Kinda want to emphasize those gravity bags reaching maximum velocity around the 5:00 minute mark. Jell-o has spent over 100 years trying to market physics like this and have failed miserably in comparison. Turns out all you need is a 1-bedroom apartment in Latvia and a c-section scar to make math fun again.
At this point I'm just respecting the hustle of being able to sell sex without ever being penetrated in front of a camera. Truly a spectacle in it's own right that leaves you trapped between vigorous masturbation or making a donation to the Shia LaBeouf Community College for the Gifted. [PART I] [PART II] [PART III]
New year, same loathing for frost faced Bavarian cream. Gonna go ahead and give this episode my mushroom stamped seal of approval, if anything at all for giga gag at the 2:25 mark. Haven't seen eyes roll that hard since reading the employees must wash their hands sign in a Texas Roadhouse bathroom.
He may be mentally challenged and physically deformed to the point of handicap, but he's had a threesome and I haven't. A true inspiration to all and possibly the anti-hero our generation needs.
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.
If attempting to monetize your most private confessions is any sign of a recession, I'd say we're at the tip of an iceberg that would make the dotcom bubble look like like an afterthought. I'll be expecting a lot more of this until Jim Cramer capitulates.
Outside of ejaculating to Nicolas Cage's death scene in The Wicker Man, no male celebrity will bring you remorse quite like Simon 'Dirt Nasty' Rex. Former MTV VJ, rolls with Andy Milonakis... and 20 years ago he took a $100 payday to stick his dick in Zack Morris' bedroom carpet. [Diss Track by Traplord Skybaby]
To call this girl a boring bang would be the understatement of the damn millennium. I'll put it this way: If you combined a gender studies course with the PGA, you'd still need a 3 hour Al Gore audio book and jumper cables to match pulses with this fucking corpse. You've been warned.
[what you know]: Anyone that's had a TV on after 1:00AM between the years 1997 and 2003 are still trying to get this fucking theme song out of their heads. [what you don't know]: Doug "hobgoblin" Stanhope had the approachability of post-nut clarity Clint Howard. I demand a reboot.
Bittersweet painal, obscenity-filled ogasms, and a boob job pre-dating the birth of jesus. This ones got it all, and Ms. Big Ole Leathery Funbags earns some serious bonus points at the 2:35 mark.. Not even a fuckin rectal injury can dull her desire for ATM.
What happens when you let your BBC-obsessed husband talk you into the kind of Smackdown WWE would be jealous of? Here's a hint: You end up booking a legendary Iron Man match, but there's no winner.
