Beer Boy
I’m not sure Beer Boy is more than a stage-1 ‘bagger or so, but that slender stalk of hotness makes me want to climb into a soft, goose-down filled umbrella made out of candycanes and chocolate covered cherries and nuzzle those boobies with my chin for a weekend or three. She’s like a fine dark and sultry wine, a taste of Sherilyn Fenn mixed with a slice of Rosario Dawson. I would jump into a bathtub full of electric eels wrapped in tinfoil just to rub her bobby-socks on my inner thigh. Of course, why electric eels would be wrapped in tinfoil is something I haven’t figured out.
It’s true. I need help.
Oh, and douchebag? Put down the beer, take off the cap, and set your eyebrows on fire. I say this not due to any personal malice. You simply need to have your eyebrows on fire. It’s not an individual thing. It’s a societal imperative.
