married white male seeking NSA fun. Nice guy, safe to be with. Looking for a friend to enjoy the morning and maybe the afternoon with. Room service included.
WWHM used to have a small audience of doe-eyed and dainty society ladies in butter-churning bonnets visiting our blog on a daily basis, giggling innocently into their tiny cupped fingers as they sipped hot chamomile tea and painstakingly knitted tiny earmuffs for handicapped children in Botswana.
Today, posting to WWHM is like hurling bloody slabs of gazelle meat into a pit of starved wolves. Disturbed WWHM female readers scream relentlessly for disgusting cock pics on WWHM, banging their machine-dulled utensils upon the stainless steel surfaces of bolted down prison tables, oblivious to the trembling guards in lab coats at their sides wielding high voltage cattle prods and cannisters of tear gas. What are you, a bunch of fucking Vikings?
Believe me, I'm surrounded with so many cock pics at WWHM headquarters you'd think my office was located deep inside Nadya Sulman's 24-hour fucking cocaine party of a womb. Every morning I open my email inbox, I'm assaulted with an armada of greased penises fully capable of extinguishing the white-hot hydrogen fueled flames of the Hindenberg with a protein-rich and adhesive stream of stunted fucking genetics. Yet WWHM finally bows to community pressure today, and presents you with a personal ad from Kip. Or, I should say, Kip's penis.
Because yes, that is a penis, and Kip offers it up to you in the same manner a white-gloved waiter might lift a silver tray of elegant European cheeses to your nose for an inviting sniff. Sniff not my friends, as the sour stench of desperation is overwhelming; I'm not saying Kip set the bar low for his weak effort at getting laid, but at first glance it appears as though Kip might be casually waiting for a cross-town bus outside an understaffed housing facility for disoriented seniors. "Hey Kip," a guard might yell out, "stop leaving your fucking pants in the pudding bin."
Per your presentation Kip, the horniest woman on the planet wouldn't approach that atrophied cock if it was made out of fucking cheesecake and shot an endless string of sparkling South African diamonds around her neck with the pinpoint accuracy of a decorated sniper. Tease them as you will with a pair of hastily dropped Hanes briefs binding your ankles like a 3 year-old preparing to pee in a plastic johnny toilet covered with dinosaur stickers, it nary makes up for the fact that I've had a dried moth carcass blowing lightly around my windowsill for six months that exhibits a more charismatic sexual exuberance than your quivering and bulbous birthing hips.
Guys like Kip post cock shots somehow believing the grainy cellphone visage of a penis ensconced with what appears to be an unkempt housecat miraculously ignites the libido of a woman with some type of primal sexual spark; yet Playgirl recently went bankrupt for a reason, and it wasn't because chicks were clamoring to catch a gander of Fabio's wilted Circus Circus bargain buffett breakfast sausage laying lifelessly across his leg like a shot squirrel. If you want your cock to spark something, go stand on a beach riddled with undernourished field wrens at 6 am and lay it on a beach log; you'll spark a flurry of violent beak strikes that will leave your manhood looking like a perforated bicycle tire.
Order that room service for one, Kip.
And order a fucking razor.