I have a story that starts with Nutella and ends with sex in the laundry building at RIT.
That glade motion activator thing keeps going off every time we pass the bong. I don't know what I'm getting high off right now.
I looked at you and you stared at me dead in the eyes then sprayed febreze at your crotch and winked.
Let's turn this shoulder dislocation into a positive. Come to the hospital, bring some beers, let's party.
You do resemble something that has been used as a chew toy.
I think this hangover is going to kill me. If it succeeds I would like you to read a dramatic rendition of 'Trapped in the closet' complete with interpretative dance at my funeral.
Escorted out of jimmy johns because I refused to leave with my dog. Stole a loaf of bread on the way out.
When the nurse referred to my vag as "your downstairs", I knew I found the perfect Doctors office.
The CEO is on this whole 'what do you do with your spare time?' kick. Umm... get drunk and have sex in bar parking lots.
Me: I shouldn't go to the airport bar it's too expensive and I don't need it. Dark me: SHOTS AT 7 AM
YOu just turned down my vagina. Something must be wrong. Vegas changed you!
Currently using my kid's computer to charge my vibrator. #thisis30ish
So... Sorry we took your wife to the strip club last night... And sorry we bought her that lap dance... I think you're getting closer to your dream of a threesome, though.
Well, if I'm gonna go gay, it's gonna be for NPH
I should have known it wouldn’t work. Someone saved in her phone as “Subway Sex” called the week before the wedding
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