HCwDB After Dark: Send in The Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts
Isn’t it rich?
Are we a pair?
Boobs here at last on the ground,
Legs in mid-air.
Send in the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts.
Isn’t it bliss?
Don’t you approve?
One who keeps drinking shots of Patron,
One who can’t move.
Where are the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts?
Send in the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts.
Just when I’d stopped popping my collar,
Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again with my usual bling,
Sure of my bodyspray,
My crotch it does sting.
Don’t you love boobs?
My fault I fear.
I thought that you’d want what I want.
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts?
Quick, send in the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts.
Don’t bother, they’re here.
Isn’t it rich?
Isn’t it douchey,
Losing my timing this late
In my something that rhymes with douchey?
And where are the Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts?
There ought to be Paid-to-Pose Slutty Hotts.
Well, maybe…. next… year.
That was beautiful, and by beautiful I mean I hope none of you kids changes careers after being a stay-at-home/working from home Dad (respect) on dope and drugs for three years and then getting back into the rat fuck at 50 minus two. Cause ya see, it isn’t all about the money, it’s about getting the kids up another notch on the red-hot ringed ladder of social superiority, and shit so you can die knowing that they know the value of a hard earned dollar and they follow good old Judao-Christian values of family and friends and populate the earth in a good rape and scorched earth policy of ole Al Gore fallacy. Poor kids are shocked to see the old Rev out shaved and shorn in fresh clothes every day when they flee off to the bus giggling like tiny pre-menstrual cherub future sub-Olympic par swimmers that they are. i look like a fucking suit-monkey without the suit. Fuck you business casual, I want my tank tops and hiking shorts back you fucking Keynesian twat. So all in all, I guess it’s really all about the tank tops and shit, Son. And money for doobs and so Lenny gets some legit money driving me hither and nigh.
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For youse young whippasnappas who don’t know the score. Here it is Chairman. Am I right Douchey Wallnuts.?
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I’ma go work stoned know. If I’m not back by Friday at noon, send me an email to reverendchadkroeger1@gmail.com and shit so I don’t forget my baskets and gyroscopes.
Normally, I get very excited when I see the holy triangle. Not tonight.
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trannies
I’m guessing the numbers are on their backs
I hope the carpet matches the drapes. Nice work, boss!
Bruised Knees on Trannies is both the name of a punk band I used to manage back in the late 70s and the title of this here photo.
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The Rev makes a lot a good points, but I ain’t never dug Frank singin’ those hippy fuckin songs. What the fuck are those clowns supposed to be that he’s singin about? When I hear Sinatra I don’t want to hear him singin depressing shit about the disappointments an ironies a life, I want him singin about booze and dames and more booze and maybe some gamblin.
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Those artsy type songs he sung there in the late 60s an early 70s I ain’t never had no time for. If I want to reflect on my life I’ll go pound some Jack and Cokes and smoke a coupla Camels. Plus I was always partial to Ray Coniff’s version a that fuckin Sondheim song.
Life sucks, and then you die.
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Capice, Rev?
I wasn’t there, but I’m guessing Mr. Sinatra sang them songs ’cause they got him laid by the young hotts.
If them chicks is wrong, Baby, I don’t wanna be right! Am I right Steve and Edie you ignorant tail-wastes? You know I am Baby!
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Sons and shit. I’m feeling really sneaky cause I’m stoned and must go to sleep but
Post new sluttly paid to pose hotts. These two are broken.
Vampire girls?
I’ll put something on them that makes them sparkle in sunlight…
Life sucks, and then you die.
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If you’re lucky. If you’re not, then Life sucks, then you get married, then you pray for death.
Steven Sondheim is the man.