Paris, Come On Now
Paris, when your vagina has hosted more wieners than a Sara Lee hot dog bun, you do not need to showcase where your vaginal opening is. Word spreads, you know, and so does Syphilis. But then again, you knew that already! I guess what I am trying to say is, I can smell your bikini biscuit from way over here, and I think it is a sourdough biscuit. I would suggest an impromptu trip to the gynecologist, but I have nothing against gynecologists. Why should two lives be ruined? Dammit! Let's stop the cycle of pain!
Anyway, I have no idea what the hell Paris Hilton is wearing in these photos, but she is thrusting out her pelvis and staring at that blonde with predatory interest. Now that Rudolph and Paris are friends again, I can only assume that Paris is back to sampling the clam dip. After all, she and Rudolph were mashing potatoes before they had a falling out and decided to divide their assets – four crusty dildos and a prescription bottle for anal warts.
So, yeah. Once again, I have no fucking idea what this dress means. Perhaps it is a lesbian symbol for “Fuck me up the ass and spit in my mouth” which makes complete sense, considering Paris’ history. What? Do you honestly think that she and Rudolph were making tender love on a water bed while The Indigo Girls played softly in the background?
Fuck that shit! If I know these two bitches, they were slapping each other senseless, yanking out each other’s pubes, and rolling around like a couple of beavers in heat. Oh my God. Wait. I think I just threw up. Yup. Goddammit! It’s all down my shirt! You see, Paris? You see what you made me do? And all because of that stupid fucking dress! That’s it! You are banned from the blog! I would have done it sooner, but I was too busy being a virginal loser with no discernable love life. Yeah. Believe it or not, that takes up a lot of my time.
PS: Thank you, de Cosmos, for the head’s up!