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Don't Piss Me Off

So at the turn of the new year there were two rants that have been bugging me for some time and I wanted to get off my chest. The first was those stupid fucking rainbow stickers that gay people put on their cars. The second was why after seven long years of loyalty, why I'm planning on let my MAXIM magazine subscrition expire this coming July. Truth be told I had planned on letting it expire this past year in July of 2003 and kept tossing my renewal notices in the trash, fed up with the page after page after page after page of advertising for $300 t-shirts and $1,000 pants they were trying to hock. But, the June 2003 issue rolled around with the luscious Shania Twain on the cover and I shamelessly caved, "oh alright one more year," and mailed in the renewal form.

So this year, I was once again thinking about letting MAXIM go the way of the dodo bird, but at the same time, I had reservations. Eh, I get a new joke every now and again, they have had some interesting interviews with some people who were trapped in the Moscow theatre siege, people who have fallen from a plane with no parachute and survived, reviewed some good bars in Boston...oh and have pictures of the hotties like Eliza Dushku.

Now I'm not an idiot, I know they're not in business to give their magazines away they have to eat so advertising is just a fact of life. But what the fuck, open your latest Maxim and the first 14 pages are advertising. Now when I first started "Bert and Ernie's Fuckin Funny List" I was pushing about 120 megabytes of traffic a day. Now that I'm upwards in the neighborhood of 1,800-2,000 megs a day, so even I've taken on a couple sponsors here and there to keep things running. But at the same time I do my damndest to keep my actions discreet so as to not detract from the site's content.

On the not so funny side, I feel like one of those zombies from the old horror flicks, "Brains! Need Brains!" Truely, we humans are delicate creatures, eh?

This is a chain letter that must not be broken. If you don't send this to 5 people in the next 5 minutes, you may never be a part of the chain again.

Greenpeace Be Damned

It takes only about eight minutes for the Space Shuttle to accelerate to a speed of more than 17,000 miles per hour.

The Space Shuttle main engine weighs 1/7th as much as a train engine but delivers as much horsepower as 39 locomotives.

The turbopump on the Space Shuttle main engine is so powerful it could drain an average family-sized swimming pool in 25 seconds.

The Space Shuttle's three main engines and two solid rocket boosters generate some 7.3 million pounds of thrust at liftoff. Compare that with America's first two manned launch vehicles, the Redstone which produced 78,000 pounds of thrust, and the Atlas, which produced 360,000 pounds.

The liquid hydrogen in the Space Shuttle main engine is -423 degrees Fahrenheit, the second coldest liquid on Earth, and when burned with liquid oxygen, the temperature in the engine's combustion chamber reaches +6,000 degrees F.

The energy released by the three Space Shuttle main engines is equivalent to the output of 23 Hoover Dams.

Each of the Shuttle's solid rocket motors burns 5 tons of propellant per second, a total of 1.1 million pounds in 120 seconds. The speed of the gases exiting the nozzle is more than 6,000 miles per hour, about five times the speed of sound or three times the speed of a high-powered rifle bullet. The plume of flame ranges up to 500 feet long.

The combustion gases in a solid rocket motor are at a temperature of 6,100 degrees Fahrenheit , two-thirds the temperature of the surface of the sun. While that temperature is hot enough to boil steel, special insulation inside the motor protects the steel case so well that the outside of the case reaches only about 130 degrees F.

A stacked booster is the same height as the Statue of Liberty (not including pedestal) -- 151 feet -- but weighs almost three times as much.

The four engines of a Boeing 747 jet produce 188,000 pounds of thrust, while just one SRM produces more than 17 times as much thrust -- 3.3 million pounds . A pair of SRM's are more powerful than 35 jumbo jets at takeoff.

If their heat energy could be converted to electric power, two SRMs firing for two minutes would produce 2.2 million kilowatt hours of power, enough to supply the entire power demand of 87,000 homes for a full day.

The Shuttle's Remote Manipulator System (RMS), or robot arm, provided by the Canadian Space Agency, weighs about 905 pounds on Earth but can move cargo in space weighing 66,000 pounds, objects about the size of a Greyhound bus.

pictures from iraq

Oh Shut The Fuck Up, Ozzy.

