Thursday, August 14, 2008
Scroteboy Slim
Headphone. Tattoo.
Mandana + Trucker Hat set at 10 degree tilt.
Shaved chest.
Headphone. Tattoo.
And a brunette vixen with juicy lips, a poetic Victorian face, and melons of glorious heavenly boobbounceage, whom I would cover with melted Chocolate Chunk from 31 Flavors and top with a maraschino, a sprig of parsley and a digeridoo playing Maori named Fred.
This toxic combo of hottness and DJ Scrote is enough to send a ‘bag hunter off to cower weakly in monastic silence, hidden in a cave somewhere in the rural Subcontinent.
But I will not cower. For this is our mission statement. To mock.
