I don't care. He smelled like a fucking chilli cookoff
He just slept in my bed for a couple hours and asked lots of questions about gay sex. No, I do not have his number.
The cop refused to sing with us, even though he was as happy as we were that the tow truck finally showed up.
Somehow I gave him blood blisters on his dick...I don't know if I'm that good or that bad.
He passed out on the floor and you kept hitting him in the dick and screaming "hammer of justice".
They drank shots out of my cleavage. Surprisingly, the one who did the best was a gay guy.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: your tits are a danger to gay men everywhere.
I made him an O's fan. One pic of my tits coming out of a Baltimore shirt and it was done.
He was twisted. Literally. It's like God took his dick with a pair of pliers and gave it a half twist to the left.
The object of the game was to pour tequila into a sombrero and drink as much as you can before it leaked through, 'Big Papi' won.
You were drunk it couldn't have been that bad
I've never been drunk enough to enjoy getting a blister on my dick.
How frowned upon is it to take your vibrator into the tanning bed...because Operation: dripping wet is in full swing and I have a busy schedule
I have to remind myself to breathe. That hungover.
Pretty sure the cop told you that you were the first person he pulled over for being drunk on a tractor. So there's that.
New rule. If he's too busy to put the "H" in "what" then I'm too busy to put his D in me.
I swear to God...this day is one great big who's who in the land of fucked uppedness.
Randomize
