Polygamists know this; that's why they drill 2-6 broads before any crescent moon hits or during every playoff game of any major sport, and strippers take a mild effort in it depending on if the currency outweighs their tears at 4:00 A.M.
And the Blacks . . . well, they "exercise" by fucking just because they have nothing else to do with their cocks and fuckholes, and I would normally give a shit about what any African felt about this statement, but I know all too well ain't no darkies out there can comprehend dis Instanet shit right here I be droppin' . . . and I suppose this thought of mine all starts with me taking advantage of that bastard star in the sky.
I was sunbathing in my yard last summer, minding my own business when two female joggers interrupted my attention. Now, normally I wouldn't have allowed my brain to pay any attention to them, but I was overwhelmed with two thoughts:
1. 'How in the hell did their asses get so big?'
2. 'Why the fuck are they running? No one is chasing them with a machete and obviously two Twinkie-brained, fat hamsters in Spandex aren't hailing down a cab at noon, so what could they possibly be running after?'
Well, "self-esteem" is the answer, given the beanbag-chairs for asses they'd had, but I don't want to focus upon the Jupiter-sized mud flaps their buttholes use as curving tools to take all those Brontosaurus-like shits out of, because believe me, I would prefer to pay a hypnotist $50 to erase that visual atrocity from my memory and perhaps slide in its place two Mexicans copulating each other over a prison toilet.
Tina Turner knew in the 80s that love has got nothing to do with it, and men haven't even beaten bitch's asses yet to the fullest extent, so what the fuck does a heifer know about commitment unless it's wrapped in cellophane and has cream in the middle? Fucking nothing. She's only dedicated to the grocery list because the more food she stuffs in her unsatisfiable aperature, it all somehow negates the love and caring that's escaped her from parents past. (Probably a boyfriend or two as well, but just like everything else that is wrong with women, I largely blame those two fuckheads who raised them.)
Eat. Consume. Sweat. Sleep. Drink. Eat, eat and eat. And of course . . . engage in crapulence.
They absolutely LOSE not even mattering the circumstances.
Man: "You're getting fat."
Woman: "I'm not fat. I'm pregnant!"
Man: "What! Not if my six-hundred dollars has a voice, now get it sucked and scrubbed out. TOMORROW!"
Woman: "But . . . but---"
Man: "TODAY, then. You'll thank me later, because trying to get money out of me for the next eighteen years would be like a toothache times twelve for two decades. You're fucking welcome, slush-belly."
Fucking around with a fat chick is no different than a stripper: "Love" is a word men kinda throw around like how a Pitbull flips and gnaws a porkchop: toyingly. It's not love; she's just some vacuous distraction guys use as a cum dumpster until something better comes along, and the cold, hard truth is that's likely why every mother of 2+ kids is desperate and single.
And fat.
The point I'm trying to make is that fat chicks don't actually LOVE to suck cock. They only suck the best dick because they're trying with their almightiness to compensate for not looking so well. They figure they can still eat Oreo cookies all day while chugging milky cum all night and with some help by the grace of God when the lights go out, they will be equal.
Well, you're not.
No well-kept man walks into the movie theater with his fat-fuck-ass girlfriend---even after she blew him on the way there---and thinks, "My bitch is awesome!" It just doesn't happen and will never happen in this lifetime, and before you call my statement 'shallow' and whatnot, just remember how many females are out there who claimed to have loved a man when he was rockin' the breadwinner status, but for one reason or another he got busted out and that bitch was off slobbin' on some other (probably black) knob before the fucking sun got a chance to cool, so let's cut the shit the same way a fat bitch slices pie: with ease and eagerness.
It's essentially the same scenario, just has different fuckholes and fuckers and
fuckees and a lot of other fucks involved, until it boils to the point where one realizes people who don't have anything physically wrong with them are just as useless as the mutants who enter our lives, like a tub of shit getting shitfaced at a strip club and starts running her vocal cords about the skinny girl on stage when everyone else in the club knows the fucking behemoth had no business stomping through the doors to begin with.
Fucking asshole cunt, with your Snuffleupagus waddle. Bitch, sit your pantophagy-practicing ass down, click your heels together three times and hope for the fucking Hostess outlet.
