Your new life philosophy should be “less masturbating and more blowjobs.” Every time you have the urge to masturbate, you instead put that effort into getting a blowjob. Because interpersonal relationships, although bad for my non-existent web traffic, are better for the soul than cumming all over your keyboard, you fucking loser…
Anyhoo, here are some hot pics of cosplay queen Alodia Gosiengfiao. Enjoy, fuckers!
As you can see in the photo above, actresses Kristen Stewart and Emma Watson were caught scissoring their sinful vaginas.
Scissoring or “tribadism” is a lesboqueer sex act in which two women rub their smelly vulvas against one another while reciting satanic verses and swearing allegiance to Lucifer.
Elfo Dannilu is an overgrown Brazilian singing elfman who is a master at the tweezers, has a meticulously manicured goatee, is what you get when you replace the douchiness in Criss Angel with glitter, dresses like the guy in your IT department who is really obsessed with “Pirates of the Caribbean,” and is so dedicated to keeping an A+ eyebrow game that he has grown an extra pair at the end of his sideburns.
Elfo Dannilu is like a butch Harald Glööckler. Watch his cover of Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights” and get into his graceful arm ballet moves. Elfo Dannilu was obviously a Motown back-up singer in a past life:
My father’s grave was
marked by a simple marble stone whose original reddish-brown hue had
aged into a darkish pink that seemed inappropriate. I remembered
helping my mother pick out the headstone at a time when she was
scarcely capable of making the least decision and the proper headstone
struck her as a very important one.
Ultimately she had opted for the slight reddish tint over the plain gray because she felt it would reflect some of the softer side of the man. I was not aware there was a softer side. I was eighteen and remembered my father as a stern, unyielding maker and enforcer of family law.
“There was much more to your father than you knew,” mother had told me, echoing a sentiment she had expressed throughout my rebellious teenage years. “He had a very sensitive side, too.”
Even now, many years later, I found mother’s statement hard to believe except as an abstraction: Men can show more sensitivity to their wives than to their adolescent sons. But in reality I could not see how that could apply to my father.
In my memories, I could never conjure up father’s face. The man was always a looming presence, something large and dark and forbidding. I pictured the presence behind me, watching, and somehow in the frame of a doorway, as if just entering. Or just catching me in the act of something.
“Authority,” I said to myself now, laughing inwardly as I heard the word coming in Dr. Sia’s voice. “That looming presence you feel as your father is why you have such difficulty with authority today.” Typical of Sia: Quick and easy and clichéd—but possibly right nonetheless.
Some people should not have children, I thought, including myself in the proscription. They haven’t the gift or the patience for it and they do a bad job. Without knowing they’re botching it, probably. With reasonably good will and decent intentions.
I had been squatting on my haunches before the grave. I stood now and looked down at it, a grassy plot marked off at head and foot by stone but bordered laterally only in the mind, part of the broad sweep of tended grass, indistinguishable. But alive in the way an artist lives on in his work; father’s handicraft walks above him now in the twisted framework of my psyche.
