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.
Trying to convince your wife to participate in what can only be described as gathering of the juggalos that serves pasta salad? Bold. But her response? Giggling like she found an extra tender in her 4-piece. Relationships shlamationships.
Say hello to your new role model. His half-cocked baguette has seen more trauma than a Chicago emergency room, yet he's able to completely 180 the loyalty of one of the most bangin girls on the planet. Guess that old saying is true: Don't judge a book until it's deposited $250 into your bank account.
Another edition featuring triflin' ass hoes, hood rats of all kinds and a singing crack head with erectile problems. They call him Uncle Jim and he can do any unskilled miscellaneous task for the low-low.
He may be mentally challenged and physically deformed to the point of handicap, but he's had a threesome and I haven't. A true inspiration to all and possibly the anti-hero our generation needs.
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.
Inflation is nearing 9% and you're burning through c-notes so you can Rube Goldberg machine your way into the Guinness Book of Degenerate Orgasms? Someone send this to Dave Ramsey, I want to see him shit his economically priced pants.
From his vantage point it probably looks like someone trying to squeeze a flag pole into a gas tank. And much like after someone messes around with flammable substances, someone probably saw hospital time after this little adventure.
