There are a few things that make a man proud to be a man. The great outdoors, gun powder, SPORTS!, big Shakira-esque booties devouring skimpy bikinis, spurs, and above all, the most tightly wound neatly bound vagina that would make even the most tired war-ridden eyes ready to fight again in all his quadriplegic glory.
Yes, my friends. I do love a barber cut bush. The simplicity and elegance of a wonderfully managed bait shop makes my nose open up the way the nostrils would in a Febreeze commercial. Seeing a clamstand do a handstand is enough to make me want to whistle on american bandstand. Viewing the narrow passageway into the woman's soul honestly gets me so overjoyed that I could sing opera, brave my chest out against torrential waters on jagged rocks, or just hang up silk curtains around the beef ones and take indie contrasting pictures of my martha stewart masterpuss.
I love crotchdigging like beavers like to build dams. I love figuring out Victorias' secret like Sherlock Holmes loves solving crimes. I love feeling the faint drips of holy woman water drizzling on my forehead the way the military loves chinese water torture. The only reason I'm so good at going down on girls is because I'm hoping that if you're good enough, it spits out some sort of treasure chest like how Mario gets a key when he beats a world (I mean...I'd like to believe if you're that good, you do win a key to a woman's soul, whether they admit it or not)
Just picturing a quaint vagina sitting on a hilly sun infused plateau makes me want to break out a ukelele. Flowers in her haaairr, flowers everywheeeeeeere.
If it were my choice, vagina would be the death of me. And I don't mean dying in the sack or choking because the thighs are blocking my airpipes. I mean I want it to be castle times. I want to be dragged up their, ropes binding my slit-sinning wrists. And just before the guillotine is released upon my poor head, the executioner removes the mask and there it is:in all its glory, the 8 foot Hulk Hogan Vagina. I can almost hear the angels readying their trumpets, waiting on the Composer to beam me up to my 40 virgins. ahhh a life born, run, and destroyed by something that sometimes smells like a new york dock. such a beautiful shame.
Ladies, please don't take this as offensive. If you knew how my mind worked, you would understand that I practically had butterflies around my head when I was typing this out. And yes, I did just jot this all down in 5 minutes. You see how much I care? DO YOU SEE? I don't even need to come up with it, its just sitting here. Now lemme say it to the other side of your buttz.
alright go back to your miserable lives ive done enough for today.
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