Oh Jesus if I hear or read another news article on that fucking moron Ozzy Ozzborne I'm going to gouge my fucking eyes out with a butterknife. Ozzy was in a coma. Ozzy almost died. Ozzy was in the hospital. How about "Ozzy is a fucking dipshit", where's that headline? You see back when he first did his impression of a human lawn dart, I looked at a shitload of different sources to see if any of them mentioned if our esteemed bat biter was wearing a helmet... or any kind of protective gear for that matter. Not one damned article mentioned anything for weeks and only recently has he admitted he wasn't wearing a brain bucket. And if he were, he'd have been damned sure to make sure that got to the media quick so people like me wouldn't write blurbs like this and expose him for being a total fucking moron.

Okay, am I an expert on ATV or offroad safety? No. But I know a little something about a little something, and I think I can speak from a little bit of experience here. First let's take a look at the facts.

My quad is 420lbs all filled up with gas & oil. I weight about 180lbs with all my gear on, for a total weight of 600lbs or about 270kg. I fell from a height of about two stories, so let's say 5 meters. Gravity pulls at 9.81 m/s. Using what we learned with my beloved Apache video, I face planted with around 13,000 joules of energy.

Ozzy was riding a big 4x4 model which is heavier. The lightest weighing in at 470lbs the heaviest at 605lbs, so let's assume his was 550lbs. Ozzy appears as skinny as he is dimwitted, so let's say he is 150lb, giving us a total combined weight of 700lbs or 313kg. Now Ozzy didn't cliff dive, he instead flipped his bike after he hit a hole. Let's assume he was doing 20mph -- which is moving along pretty good -- for a velocity of 8.9 m/s. Thus we know the Ozzman did a moving headstand with 12500 joules -- just about the same amount of energy.

Now I hit the ground a little harder, and yet while Ozzy was put into a coma for eight days, I only had a concussion that put me on the couch for a few hours. Do you think this is because I'm some kind of superhero, or God's way of saying he likes me better? Or because I was wearing a fucking helmet? And while I only had some bruised muscles around my spine, Ozzy had a handful of fractured vertebrae. Again, divine intervention, or the fact that I was wearing a full torso chest protector?

I also believe that in order to ride a quad, or dirtbike, or scooter, or anything else like this safely you've got to have good reflexes. You've got to be able to spot your line, turn your handlebars, make any speed adjustments, and lean into the turn all in a split second. So between me and Ozzy, one of us has been on television bulmbling around with cat-like maneuvers that would make Corky from Life Goes On giggle, and therefore shouldn't even have been on the fucking quad to begin with. You guess who.

In closing, I would just like to say Ozzy, your stupidity gives a bad name to all the people who enjoy motorsports responsibly. I don't have any more sympathy for you than I do these idiots flying down the highway on motorcycles pulling wheelies before slamming into parked cars. So please shut the fuck up, stop giving interviews with your "oh woe is me" attitude, and just take your lumps.

Rodeo Pickup Lines.

"Got 8 seconds?"

"Ropes, spurs, leather gloves -- Honey, even if I weren't no cowboy, we're talking a good time!"

"Ain't no rodeo clown in the world that could keep me off you, Darlin'."

"Here's my number, call me when you need a few bucks."

"Run if ya want, Missy, but I'll have you hog-tied quicker than you can say 'stay away from me you Skoal-chewin'freak.'"

"How'd you like to put a pinch of me between your cheek and gum?"

"Them calves of yours sure look like they could use a bit of ropin'."

"I'll be in Intensive Care later. Why don't you drop by?"

"You sure make me wish I hadn't crapped my pants when that bull charged."

"Is that a pelvis broken in three places, or are you just happy to see me?"

"That's right, I said 'AND the horse you rode in on."

Okay, I'm just too proud of this one to not give it a big plug.

Ah Valentine's Day - The Jour D'amour

And who better represents romance than that Gallic gallant himself, Pepe Le Pew?

