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.
Our boy successfully pulls off one of the audibles taught in Bang: More Lays in 60 Days, but the tables quickly turn on him. From then on it's a battle of egos as this greenhorn frolics through her first rear admiral'ing like it's a full body massage. There won't be a sequel.
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.
What's mine is yours. And what's yours makes her think walking away from that 4-year degree in Anthropological Gender Studies of Amazonian Tree Frogs to do this instead was a bad idea.
So you think Dr. Phil has covered all the bases of marital disasters? Well it's time to reevaluate bitch. These pioneers of female empowerment do it all. And by all I mean everything except give us the long awaited sequel to Karen's Krapper: Volume 27. Alexa, play Big Bottom by Spinal Tap.
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.
The first 60 seconds of this contains a cluster of words that have absolutely no business being chained together in that order. In fact, in my native language just about every single thing out of her talking hole would be considered a grievance offense. (i speak english)
I can't imagine what life decisions lead to your obituary being littered with the words "twerking" and "public nuisance" and "30,000 volts". But I'm betting it involves the neighbor's parakeet, and all 16 delicious flavors of Rice-a-Roni. (fuck you Rice Pilaf)
Prozac-deficient e-girls are a welcomed sight here at eFukt... but this post isn't about the daddy issues. It's about intensity. These temper tantrums cut deeper than a Twitter feed, and while that might not be saying much, I'm confident you'll be impressed.
There's something truly endearing about a girl that takes the Secret of the Ooze Super Shredder of BBCs, then double downs on being a stable human being. Her talents scream "3 more months of practice and my asshole will out-perform any South American footlocker".
That feeling when you realize a backdoor studio in Japan with a $300 makeup budget is closer to the source material of the Resident Evil games than any official movie and whatever the fuck crawled out of Netflix headquarters put together. 2 thumbs up, would Jill off into my sandwich again.
