Mel Glib-son

My heart currently bleeds for Mel Gibson. The son of a bitch lost 450 million goddamn dollars to his hoe bag wife...approx. half of his 900 million dollar fortune. First of all who the hell fucking knew that Mel had almost a billion dollar fortune. That's absolutely absurd to think about. The asshole who did "What Women Want" (which is a guilty pleasure of mine, I openly admit) is a real life billionaire? No wonder his wife couldn't take his bullshit anymore. When you're a billionaire, that should be you're answer to fucking everything. "Mel, do the goddamn dishes", "Fuck yourself honey, I'll piss on your piece of shit dishes. Haven't you heard...I'm a fucking billionaire." "Mel, titty fuck me please?" "Fuck yourself honey, I'll piss on your piece of shit tits. You can rub a doughy rolling pin between those mosquito bites for all I care, because Mel Gibson doesn't have to stick his dick anywhere. Haven't you heard...I'm a fucking billionaire."

Even though he may be the biggest douchebag ever, it still blows that he has to part ways with half of his hard earned money. Plus, she shit out a boat load of kids for him to support. Her vagina was walked out of more than Apocalypto. Her snatch lips look like an old fashioned 7 - 10 split...And coincidentally probably need to be sprayed with bowling shoe antiseptic each time before penile penetration. I feel like everytime you go to bang her, an old grumpy bastard in a scally cap pulls her vagina from a cubby and hands it to you over a dirty counter, with the size 12 labeled on the clit and wishes you "good luck" with a clever "set 'em up and knock, 'em down kid..."

Bullshit!

Why do ex-fat fucks insist on putting their pool cover sized pants back on immediately after shedding the pounds. I don't understand. They lose all this fucking weight, and their first inclination is to go swimming in their old jeans, put one hand in, and use it to stretch them out to the front while posing for a queer camera shot. If I all of a sudden lost 197 pounds of terribly tubby tissue, the last thing I would do is throw on the slacks that housed my Stone Henge ass for the past decade. I would burn those fuckers along with the twinkies and french bread pizzas that prohibited my penis from coming within cum/ear shot of a vagina.

The sad thing is that I think they actually keep them around as a memento of some sort, to remind them of their heavier days. I actually think the real reason is that they keep them around because they know that 1) It's impossible to keep the weight off (FACT) - you reach you're goal weight, then KABLOOIE!! You think you're livin' on easy street but you forget that you're body has zero fucking metabolism, which is why you were bleeding cream cheese and gravy to begin with, so you eat whatever the dick you feel like and balloon back up to the tractor you once were. And 2) When that happens, you're gonna need some pants (old faithfuls) to walk around in while you stomp on city phone booths and pedestrians and peer inside 19th story windows looking for a girl to clench in you're palm (cuz that's what monsters do when they find a girl), and just when she thinks he's going to crush her in his hand, she looks in his big dopey eyes and sees a fat, lazy, tub of toad turd who just wants to be loved for the freak he is.