If there's a book out there on what NOT to do during intercourse, I'd say this dude just paved the way for a fucking trilogy. Nevermind his Rosie O'Donnell-like figure, or his unsettling fetish for floppy disks. The real prize is at the 2.48 mark. Ladies and gentleman, this motherfucker just single-handedly brought back Planking.
Some "feels" I am glad I will never experience in life. Driving the speed limit, menstrual cramps, bamboo fingernail torture, or when a unlubed and unwelcome penis randomly kicks open the door to the house of pain.
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.
Anybody have the technical name for this phenomenon? or a real explanation? Specifically one that doesn't involve voodoo dolls, Penn & Teller or Planet Wing's suicide sauce. I want answers.
Another chapter closed in a book that Barnes & Noble insists on displaying in the Sci-Fi section. Normally read in the dimly lit corner of a trailer park that doesn't show up on Google maps, surrounded by Newports and half-eaten cans of Costco's finest meatball ravioli.
A day that lived in infamy amongst the delivery driver community has finally been given credence from the mouth/vaginal opening that participated in the fabled event. Now imagine a modern version with a hint of [double dashing]. [4] heads would roll. [more here]
I honestly thought she was faking/farming interaction up until the middle of this. After that her reactions are priceless. Particularly the "i think there's a pack of wallabys gnawing the inside of my sphincter" look that is persistently peppered within this fever dream. Find her live [here]
He finally decided it was time to let his wife try fucking a black dude... just once. He even films it so they can look back on this special moment. Good call because half way through he starts getting wet feet about the whole 'stranger fucking my wife' thing.
If the 1980's taught me something, it's that ANYthing goes as long as there's a killer soundtrack behind you. Except this. Not even the renaissance of crack will be held liable for this shit.
Notorious shake shack enthusiast decides to document one of his many attacks on titan. He sabotages his own rubbers, fakes empathy and could give less than a shit about divorce papers. This could only end one way.
