Last night was a blur. All I remember is jizzing in the squeegee bucket at a gas station.
The look on the soccer mom's face was PRICELESS.
What's wrong?
Long week. Sore muscles. Bad back. Hangover. Mini-keg. Crazy ex-wife. Unavailable love-interest. Dead celebrity families. Republicans.
Pussy.
Me either. I want to get 'chase a stray cat through the neighborhood in my hooker heels' drunk. And it's your birthday, so you have to get 'best friend holding your hair while you puke in the bar bathroom and cry about your life' drunk. In a feather boa.
Dude, I just had the best sex of my life in a porta potty at the NCAA girls lax championships but didn't get her name or number. But I have her sunglasses. How is this possible, I'm sad.
I love your life.
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A drawer in my room has nothing but a large feather quill, a wine glass, and a 15" Bowie knife. If you could put my life in a drawer I think that would be it.
Giving you good advice and being naked are not mutually exclusive.
I'm like still hungover from the quinceanera.
My sheer presence has sent the hipsters running in terror. I expect no problems.
If muffins & morning blowjobs don't make him happy, frankly, I don't think anything will.
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I just watched my high school guidance counselor pee in the backyard of this party.
If not, I can murder my liver twice...it's like a cat, it has 9 lives
I'm shrooming way too hard to deal with your bullshit at this particular point in time
I googled my name and pictures of you drinking showed up. Way to steal my thunder....
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.
You couldn’t remember the word hand jibber. Instead, your drunk ass offered the bartenders “unlimited hand fritters” if they wouldn’t cut you off.
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