Hey there, ass bird. Welcome to my damn blog. I’ve pumped up the manliness as far as it will go in celebration of my guest post going live on Art of Manliness, so spill a cold beer on your stupid face and learn how to read, penisankle.
Do you have a mustache? Does your mustache own a gun? Do you own a gun that shoots mustaches? You’re gonna need it, taint clavicle.
If you haven’t punched yourself in the face by now, or driven a Camaro through a solid brick wall while forcing a cougar to punch itself in the face, then you’re probably only half the man you’re going to need to be to slog through the drivel that my usual readers are subjected to.
Just to get ready for this post, I smeared myself with lard and leaped unarmed into a vat of starving alligators, screaming at the top of my lungs. I might have sustained a bite or two, but every one of those scaly sonsabitches is pregnant right now, and guess who ain’t returning calls.
Why don’t you see if those flaccid penises that you call ankles can sustain your weight as you reach up to the top shelf for the extra hot man sauce? This blog is exploding like hot snakes out of a barrel that is full of equal parts snakes and TNT, baby, and there’s no turning back now.
If the prancing newborn butterflies that you call ears can sustain swearing, or worse, an Australian person’s accent, then watch the following video while I oil my mustache with boiling grease.
That about sums it up, worm balls. Come on back every day for a brand new helping of writing, or subscribe via RSS or email at the top right, and maybe try not to crap your skirt hem next time.