Essentially this is a public service announcement on the cons and cons of touring San Fransisco. Some will live to tell the tale. Others will merge with Skid Row through osmosis. But all will learn the defintion of of "Ordering the Portuguese Breakfast".
For fuck sakes, there's only 2 things capable of further emasculating a man that is fantasy-banging his meth head relative. One is knowing you stuck your dick into a family classic, the other is whatever the shit is going on here.
Two things you should definitely abandon before agreeing to have sex with total strangers: Self-respect and Beef-a-roni. One of these is more important than the other, and I'm just gonna let you figure out what order they should be in.
We aren't talking about your traditional hole-to-hole, human centipede sausage link simultaneous penetration here. But someone ramming their jelly bean into you immediately after pulling it out of a sibling is just as reprehensible, so it still counts. I've been appointed to the head of this committee and those are the rules I've outlined.
♫ I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine ♫ I got a love and I know that it's all mine, oh, oh-oh ♫ Do what you want but you're never gonna break me ♫ Sticks and stones are never gonna shake me, oh, oh-oh
One half of MTV's greatest creation hits the fucking SIMP jackpot. She's Cameron Canela and before her IMDB sported titles like Don't Break Me Volume 6 and Republican Candidate Wife Swap she was handing out freebies to genetics most unfortunate specimens.
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.
Not really surprising from a girl that calls herself Wisconsin Tiff, but the alternative medicine excuse for this behavior immediately goes out the window. Can't even blame the moon lettuce and it's sibling psychedelics for this digital footprint.
You can brag about your male pattern baldness all you want homeboy. But if you're not turning all vaginas within a 3 mile distance into your own personal bowl of Hungry Jack Mashed Potatoes, are you even living the Costanza?
An all-minority female cast ultimately leading to me losing faith in life itself? You can go ahead and file this under The 2016 Ghostbusters Reboot of Porn. And Bill Murray can't save you this time.
