Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Kenneth Is Willing to Overlook The Fact That It's Not Real
I am, of course, referring to her hair color.
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Okay. I’m actually referring to her eyelashes.
Proportionally, everything else seems legit.
Notice how I’m keeping within the theme of “Dubious Parole Board Decisions” today…all of whom were brought to justice by none other than Wonder Woman.
I’ll bet those motel drapes under a black light are lit up like Randy Travis in the back of a squad car.
something about this pic reminds me of a 1970s SNL skit and Chevy Chase is playing the part of one of the titties.
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haha- Schmitt’s Gay
I think Platinum Tron-Blonde and Shelf Pear shared a can of Fix-a-Flat for their respective “enhancements.”
This looks like “American Gothic 2012” .
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The tool of toil is no longer the pitchfork but the big fake ugly elephant teats which will bring in the tips at the strip club and the virtuous supporter is replaced with the tatted imbecile with no discernable use in society that leaves his meager earnings in her wee G-string.
Dark Sock is doin eh fine job at the helm. And by helm I meam entertaining several dozens of drunks and drug addicts. For clarity of my analysis I may have double-counted myself cause that’s the way drunken drug addicts roll son. So it may be one less than several dozens. And that girl had reat fake tits fir the fuckin.
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Obamas
Shelf Pear has changed the focus of my entire life. Instead of focusing on work, I’m focusing on how many butt jiggles it’ll take for the ~back door~ to fall open?
According to early estimates, it may take about 300.
At 120 jiggles per minute, I could finish a beer first. Okay, Shelf Pear, you’re on the cocck — erm clock!
Felons and melons.
When I see dames like this one here I think, “Trophy Wife.” Now youse may think I’m crazy because she’s a bit of a dog, but a story is in my head dealing with Dean, Sammy, and me at some fancy cocktail party thrown by a big casino hotshot named Del Webb, who also was co-owner of the Yankees.
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He was a real boccalone. Boccalone, I says. He thought his wife was Marilyn Monroe but she wasn’t even Mitzi Gaynor, she was a homely broad. We had been to a bunch of his gigs – he owned the Sahara and The Mint in Vegas – so we knew the drill and we kinda had to go because he owned the Sahara, and besides Sinatra made us go. He had great parties with gorgeous broads, but him and his schevotz wive were real humps, so we needed to knock back a few stiff ones before we could stand bein’ in their company.
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I think we was in Sammy’s suite and we had a coupla’ more belts than we shoulda, so when we shows up at Webb’s we had a good one movin’. Movin’ I says. So sure enough Webb and his faccia brute culone wife are at the door when we walks in and he starts with the whole schtick about his wife being one if the most beautiful women in Hollywood. Then he says how people say that she is his “trophy wife.” Dean looks at him, looks at her, looks at us and looks back at Webb hisself before saying, “Since when did they give a trophy for last place?” Madon! I thought Webb was gonna stroke out, but he just fixes his tie and walks off with his wife.
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Later that night when Webb was standing at the bar Dean took it out and pissed on the back of his trousers. Took it out, I says. It was so crowded nobody knew what was happening and Webb never knew what hit him. Meanwhiles, Sammy was off in one of the powder rooms with the wife getting jerked off. Sammy loved getting jerked off by white broads. He hit her with a full-on Jib Shot right on the front of her dress and she needed a whole bottle of Club Soda to get the stain out, and then faked spilled a glass of wine on herself to cover for the big wet spot.
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So now we have a new take on the term “Trophy Wife.” Capice?
I want to dole out a “Tunisian Tit Twister” right now but can’t decide which one deserves it more (worse)
Shelf Pear’s assets are so large they war time and space.
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Or at least the baseboards.
I dunno. To me this looks a lot like one of those Before and After ads. You know like, “Bob always wondered why he felt that tingle in his special region when he showered after gym class in high school while yearning to belt out Madonna’s latest hits. After years and years of performing at the truck stop glory hole he just felt empty inside until he caught an episode of RuPaul’s ‘Drag Race’ one night. It gave him the courage to make that change he knew he always wanted so he went to the slaughter yards in Chicago, got himself air-hammered (quite a few times actually), shoved some beach balls up under those former steroid man-titties, and found a platinum blond wig that was just right. Now as Jasmina, he’s a confident unemployed stripper at The White Swallow appearing nightly from 7-9pm. Yo go Bob!”
Again with the Peterbuilt 18 Wheeler grille implants.
Headlights and head lice.
Fake and snake.
Amazing, what you can find at the 24 hour truck stop.
“Since when did they give a trophy for last place?”
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bwahahahhahaaa! bwahahahhahaaa, I says.
Any chick with boobs each larger than her head…is probably suffering from small head syndrome.
I am not a doctor and don’t play one on TV.
I watch a little TV once in a while. It’s not plugged in, keeps the Time Warner bill lower.
“Wonder Woman” in lingerie.
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You’re welcome.