Monday, August 27, 2012
Bartleby the Scribbler
As Melville once wrote: “And lo, the hunt for white boobies take man to the deepest darkest plunges of self-immolation ‘neath the quivering waterlands. Only that ‘ere betwixt the globular moons of Vegas sunset will one find peace.”
Bartleby McClellan, “Douching It To The Limit.”
Two little eco-zombie 2012 versions of poet James Whitcomb Riley’s “Nine Little Goblins With Green Glass Eyes” have him rolling over in his grave.
If I was in charge of the Cadillac division of GM I would sue Bartleby the Scribbler for that heinous knock off repro of a once proud symbol of American craftsmanship. Speaking of Cadillac where’s DW with another reminiscence? Also DW if your out there which was the preferred ride back in the day Cadillac or Lincoln?
This tool was posted several months back. Old bags never die, they just get more meaningless garish tattoos, lose hair, and find new hotts to pollute.
I like her teeth. They are the same color as my jizz loads and the rusty parts of my old Escalade. Except for the Dead (no respect) sticker.
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Hornsbies
Fuckface
To The Limit
Unemployed To The Limit
Male Pattern Baldness To The Limit
Confusing tattoos To The Limit
Cthulhus mullet in the background will feast on their flesh!
That awesomely wholesome-looking blonde yumminess pureness with the leopard print bikini that engorges me with a feverish lust is literally BRACKETED by douche fungoids – to her left, and behind her.
She needs to be saved. I volunteer to parachute in and employ a radioactive flamethrower to rid this blonde daughter of Aphrodite of the swamp creature invasion threatening to envelop her and contaminate her delicious succulence.
^This idiot for the Get a Grip Man Win.
Blonde needs a Seal Team 6* rescue.
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*Baby seals.
Something wrong with green lens glasses tattoo guy. Besides having a fucked up ear he looks like he was graffitied by a psychotic nut armed with a Sharpie. His beverage of choice is a fresh male urine sample sipped through a straw. Blondie’s okay and gives good head when she’s in the mood.
Now’s the time when I start slamming my desk around…
I’ll never go to Vegas again.
It’s like a douchebag battery farm.
I prefer a free range douche free, like a Stackhouse turkey.
Bart needs to take up painting, creative literature, or some other vocation aside from adorning his spindly frame with goofy agitprop and worse. That said, the chick in the background may just best him in same.
His gf’s guppy cuppies are not impressive, but girls like that usually shag like wolverines. In my short experience with the type…spanning 4 decades.
Says me.
Look at this pic?
.
I would prefer not to.
Somewhere in Scotland, the ghost of Rob Roy is brutally hate fucking a leprechaun while playing “proud Mary” on bagpipes made from a walrus scrotum.
The tatts are compensation for mistreatement by his parents. What did they do?
.
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His middle name is Furby.
Jonezy, you beat me to it.
Green blue blockers TO THE LIMIT!
He must sometimes wear a bag over his head,because of the tan lines.