Monsieur Le Pew, a dapper skunk, arrived on the big screen in January 1945 in the Warner Bros. cartoon "Odor-able Kitty." His creator was animator Chuck Jones, who also dreamed up Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. An early Pepe film, "For Scent-imental Reasons," won the 1949 Academy Award for best animated short. Since then, Pepe has starred in almost 20 cartoons, including "Little Beau Pepe" and "Past Parfumance." Throughout his oeuvre, the story's the same... A desperate skunk chases after a series of skunk-striped cats - "zee king-sized belle femme skunk fatales" Penelope, Fifi, Fabrette and Felice - and woos them vigorously in Franglais. Sadly, his ardor can't mask his odor, rendering his pursuit futile. Still, Pepe's been at it for over 50 years. This Saturday, why not try some of his bons mots and let those pheromones fly. Just remember to wash with scented soap first.

ICEBREAKERS
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Pepe Le Pew, your lover."

SWEET NOTHINGS
"You are my peanut, I am your brittle!"
"Ah, my leetle much ado about somezing. [kiss, kiss] Ah, my leetle lost labor's love."
"Where are you, my leetle gumbo of chicken? Your French fried shrimp is sizzling for you."
"You may call me Streetcar, because of my desire for you!"
"Where are you, my leetle objet d'art? I am going to collect you!"

SELF-AFFIRMATION
"You know, eet eez possible to be too attractive!"
"You know, most men would get discouraged about now. ... Fortunately for you, I am not most men."
"Ah, my darling, I love you. Where have I been all your life?"

LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD
"I'll tell you what. You stop resisting me, and I'll stop resisting you."
"If you have not tried eet, do not knock eet!"
"You are zee corned beef to me, I am zee cab-baj to you. Zee cab-baj do not run away from zee corned beef!"

DEEP THOUGHTS
"One nice thing eez, the game of love eez never called on account of darkness."
"Sometimes I ask myself, `Eez it really worth eet?' And I answer myself, `Yes!'"

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6

Fun Facts About Terrorists

Terrorists are trying to sneak weapons onto airplanes using children's toys. If you see a child on your flight, smash his toys.

If surrounded by terrorists, whatever you do, don't make any sudden movements, or be a Jew.

If a guy is named Al, watch him with suspicion; that's halfway to Al Queda.

If a terrorist bites you, you become one.

You can ward off terrorists by wearing a porkchop around your neck.

Though many terrorists dress in burkas in the privacy of their own tents, that doesn't make them gay.

Terrorists are vulnerable to silver bullets... and any other bullets.

Chicks beware Friday the 13th. And guys, be careful around the workplace... 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

A useless message in my inbox trumpeted, "Satisfy the girls with a bigger dick!" Hey, I wouldn't be caught dead with a girl with a dick, especially if it's bigger than mine. Just like I would never be caught with a girl who had a big hairy pussy. But I might give Beyonce a roll in the hay though.

As Lord Of The Internet

I hereby decree that from this year forward, today shall hereby be known as Breast Appreciation Day, and all citizens shall celebrate it accordingly with food, drink, and cleavage abound. Let no man go without breasts, and let no woman go with a covered bosum. This, I command! So ladies, let's rack em!

Furthermore, I hereby decree that any citizen speaking out against me, Lord of the Internet, shall be publicly flogged so as to serve as an example. Pack your shit and get out.

More official instructions for you common people to live your lives by, as they come to mind.

Me: "I'm sorry boss, but I can't come in today. I'm suffering from Anal Glaucoma."
Boss: "Anal Glaucoma??? What the hell is that?"
Me: "Well basically, I just can't see my ass coming in to work."

Dear Alcohol,

First & foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours. My friend, you always seem to be there when needed. The perfect post- work cocktail, a beer with the game, and you're even around in the holidays hidden inside chocolates as you warm us when we're stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings. Yet lately I've been wondering about your intentions. While I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, I feel that your influence has led to some unwise consequences, briefed below for your review.

1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity takes place after 2 a.m. Why would you make me call those ex-girlfriends when I know for a fact they do not what to hear from me during the day, let alone all hours of the night?

2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal but why do you suggest that I eat a kabob with chili sauce, along with a big Italian hoagie & some stale chips (washed down with chocolate Nesquik & topped off with a Kit Kat all after a few cheese curls & chili cheese fries)? Eclectic eater I am, but I think you went too far this time.

