Yeah, over here. Hi.
What do you say we ditch Yasmin for a minute or fifty and grab some frozen banana-mango daiquiris at the tikki hut? Coolio.
So...didja lose something? Nevermind. Let's talk about somethin else. Here's a sarong. Put it on. Now.
Whew. Okay. So...apparently, her name was Rio and she danced upon the sand. And when she shines she really shows you all she can. But there's the rub; showing all you can is a FAR CRY from showing all you should.
Now here's the deal. We bristle at the rude suggestion that we're obsessed with celebrity crotchular regions. Fine, we sounded alarms at the Sharon Stone catwoman/cameltoe incident (not to mention her nightmare-inducing menstrual typhoon). We sent up distress flares at the spectacle of Adrian Grenier's disturbing spandex-freeballing pantomime. Agent Scully had us packing a "go-bag" when a worm-hole appeared in her hoo-hoo. So we guess we have to own it; celebri-crotch holds an unhealthy fascination for the WAM-ster. Officer, take us away.
But. Dude. Seriously. Drop the chalupa, stat. And I mean this in the nicest possible way:
Speedos are not for sperm whales.
Moreover, whoever this crazy Rio bitch is, in spite of her psychotic seaside gyrations at least the pitiable woman was in your words "like a birthday or a pretty view" (nice lyrics there, Wordsworth). But this view is not pretty. In fact, it's apparently driven our favorite sand-hoofer screaming from the beach faster than a swarm of Portuguese Man o' War.
Bitch, you have more back-fat than Shamu.
You look like (pick one):
- Your Jeff Stryker "Gay Deceiver" Basket-Enhancing Prosthetic has become unmoored and drifted into the nether-region of your taint, necessitating an awkwardly public recovery mission.
- You've totally misunderstood the concept of "going crabbing."
- A wolf? Please, you've been hungry like a hippo.
- You're scraping off barnacles from the HMS Has-Been.
- A production still from "The Michael Phelps Story, Starring Augustus Gloop"
- Bloody hell.
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