Supergirl gets the director's cut we've all been waiting for, the French prove that giving up is never an option and that giraffe neck havin mother fucker in the last clip single handedly puts an end to the skinny jeans market. All this and more in today's episode of X-Men.
Our boy is having domicile problems of the synthetic drug variety, and it's fucking up his after-work Roblox clan war. The charges? Breaking and entering, aggravated harassment, disorderly conduct and skidmarking Target's finest bedroom linen. Tensions rise, police are called, I laugh. Pretty funny shit.
Derpina gets the last remaining brain cell sloshed out of her in a way even David Attenborough himself would struggle to provide commentary for. The facial reactions, the irreparable staining of Amazon fabrics, the autism. It truly is thrilling cinema.
Undoubtedly the most erotic thing I've seen since the time my 19 y/o housekeeper cried 'no es bueno' after happening upon my unflushed shitter. Day before was Olive Garden night, fuckin Tour Of Italy. To quote Lil Wayne - I made it rain.
Somebody in the original comments was yappin about no proof this is his first time. My main man; 3 seconds of glazing over this specimen's choice in facial hair, vocabulary and thinking CPR is a form a cunnilingus says otherwise. Peep another awkward rookie [here].
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.
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.
And by experience, I mean one man blowing up his beer money on the kind of sexual endeavor that would shell shock a Vietnam war veteran. Speaking of blowing up: The only thing missing from that slaughter house between her legs is someone in the background screaming wUrLstAr and Floyd Mayweather coming out of retirement to fight it.
Who the fuck comes up with these hybrid fetish flicks? Next time you producers want to get creative, how about coating a machete in Zoloft and fucking Logan Paul up the cornholio until he's smiling like Matt Damon on the cover of Good Will Hunting? Google it.
