When you’re the best man at a gay wedding, it is strictly forbidden to fart at the altar. After an hour-long ceremony, the trumpeting pressure built up from the afternoon’s vegan canapes reaches such a peak that it makes you want to rip off your pants, wrench open the nearest window, and let rip with a long, pungent anal symphony of highs and lows so mellifluous they create a new musical scale.Comments/Enlarge |
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In their free time, the assistant managers of cellphone warehouses stand in parking lots wearing jeans designed for 12-year-old girls and making gang signs that mean “free talk time on nights and weekends.”Comments/Enlarge |
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This guy looks like the kind of drunken douchebag who tries to beat up Steve Aoki, pisses on girls’ legs, disappears on the beach with another girl (who comes back later bawling her eyes out), says he is best friends with Erik Lavoie, gets kicked off the bus three hours outside of New York, and then gets fired. Comments/Enlarge |
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