3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me that I need to do more yoga to improve my balance, I see NO need to hammer the issue home by causing me to fall down, it's completely unnecessary. The black & blue marks that appear on my body mysteriously the next day is beyond me. Similarly, it should never take me more than 45 seconds to get the front door key into the lock.

4. Pictures: This can be a blessing in disguise, as it can often clarify the last point below, but the following costumes are banned from ever being placed on my head in public again: Indian wigs, sombreros, bows, ties, boxes, upside-down cups, inflatable balloon animals, Walmart traffic cones, or bras. Also, what is with you making me take pictures with people I clearly don't like when I'm sober. Yet they suddenly become my best friends when a flash is presented?

5. Beer Goggles: If I think I may know her from somewhere, I most likely do not. Please do not request that I go over & see if in fact, I do actually know that person. The phrase "Let's FUCK" is illegal from now on. While I may be thinking this, please reinstate the brain-to-mouth-block that would stop this thought from becoming a statement, especially in public. Please stop me from talking to the girl with the crooked teeth; acned-up face; bad breath, beer belly, etc. Why are they so appealing to me while I'm with you & why are they so disgusting to me the next morning after you have worn off??

6. Furthermore: The hangovers have GOT to stop. This is getting ridiculous. I know a little penance for our previous evening's debauchery may be in order, but the 3 p.m. -hangover immobility is completely unacceptable. My entire day is shot. I ask that, if the proper precautions are taken (water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin) prior to going to bed/passing out facedown on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be minimal & in no way interfere with my daily Saturday or Sunday (or any day for that matter) activities.

Alcohol, I have enjoyed our friendship for some years now & would like to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pockets. In order to continue this friendship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above & address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Thursday 3 p.m. (pre-happy hour) on your possible solutions & hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.

Thank you from your biggest fan.

watch a dale earnhardt fan do his best dale earnhardt impression

Break Yo'self Foo!

So let me tell you about my Thursday evening. I get home from work and decide to grab a six pack of Saranac Caramel Porter from my private stock. If winter is good for one thing, it's keeping my beer cold on the porch. Anyway, I take one beer out and go to put the remaining five into the fridge. The Lord smiteth me and knocketh the beers from my hand, where they smash into the bottom door of the fridge, and one of the beers explodes all over the floor with a fury of broken glass and foaming suds. Fuck.

Now I'm screaming at my dog to back up because I don't want him to cut his paws on the broken glass, and the little fucking boozehound is trying to slurp up as much beer as he can before I chase him away with a menacing swat of my hand.

It's a sad thing I tell you, to have to mop up one of your favorite beers from the floor. But I complete this grim task, and then sweep up all the soggy pieces of glass. I wash off the remaining four beer bottles and pop them in the fridge without incident. So I take my cold frosty beer and venture into the living room to sit my fat ass on the couch and watch a little television. Very little as it turns out, because there's dick on. So fuck it, I'll fire up my PS2 and try out the new steering wheel I bought last week and haven't had the chance to use.

And...it fucking sucks. I'm playing Gran Turismo 3 and just totally sucking. Which, I'm ashamed to admit, is pissing me off because I'm usually unstoppable. After completing three laps of a five lap race, I'm super double dog in last place, so fuck this I'm going to change back to a joystick and beat this fucking computer. As I yank out the steering wheel plug from the PS2 I knock over...my beer. Which spills all over the coffee table and my carpet. Did I mention it's a dark beer?

Motherfucker. So I quick pick up my beer to stop it from spilling more and go to get a towel to get the majority of the mess. I'm sopping this shit up and in between expletives and vigorous swabs of the towel, my elbow hits my fucking beer and down it goes again, adding more beer to my carpet. Now I'm getting genuinely pissed. Up goes the beer and gets slammed into the fucking garbage.

I go into the spare bedroom to get the carpet shampooer. That'll fix this fucking problem but quick. I fill the fucking thing up with hot water and shampoo, plug the motherfucker in and turn it on. All I hear is a sucking sound from the top where the water reservoir fits in. What the fuck, it was working two days ago. Now I'm crossing from genuinely pissed to the point where I'm spitting when I try to talk. And I'm flinging f-bombs around like it's nobodys business, which means I'm spitting everywhere. I kick the fucking thing which hurts my toes and flop down to take a look at this motherfucker.