Fucking women are killing me out here. They already got the makeup, which gives them an automatic 2 points on the "1-10" scale, so the least she could do is NOT look like an elongated midget toting two hams in her thighs with the small circus tent under her drooping areolas.
Fat chicks have absolutely no excuse. Hang on . . . What I mean is women have no excuse for being fat. Why? Because they have no idea what real work is, even when they think they do. Every exercise tape/DVD some fatty bought, I consider that money to have been donated to a rare charity you and I have never heard of, like "The Karen Carpenter Center For Day-old Donuts."
Fuck yea! Real bitches puke to hide their weakness; fat girls
drive to the bakery at 8:00 A.M. . . . then on the way back home, stop at the gas station for $7.00 in fuel and a quick 2-for-1 breakfast sandwich special, which equals a ten-spot out her pocket earned from whatever-the-fuck wack-ass job she uses as a diamond mine to trade rudimentary clerical work for Little Debbies.
Brownies, pudding pops; females turning pineapple into something upside down so they can stuff it in their overworked mouths with a quart of milk minus an ounce of guilt---the goddamn audacity, you fucking heathens. How dare you turn a pineapple upside down for the sake of cake or even think in the 90s that double-stuffing an Oreo cookie meant that's the faster you can achieve passing out on the couch Saturday night as you cry into your fists about how no one wants to fuck you.
Boo-hoo. You and your thyroid can cry me the Mississippi, baby. Tough shit.
Eat your goddamn feelings away then bust out the hour-long cell-phone call to the other end of stupidity after being on the treadmill for a whopping 12 minutes. Bang-up job; aspiring athletes everywhere are in awe at how you diligently ran your mouth for an hour but you exercised the wrong muscles, as your waist and everything north and south of it still resembles something of a tub of yogurt 19 days after expiration . . . great; how do we make a "gluttony" bronze medal divisible by failure?
Well, I'll tell ya, even in my 4th drunken stupor this merry month. We can look at your dumps in the toilet and see how much blood is in the cracks of your shit, which would empirically tell me how hard you had to push to give birth to
whatever the fuck you ate yesterday OR I could ride the hog train, and mid-intercourse sense with my nostrils if it's like frying bacon or not.
Shit ain't sexy. There's not a single trucker in Alabama who thinks you should get this tattoo:
Fat broads are totally useless; fucking them is like a setting up a water ride in your backyard when the goddamn hose is broken, so you're stuck riding a dehydrated Slip-N-Slide for 8 minutes while wondering what your ex girlfriend is doing. Doggy-style is doubly horrible because as you look down at your cock going in and out of her moon of an ass, you automatically feel small and pray for a Mexican who's selling produce to tap you on the shoulder to give you an eggplant just to jam it up her soggy hole as to make her finally squeal.
If I could somehow recreate the magic that is hand sanitizer---killing 99% of germs---and transform that gel into a Ghostbuster-like amoeba that ate away at a bitch's fat, I would quit my job and simply run down every street in Milwaukee all day and act like a fireman, inoculating the deserving by shooting my fat-burning sludge off like a dump truck while she's getting butt-fucked, then jerk it to two girls shitting in one cup, because believe me, both would equally be . . . a very . . . big nut bust.
Afterwards I'd be Chicago-bound to take care of their epidemic, hitting the cellulite commander-in-chief with a wicked dose.
FACT: Fat bitches love cheese.
FACT: I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and female gastronomists have been getting outta line with the dairy and sugar the last 10 years. Damn near gotten to the point where I would rather devein shrimp with my tongue for 30 days straight on a pirate boat than put my mouth on a chick during a 30-second commercial break, but whatever.
Could be you like fat chicks; hell, I don't know. If you do and you wanna pick up a janky, jelly-belly bitch in Milwaukee, here's how one would go about it with minimal provisions: walk around with a cheese curd . . . or simply go memorize the seven digits in any given toilet stall at Krispy Kreme; I'm quite confident that's where all the hot phone numbers are written if your zip code starts with "53xxx."
Stupid whores. It's the holiday season, and we all know aside from a female's birthday, this is the most special time of year because it means she can gorge on food and tell herself she'll lose it after New Years.
Yea-fucking-right!
Dieting Tip: 101
Next time you wanna "try the salad," try 80 of 'em consecutively.
