B.I.L.F- Beard I'd Like to Fuck

 COME ONE COME ALL....OR REALLY JUST COME ALL OVER MY FACE.
Men,
      You have probably been mistakenly believing all of these years that women prefer you clean shaven. A beard gives off the image of slobbery you must be thinking. Well you little fucking babies, forget what your mother told you. THAT BITCH WAS WRONG. As you can see from the smoldering sex pots to the left, BEARDS NOT ONLY MAKE YOU FUNNIER, BUT THEY MAKE YOU MORE HANDSOME. Exhibit A: Zach Galafanakis- Awkward, ridiculous and overall wonderful comedian by day, Playboy by night. Men, if you think you get more action than this dude, you are sorely mistaken. I WOULD LET THAT GOOFY SOFT BLANKET OF A BEARD RAVAGE MY VELVET CURTAIN ANY DAY. And if you can even bear to look at the beauty of George Clooney's peppered, stubbly littlle bastard without getting wetter than the Pacific Ocean, YOU MUST BE RETARDED. I wouldn't be surprised to see the straightest men get a little chubby at the mere sight of that perfect smile and it's graying frame. These men and their beards LITERALLY have an All Access pass to my sexual fantasies. LEARN FROM THIS LESSON MY SONS. MY CHARGE FOR YOU 1) Go forth and grow the most righteous beard mankind has ever seen. 2) ACQUIRE ENDLESS PUSSY.  
This may be an ongoing post once I find more equally worth B.I.L.F's. Let me know if you have any ideas!

This is a post about The Black Keys. The name of this post is SCREW. ME. SILLY.

Hooooooly shit.  "Brothers" by The Black Keys makes me want to do all kinds of naughty things.  Throw that baby on the stereo and I will give it up like a sailor on leave for the entire 55 minutes and 29 seconds.  Probably twice.

I mean, listen to this:


 

Okay, okay, contain yourself.  Go take a cold shower.

I'd bang for a banjo.

Some people go nuts over the Spanish guitar. The sweet, sweet melodies produced by skillful fingertips. Or the cello. Oh my god, the cello. Shaped like a woman's body, gently caressed between legs.
But no, those are not things that get me off. I need twang to...well, you know. The banjo is so plucky, so awkward, so...so me. Have you seen Harold and Maude? Give me somma that, Cat Stevens morbid style five-stringin five-fingered fun. I'd continue writing this but I have to go change my pants.

HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF THIS THING?

WHO GIVES A SHIT?! There's a reason I wear padded bras. It's so you can't see me nip like a preacher's wife on Sunday morning when you invite me to lay in your fucking HAMMOCK. There is no way in hell I can resist a large. thick. well-woven piece of nylon cloth draped between two trees. MY GOD the pleasures in store for you if you invite me over for a thirty-minute catnap. Your feline fantasies are about to be realized. Twice.

Waffle. With peanut butter.

If you say you'll put out for something, and then it is immediately placed in front of you buy a dude wearing a name tag that says Beefy Stew, do you have to do it?

I hope he doesn't read my blog.
Or my body language -- I may or may not have spread my legs and licked my lips when he set down the little peanut butter tubs.  Sometimes I just can't control myself.
Oh man, and when that thick, hot - WAFFLE - appeared... in all its beautiful golden crispiness... I knew I would have to at least tip Mr. Beefy well.  And hope that he didn't try anything with me, because I might have felt morally (perhaps not the right word) obligated to consent.

Keepin' It Classy

Who needs a fancy $50 bottle of wine perfectly paired with a gourmet Italian dish? Just gimme one of them boxes o' Franzia, and I'll be open for business. Franzia pong? Maybe a little "slap the bag" action? I'm sold.

Bitch, you KNEW I loved Froot Loops!

So why are you so mad that I have a boner because I saw this:

I know. I know. You're like, "yeah sweet blue moon clone." Fuck you, you never knew what you were talking about. This shit is like Toucan Sam's jizz in a bottle with yeast.

I appreciate that you bought it for me so much that I'll AT LEAST make out with you.