There's a little nipple at the bottom of the removable water reservoir that's supposed to fit into a socket and feed the water through. Well a little fucking rubber gasket that's supposed to be around the nipple has slipped off and is now in the socket. It's kind of like putting a sock in your shoe and trying to stick your foot into both at the same time, instead of putting the sock on first and then putting your foot in your shoe. I try to use a butterknife to get the gasket out. No fucking luck. The more I try the more I fail, the more I fail, the more pissed I get, the more pissed I get the more I swear, the more I spit on my hands while I'm trying to get this fucking gasket out of there. It's a vicious cycle. I finally decide that needle nose pliers are the way to go, so I toss the butterknife down on the coffee table. Where it hits a glass candleholder. And breaks it. Shattering glass all over the motherfucking place.

Now I'm fucking smoking pissed where at any moment I can have an aneurysm and die. So for the second time that night I'm picking up broken fucking glass and chasing my dog away from spilled beer. I get the glass taken care of and go to a hallway closet where I have all my "stuff". You know what I mean, the top half is all extra pillows and blankets, a few towels, and the bottom half is all tools, paint rollers, extension cords, that kind of shit. I slam around a few bins and finally find my motherfucking needlenose pliers. I grab them in a huff and start back towards the living room, but not before knocking a fucking spraycan of something or other out into the middle of the hallway.

Jesus Fucking Christ! Can this night get any worse? I pick up the fucking spraycan and whip it into the closet. Where it hits something. Sharp. Did I mention this was a spraycan? Guess what the fuck was in it? Black motherfucking paint. The can does a few high speed rotations like when Bugs Bunny lets the air out of an innertube and it decorates everything within 360 degrees of it in flat black Rustoleum. Before I can react, it comes to a rest spewing it' load up into the hallway at about a 45 degree angle, forming a nice grey mist on the way down.

I grab this fucking thing and squeeze it firmly in my hands, forcing my thumbs to seal off the puncture mark. Which works except for the fact that (a) it's still dripping paint and (b) I have to let go of this motherfucker at some point. The longer I delay, the more the paint will dry on everything it's just blown a load onto. I duck waddle into the kitchen so it doesn't drip on my pants and hold my hands deep into the garbage can. With a quick twist of the wrist, I'm able to spin the can where it unloads the rest of it's jizz directly downwards into the trash so as to not cause any further havoc.

The dog by the way, is hiding under the bed by this time, no doubt offended by the endless string of motherfuckers, goddammits, cocksuckers, and shits bursting forth from my mouth. And yes, I'm still spitting.

Luckily I have a quart of paint thinner under the sink and manage to clean up most of the black paint, leaving nothing of value with any real long term effects. A roll of duct tape, a package of vacuum bags, and a spotlight will never be the same, but I'll live.

And after all this? There's STILL FUCKING BEER ON MY CARPET AND THE FUCKING SHAMPOOER WON'T WORK. But after cleaning the paint off the fucking pliers, I did get the fucking gasket out and onto the nipple. I cleaned up the beer and said 'fuck you clown'. I was in bed by 8:30.

gran turismo car -- 2 -- 3 -- 4

Do You, Pole-Smoker, take this Pole-Smoker...

So the Massachusetts' Supreme Judicial Court upheld a ruling today that gays should have the right to marry in the state of Massachusetts. This will of course lead to many a heated moments as the beer swilling Catholics in downtown Boston get liquored up and decide to voice their opinions to those who may strike them as light in the loafers, I'm sure. I had actually intended on doing a blurb on this subject about a month ago and it slipped my mind, until I received this email last week...

Now a few years ago I used to live with a girl who had not only a spectacular pair of breasts, but a gay sister as well. I dunno if the gay sister had great boobs too because, well, she was gay. But anyway, this sister lived in California with her -- of what's the politically correct term -- life partner? Yeah, so these two lesbians have been with each other for a like eleven years and they were as committed to each other as any heterosexual couple I know. But since they obviously can't have any children without some help, they decided one of them gets artificially inseminated. They took a look at their jobs, and decided the one who had the lesser paying job would be the one to carry the baby, since her taking time off from work wouldn't be as financially straining. Nine months later, poof they've got a kid.

