earned my attention.
You could throw a football in her asshole and hit nothing but net. She has the Mariana Trench of colons and today she's pushing the limits of pornography, breakfast, and ass sphincters all at the same time.
There's a lot to digest here. But nothing is as concerning as whatever rodeo clown, double-wide uncle sister bullshit is going on around the 3:11 mark. Axe body wash isn't going to clean this feeling off me tonight. Time to dip into the disaster emergency kit.
A special WTFM8 @ that last clip. There's a part at the end I had to cut out where our catcher says something along the lines of "that was fun and amazing". No Bruno. Reading from the digestive Necronomicon (white castle menu) before visiting a public pool is fun and amazing. What just happened to you is unforgivable.
The last clip is one wild ride, and probably cause for another lockdown Japanese style. Imagine spending weeks convincing your corner store cam girl to accept the blindfolded handicap match, only to watch her get sidelined by a dude that gets cease and desist letters from John Carpenter.
Nothing says reinventing a franchise quite like admitting to the world that you have a fetish even the truckers of America aren't paying for in Walmart parking lots. Now give this so many views, The Rock won't be able to turn down being in the sequel.
