Monday, October 24, 2011
The Shushsterbag
Rare do we come uponst an innovative ‘bag gesture these days, but there it is.
David Shushterbag, replete with grenade tatt, facial pube linearity, and stupid face, ignoring Trashy Hott and Enhanced Jerzey Nichole.
It’s enough to jumpstart an electric muffin.
No idea what that means.
Coffee.
It’s actually the even more rare ‘Satanic Shush’.
What’s the blue shit around his wrist indicate? It looks medical.
Big boobies. And eye make up.
Dude. Move your arm. You’re blocking my view of the boobies.
.
And hook ’em horns? I’m likely to saw your arm off just for that…
he should be using that index finger to push her ‘doorbell’
…her ‘guns’ are bigger than his!
She has a nice pair of grenades. Too bad the new ‘bag gesture is blocking my view. Testicle.
The cups runneth over ! Holy jebus is that a rack.
If that grenade exploded between those bewbies it would sound like Moe smacking Curly’s and Larry’s heads together and it would look like two bowls of Jello getting tasered.
Is that a deltoid tattoo?
Aint seen that before.
Hopefully never again.
Douche has a fuceen tramp stamp???? She’s got nuthin’ to worry about.
^ In France, fuceen is another way of saying fuccen. Loooooong day.
That guy is classic fuceen douche. She’s no Jenny Ledge.
.
Carnivalists
the faggotry is high with this one
Do I see implant ripples while they’re still holstered?
Why does he have an artichoke tattooed on his shoulder?
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Cynaras
“Shhh. No one tell her I have crabs and anal warts.”
Shushie has a sway-back! He’s batting for the other team, and he’s in the fuck’n way. Anybody else notice that?
This douche has got some serious DSLs. I wonder if he went down on his finger after this was taken. I hope he didn’t forget to cup his thumb and palm.
Shhhhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than a Neil Patrick Harris-autographed dildo.
Shhhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than Cirque du Soleil scoliosis.
.
.
Wait. What?
Shhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than a pink cigar.
Shhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than an Elton John/Rick Astley duet.
This picture reminds me of the night I told Mrs. Wallnuts there was Listerine in the bathroom and she said she didn’t like the taste of Listerine and I asked her if she really liked the taste of her breath. It was ugly…
Shhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than my tattoos.
On a serious note, nothing says “Democracy in Bloom” quite like the news that a deposed dictator has been sodomized by his captors. Possibly after he died. No film at 11.
.
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503543_162-20124758-503543/globalpost-qaddafi-apparently-sodomized-after-capture/
Shhhh. Don’t tell her I’m gayer than Zachary Quinto’s fan club.
^Why does the hot Spock hafta be gay?
Shhhh……don’t tell her I’m a Gaddafi.
he should have the grenade tatt around his A hole…cuz it’s been blown up!
Her vivacious knockers squeak when she walks, making a sound not unlike a pair of flirtatious manatees dry-humping the hull of a fishing vessel during smelt season.
Shhhhh…don’t tell her they look fake.
Shhhh…don’t tell her I’m just dating her to get closer to her brother.
Shhhhh…don’t tell her she has low self esteem.
Shhhhh….don’t tell her a joke. She won’t get it.
Shhhh…don’t tell her where you live. She’s a Stage 5 Clinger.
Young; dumb; and full of cum. And don’t get me started on the girl……
Shhhhh…don’t tell her I’m a Sphincter Ranger. I’m wanna shock er surprise her later with the news.
Shhhhh…don’t tell her I like Craisins.
The only way he could have gotten such bad scoliosis is by being raped hourly during his week in Juve for spray painting cars.
Shhhhh…Don’t tell her I wank it to Bieber fan fiction.
Shhhh…don’t tell her I work the glory hole in the third stall of the lower level bathrooom at the airport.
Shhhhh…don’t tell her its Foldger’s.
Shhhh…don’t tell her I’m better than her,and I like glory holes.
Shhh…don’t tell her I have a ‘wide stance’.
Shhhhh…don’t tell her I’m better than her and that I seriously like Craisins.
she has no idea that he is a walking buttplug!
^Literally! Am I right ladies?
He’s pointing to where the penis goes.
Shhhh… Don’t make me laugh and fart blood again.
Shhh… My chin strap is constructed of other mens’ pubic hair.
I see chain smoking and fatherless children in Nicole’s future…
hermit, can manatees really ‘dry hump’?
thet’re in the water…no?
Shhh, don’t tell her I’m gayer than 4 guys blowing 5 guys.
The weekly is over early.
The placement of the blue wrist band lets his Bros know just how far in they put their fists into his rectum.
Shhsssssh – Please don’t tell Nichole that the reason my back is arching is because my gerbil just moved up a few centimeters.
That’s a grenade? I thought it was a poorly rendered fist. As in “I like one of these in my butthole, thanks.”
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Shhhhhh….don’t tell her, but she couldn’t find her bikini bottom because I’m wearing it.
“My asshole is so stretched out, when I fart, it just goes ‘Shhhhhhh….'”
Note the douchable arch in his back as he flexes his gluts praying for a garlicky salami to be thrust into his ravenous dark hole.
This cro magnon pile of ink begs her to not speak of his
predilection for man meat instead of her glorious abundant tit bags.
Is that a fleck of doody near his lip?
A true rimming bag boy.
As Bob Dylan once sang, “How many bad roads must a hott be dragged down before we can call her pure trash?”
And yet we love her despite her flaws
And by despite I mean because of.
And by flaws I mean boobs.
The jerkoff still has his mental institution wristband on. Marsha Brady’s big tits make my mouth water and my loins stir.