The first thing that struck me as a little unfair is only my girlfriend's sister -- the one who actually carried the baby -- could be listed on the birth certificate as the parent. Granted even if they could they'd either have to play paper-scissors-rock to see who gets listed as the father, but still it struck me as a little unfair that only one of them was legally allowed to be recognized as a parent. I mean hey, ya wait around for that long putting up with world class bitchiness beyond belief, you're gonna want some public recognition, right?

The next quirk they came across was health insurance. As it so happened, the birth mother's health insurance coverage was not as robust as the her partner's insurance. You know how that goes, better job and all that, right? Well the baby's medical coverage could not be claimed against this better policy for obvious reasons -- she wasn't legally the child's parent. So this ended up costing them a lot of money out of pocket for medical expenses, and there were even some areas where the child didn't get the same level of care as she could have if she had been covered under the better insurance policy. Again, it seemed unfair not only to the parents financially, but to the baby in regards to her health care.

And suppose for the sake of argument, that while the three of them were driving home from the hospital, there was a car accident and the birth mom was rendered brain dead. If it were a husband and wife deal, the surviving spouse would have legal control over medical treatment (or ceasing of it) for their injured partner, plus have no problem securing sole custody of the baby. But in this case, the surviving lezbo would have no legal recourse despite having just as much time and energy invested as a male partner would.

All these issues because same sex marriages are currently illegal. Okay. So let me think for a minute, that if they were legal, how would they effect my life. Would I have to pay more taxes? No. Would married gay people get a special check out line at the supermarket to get through line faster than me? No. Do they get their own special lane to avoid traffic jams? No. Do they get cheaper car insurance? No. Free car? No. Free socks? No.

So my question would be... what the fuck do I care if gay people want to be married?

They're not fighting to have two guys dressed in wedding gowns, mascara and five o'clock shadows to prance down the aisle of your local church. They're not fighting for the right to fuck on the crosstown bus. They're not fighting to have Hers-and-Hers bathrooms at the mall. All the benefits and rights they're fighting for, wouldn't impact my life one bit if they did get them, so why the hell would I oppose it? It's like going out and saying you oppose blue socks. You can't see em anyway, so who the fuck cares?

The only people that could possibly have a valid argument against anti-same sex marriages are the religious groups. "Homosexuality is an abomination!" they say. Well, okay, that's your take on it that's cool. Fair enough. But then there's two things to consider when you enter that realm, too. One, where the hell were you when priests were treating eight year old children like fuck toys? I didn't hear you say too much then, in fact you kind of looked at your shoes, mumbled something about out of court settlements, and then wandered off into the crowds. I don't hear you protest when atheists get married. I don't hear you protest when atheists get married in a church. I don't hear you protest when religious people get married on a cruise ship snot hanging drunk after grabbing the nearest vacationer to serve as their witness. So please, if you're going to get all high and fucking mighty, at least have the courtesy to do it evenly across the board.

And secondly, this situation my friend, is a perfect example of the REAL reason behind the separation of Church and State. It's not just a springboard for some loudmouthed asshole to use and get his name in the paper when he wants to talk about the Pledge of Allegiance, but instead a genuine reason why Judge Judy needs to leave her Bible/Koran/Torah/Whatever at home.

What if I created a religion where marriage was illegal altogether, would the government have to rule all marriages null and void? What if all the 43,000 people in the United Kingdom who checked their religion as "Jedi" all decided they're never going to get laid and decided they could marry their dog? Would governments then have to recognize those marriages? The answer is no in both cases, because the whole purpose of the separation of Church and State is Uncle Sam can't pick and choose what religious movements they're going to acknowledge and which they aren't. Churchgoers have every right in the world to voice their opinions in a public forum, but when it comes time to making laws it's time to have a nice tall glass of Shut-The-Fuck-Up. The only thing Uncle Sam can do is to make sure everyone, man, woman, black, white, tall, short, cute, ugly, straight or gay, gets a fair shake.

Oh by the way, I gave that girlfriend crabs after a nights indecretion with a drunken girl in the dorms. More on that Tuesday!

It's Jackson If You're Nasty

No talk just boobs. You know you want em. And there's no fucking way you can tell me this wasn't staged.

pic one - pic two - nipple close up - slow motion video