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?
You know you had fun when the next day you wake up with a concussion and realize you not only left your phone, but you also forgot your clothes, underwear, sunglasses and self-respect at the club.
Compliments aren't my strong point, but I must say... chick in the yellow dress is fucking stunning. I'd readily eat Honey Nut Cherrios out of Philip Seymour Hoffman's crusty asshole just for a chance to hold her hand. Someone Russian please hook it up.
The man. The myth. The cease and desists from Keebler elves. This is the definitive collection of the 4 foot pitbull known as [El Pony DeBilbao]. Not really a warning, but his approach to sexual intercourse may produce a bag of mixed emotions.
Not exactly the most unexpected chain of events from a class of people that come less prepared for war than whoevers handicap stall I invaded at Waffle House last week. Sorry Wheels, but the bucket in the janitor's closet simply doesn't meet my capacity standard.
Looks some participants are engaging before getting down the first bowl of Apple Jacks for the day. Since this behavior doesn't show signs of stopping, here's a free tip ladies: Front to back wiping from now on. Trust me. MORE: [-1-] [-2-] [-3-] [-4-] [-5-] [-6-] [-7-] [-8-] [-9-] [-10-]
