What the hell am I supposed to do with 50 gallons of mayo?
He just went up to bed, still drunk from last night, carrying a pear, a pipe, and an unopened bottle of wine. I think he'll be fine.
I have absolutely nothing sober to say to you.
Great. I get laid, Leslie Nielsen dies. I can't have have sex anymore, the film community can't take another loss like this.
I mean it's not my fault he had a floor mat that read "put out or get out". What was I supposed to do?
Don't bang him. The amount of Jack Johnson he listens to is embarrassing for even a white person.
I just woke up tangled in fishing line while wearing someone else's bathing suit with fishes drawn all over me. What kind of sex did we have?
It's been two days. I am still burping up jello. Everything tastes like jello. Everything smells like jello. I am DONE with jello shots.
Well, when you bump into your parents at a swingers meetup, it's time to change cities
I now have a other guy willing to drive 3 hours for my vagina. At my next gyno appointment I'm asking her if there's cocaine in there.
After fooling around at the hotel til dawn, I managed to feed her with my free buffet passes. Tastes like sweet victory.
My roommates don't agree with the whole tv in the bathroom idea. Fucking barbarians.
He stopped me mid-blow job to say that his new year's resolution was to stop hooking up. MID FUCKING BLOW JOB.
Never in my life have I seen a grown ass man get on all fours and attempt to buttfuck himself with the leg of a chair. I love Vegas!
It seems that I didn’t convey clearly enough how well and truly fucked we are, Jack. Listen to me very closely: we are DEAD.
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