Losing your spot on the dais to Paris Hilton can’t feel good. I don’t care if it’s the pointless DJ crown or just the tiara given to the woman who has smoked the most idle rich cocaine covered pole, you don’t want to be ousted by a chick whose IQ hovers around par at Augusta. What’s left for you but to take off your top and hand yourself over to the insidious fucking bastards of the stylish bottled water venture hell bent on destroying this planet. And not long and slow like some Interstellar wheat blight, it’s going to happen fast. Voracious parasitic life forms bursting out of female parts and right into your maw. Think crabs, but on the scale of a McMansion or the large boned Kardashian girl. All because somebody had to take away Colleen Shannon’s title. If we all realized how interconnected our lives are on this planet we probably wouldn’t need so many signs reminding women not to flush tampons down toilets.
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