There comes a time in every man's life where he has to shit in a catbox to prove a point.
Just hungoverly hit my funny bone with a hot straightener. Triple threat.
Oh my god. I opened up my microwave and there was a pile of bacon in it. It's like my mother knew I'd be hungover.
He's trying to row the canoe up my front yard like he is Lewis and Clark.
One blow job doesn not make me gay.
He woke up in the ambulance thinking he was still in the club.
Got my bloodwork back and my liver is in tip top shape. Apparently blacking out 5 nights a week isn't cutting it, so we've got to step it up until I see that all of my hard work is actually paying off and doing some damage.
No. I want to vom filet mignon and ziti bits everywhere and my body feels like I ran a cock triathalon. I feel less triumphant and more like death.
i have an important question...can you drink in jail?
Unfortunately hes not a hipster douchebag with no life goals, so naturally I'm not interested.
I received a text promising me sex if I drove to Memphis this weekend. Too bad for my penis that we're watching zombie movies and playing cards.
He is peeing inside and sticking up for himself. Those are two of the four signs of the apocalypse.
My bail money is reserved for people I either A, think were in the right, or B, have an awesome story that leads up to needing it. Just remember that before you call me.
No i dont need a babysitter i have my cats. Cats can dial 911 ya know
I'm sitting on the couch playing the sims, how's ur night going?
I'm sitting on my floor, drinking wine, and listening to bette midlers "wind beneath my wings"
Why are our lives so predictable?
Randomize
