Lord, take my legs, but not my Birthday Cake Shake.
Sure, we all know the U.S. Olympic Women’s Indoor Volleyball Team can play, but the question everyone here on my couch seems to be asking is, “how well can they play with my tongue in their butts?”
As a white person, the most terrifying specter of childhood was the sight of my father slipping into his stern lecture sweater and shooting mom a cocky wink.
We proudly hate our kids.
Honk if my wife’s a dumb hooker.
I got my dick punched clean off in Huntsville, AL.
My other car is a series of farts.
I fought a penguin at the Aquarium of the Smokies.
My money and my daughter’s soon-to-be-wrecked vagina go to The University of Texas at Arlington.
It’s impossible to offer someone a stick of gum without them recoiling in horror and covering their mouth as if a herd of wild dicks had just stampeded from it.
Do I possess a tastefully backlit display case of over 260 Precious Moments figurines carefully arranged by date of initial pressing and cross-referenced by value against the Warman’s Field Guide scarcity index? Maybe not, but maybe. I wouldn’t bet your life on it either way, chief.
Some call it football, others call it soccer. But when women are playing, we can all just agree it’s “sloppy bullshit.”
If I had a dollar for every time we argued over who’s mom was buffer, I’d have twelve dollars, and your mom would still have flabby delts.
If a woman tells you that you’re a bigger drunk than her father, she’s just the end of that sentence away from fucking you.
When he was young, the other unicorns would glitter right in Sparkles’ starshine and accuse him of being straight.