dating someone older than your parents - Tom hardy who is he dating
In addition to the legends that are the Prompas, there was The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars, who made a second, less famous appearance here. And, of course, the condenced ballsackian mildew of Long Island: The ‘Bag Islander. One month with enough scrotal display to keep a hundred pop culture historians unpacking inter-gender dynamics for a millennium and a fortnight. But trust me in saying, the Mockers back then were glorious in their savagery and wit. For as HCw DB is a now an inter-relic, I can look back fondly from my retiree chair, take a bite of a Ho Ho, a sip of ‘Train, and marvel at all the glorious mock that was done back when actual websites were a thing and the world wasn’t hyper-controlled by the Twitbookle Borg. Consider: In that one month alone we saw numerous legends of Hottie/Schlongy cohabit that went on to internet fame and (no)fortune. Sadly, all the comments in the message boards from that era were accidentally deleted when the site was upgraded to its new servers.
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.
In life, some people think that it's holding on that makes one strong; however, sometimes it's letting go."It was a heartening outbreak of sisterhood we rarely see on .
But any fan of knows that all it takes is two shots of Skinny Girl Vodka or Ramona’s Pinot Grigio for the “I told you so’s” and worse to start flying.
This, we predict, will happen next season during a disastrous evening out—the ladies specialize in no other kind.
And, of course, this inevitability is testament to another Real Housewife golden rule: secrets to be aired must be kept for taping!
It sounded as if something suspect was going on, as his new wife stood on the other side of the room.
Last night, during and before the announcement of the split, Frankel wouldn’t be drawn on the state of Luann and Tom’s marriage; a reticence that while polite and decent was in stark contrast to her begging of Luann not to marry the guy after she was told about his canoodling with someone else.
The other women, having begged her to reconsider marrying Tom in the first place—after he was seen kissing a woman in a bar—had, since Luann’s marriage, taken to begging her to shut up if she embarked on one of her many moony riffs in Tom’s favor.
Luann paraded her love as a constant victory lap, a defiance against the naysayers who said her husband-to-be, then husband was faithless, and likely to make her unhappy.
The evening will likely end with the Countess getting up and saying she just can’t believe she isn’t getting the support she needs, Sonja trying to fondle any pair of nearby breasts, Dorinda waving her arms like a windmill, shouting, “I know YOU Bethenny Frankel,” and Ramona draping herself on the nearest baffled businessman while insisting that the labels of her branded wine are directly in the camera’s lens.