Tom hardy dating
" (Her @handle is Countess Luann; her given Twitter name is Luann D’Agostino.)A Real Housewife desiring privacy is a unique concept in itself; fans of the various franchises know that its participants are far from fading flowers insisting, Garbo-like, on being left alone.Hardly anything is left unsaid, hardly anything is left unseen—as reported that Luann had found out that Tom had cheated on her with two women, with Ramona Singer (like Sonja Morgan, another ex of his; Tom denied ever dating either…
Those legendary crust warriors of Jersey Prom infamy live on today on internet search engines and in the hearts and stomachs of millions. Just as this humble website was reaching its ascendant heights in those halcyon days of the mid aughts, along came the crystalline distillation of all that had gone poo-licious in a rotting, fetid societal dump on the face of good taste and decorum. This simmering simpering simian shreds any sense of societal dignity and post-Nietzschean respek by pretending he doesn’t care about the very optic gaze for whom he seeks refractive corporeal validation. The Starblazer seeks sustenance The Starblazer orange-u-tans Kelly-Lynne’s tonsils And, going solo, the Starblazer wears zebra pants and poses like a crispy mirrored twigwaffle. It’s like an X-Games Windex gargle in the clogged arteries of life. I’ve been spending so much time practicing nerd chants in school cafeterias I haven’t been able to summon much strength to keep posts up these days. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society. By the time the women went to Mexico for their mini-break of Frankel-branded tequila quaffing, swimming pool nudity, and accidental self-stabbings by knife, it was only Luann’s declaration of love for Tom that had them all on one side begging her to shut up.Then, in a tease for next week’s finale, we saw intimations of a leopard not changing its spots; Tom at a party telling a female fellow guest that he should de-mike to talk to her. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race. You fall neither hither nor thither on the spectrum of ‘bag. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, each a differing shade of fecal brown. To name you a single feces is to do a disservice to the many sphincters and colons that collectively excreted the various elements that make up your kaleidoscopic dung discharge. For there are not enough neologisms to express my contempt for your retched life choices that you exemplify, occupy, taint, or otherwise smear with the vile spittle that pours forth like mildewy Mountain Dew from your scaly manure-built form. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you.
We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. ‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy.
All ye glorious ‘bag hunters and hott lusters of yesteryear, it’s been an entire ten sun circles since we first discovered the legendary Hottie/Douchey suburban Jerz High School melted orange Julius that was the Oompa Prompas. We cried like canaries in the fist pumping club mines, screaming our warnings of the toxic man-children of privilege raging, raging, against the dying of their birthright. Tuesday, August 8, 2017 Going through the ole’ HCw DB archives one day and I stumbled into an assortment of unholy steaming ferret load of a toad pimple from way back in the dark days of Hottie/Douchey defenestration in 2010.