A man's house is littered with incriminating evidence women leave behind. On purpose.
Bitches have seriously been fucking my shit up at home. They leave shit behind that I haven't a clue as to why, and oftentimes I don't even notice, but then the next girl comes in and gives me the "wide-eyed" look. Man, that's some bullshit.
"Bitches" leave this shit behind for your "woman."
These things are the fucking devil. Why? Because they're everywhere they shouldn't be. When you pick one up, there are three more in some awkward place you wouldn't even think to look, so your house turns into the long-lost pirate map for obscure metal some jizz-brain forgot to stuff back into her beehive. I have no idea why chicks use these in their hair, and I wouldn't because I'm a man. It seems logical to me if you want your long hair out of your face, just cut it and try not to complain about it afterwards. Stupid bitch.
Advice: Just like diapers, keep these "bobby pins" out of every man's life as much as possible because they're stupid. No man understands the purpose of a bobby pin. It would be like a male southerner accepting the fact he couldn't eat girl scout cookies after he fucked the girl scout: I mean, pussy is one thing . . . but no sugar on it? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, there's my Nascar joke for the quarter. Glad it's outta the fucking way so we can progress, because that's what this is: progressive, baby!
Here we have the cigarette smoke.
Son of a bitch! Ya know, sometimes a guy is too busy with pertinent matters instead of emptying the goddamn ashtray every 24 hours. Yea . . . so fucking what someone else was over smoking. Call in the FEDS, already. Granted, I should have emptied the ashtray, but whatever.
Feline predators at your house leave a butt in the tray with their specific color of lipstick, and suddenly the domestic cat becomes suspicious since she's quite the fucking detective. Chill the fuck out, Matlock whore. Maybe I was playing poker with a transvestite.
It wouldn't matter anyway. Women know "discrete" like Satan knows the planetarium.
The shower. Jesus Mother Mary of Holy Christ! Take your fucking shampoo home with you! How hard is that? You brought the package with you, obviously, because I sure don't use the particular animal fat to cleanse my scalp considering I shave my head regularly, so what does it look like when I got a bright, green tube of Fructis the next time a girl delivers my cum mail? It looks like I'm stupid, and I'm not stupid, bitch. You are. Men as a whole could really give a shit what sheen your hair is beaming in, so keep your pussy up to par and we're good. Trust me: we rarely care what your head thinks or smells like. Wash your twat ---> Shave your twat ---> Fuck your head . . . And why not: Everyone else has.
NEXT: A punk-ass, fake earring.
It happens.
Chicks leave behind some wack-ass piece of jewelry just in case some other women comes over, she'll presumably uncover the mystery that the man had other endeavors 13-47 hours earlier.
Once again, Matlock . . . mad props.
Straightening iron, curling iron, nine-iron or otherwise, get it the fuck outta my house. But they won't leave too much behind in the bathroom since that's where 90% of their self-esteem grows, so mathematically every hour in the mirror is actually 53 minutes of talking themselves up; the remaining seven is simply tears withdrawn from the playing field . . . till tomorrow.
And next week, all the way till age 40 hits and I fucking LOVE IT!