Bella Thorne celebrated her eighteenth birthday, which may or may not have also happened a few years ago when her non-Dominican ballplayer birth certificate documented her the very same age. I don’t blame her stage parents for trying. She’s the third of three girls in a family that all moved out from Florida several years ago to toss their girls into a giant molestation pit and see who crawled out with decent money. The two older sisters crapped out at bit TV parts and scantily clad modeling for guys with remarkably fake European accents. Bella got the big Disney gig and learned to keep secrets extremely well. Her bank account is blowing up. I suspect the parents got theirs when they could. Once the repressed memories start pouring out, they’re going to be legally restrained from attending her first three weddings.
It seems unfair that this girl at seventeen and three quarters can pose for magazine shots in a bikini looking like this, yet it’s entirely invalid to talk about guys wanting to fuck her. Fuck her sideways, forward, backward, on the balcony, in front of her godparents, on webcam, while watching SportsCenter, ass up during the High Holy Days, jackrabbit to Hootie albums, just fucking her every which way until Sunday. Which I think is her birthday. Inappropriate because of a silly number. I stand with Tyga. He’s probably fucking her right now while we’re soul searching. Sharia law won’t be all bad.
Somewhere between Josh Duggar serving as cruise director of kiddy sleepover nights at the compound and acting like Bella Thorne hasn’t been traveling around the world with a dude banging the snot out of her for the past several years lies a decent policy on how to treat seventeen year old TV and movie stars who walk around town without bras on. I only mention this because idiots love to send in letters repeatedly mentioning how she’s underaged and you should only view her via reflection in the mirror while apologizing to Jesus. Then I need to mention how I fucked their mothers at seventeen and they should really go searching for the older half brother they never knew they had. Build roads, not walls. I’m sure that can be applied to teen tits in some manner.
No matter how badly a teenager asks you to stare at her tits, it’s probably not a good idea. Turn away from the promotional tag they’re placing on their bodies and teach a young immigrant child how to read or murder the hobo in the alley because nobody will notice. Bella Thorne knows exactly what she’s doing. Don’t hate the player, don’t even hate the game, hate that fucker over your shoulder who calls you a creep for checking out her pushed up self-shot teenaged boobs. It’s all about the music. That’s the lie I’d go with.
The last great hope of the Thorne family of stage girls is this redhead line reader. Her Disney bio age is seventeen which makes her a Dominican shortstop prospect age fifteen, or both about twenty-four in rotations around the sun. She made the cut this year for the Joel Silver Memorial Day house party. She had memorized the ‘play ball’ speech before arriving earning her bonus points for not wasting anybody’s time. In the practice of the Chumash Indians, Thorne beelined for the chilled salt water envelopment of the Pacific Ocean for a therapeutic cleanse. There will be plenty of cute black babies left in Africa when you turn thirty-five and the bulk of your feature work is behind you. Keep your eye on the prize. Your parents dumped their retirement savings into your tap lessons and crotchless panties. You don’t want RadarOnline stories on them living in the street like Madonna’s brother. Can you lose the freckles?