Blac Chyna Needs a Bigger Head

I don’t know shit about fashion. I’d still advise a deformed fat woman from wearing a purple jumpsuit. There’s nothing to be gained by having strangers whistle up the oompa loompas to roll you to the juicing room. Racists.

There’s nothing left to the original body that was once teenaged Angela White giving her first champagne room hand jobs. What’s left is an amalgamation of eyes and nose and tits and ass with all the appetizing appeal of a chorizo ingredients list. How a mediocre looking tiny stripper turned herself into a multi-millionaire popping with the viscera of fortunate son offspring will be studied in business schools for years to come.

Life was more bitter than sweet for ugly duckling working girls for the first ten thousand years of human civilization. The last ten have been remarkably kind. Upward mobility is unmatched in the world of reality television and gossip magazines. Rock bottom is tops. Retarded babies are the new henna tattoos. This is what has replaced manufacturing jobs in America.

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