As a child, staying in your divorced parent’s meth-lab every weekend teaches you one thing—being an addict is okay. Sex being my personal drug of choice. So go ON with yo bad self. Daps for daddy issues.

Let’s be honest, here. You and I both know the art of fucking is the greatest thing created by the holy Jeebus, apart from deep-fried oreos and deep-dish pizza. Sex to me is like a weekly Vicodin prescription for my feeble grandmother—without it, I’d probably do something weird like rob a Wingstop or spend my next three paychecks on Flinstone’s chewables to take the edge off. Sex is euphoric. And since I, and all the other ladies out there like me, hold ourselves to a euphoric and highly-standardized lifestyle… we need our fix.

Unfortunately, fucking has its downfalls. With anyone, that is. I don’t care if you’re Vernon Davis or Usher Raymond. Sure, I’d drop saving a puppy out of a burning building any day of the week to roast your sausage in my burning building, but even fucking someone on the Forbes Hot 100 list is going to shelter the identical blows as fucking some burn-out in college. These are the things that blow about sex.

1. Don’t Touch My Head: Every classy girl knows how to deep-throat. So when I’m giving you head, please remember that my shit is like a symphony. You can’t rush an art form. In other words, please do not use your hands to forcefully shove my head down your penis. WE WILL GET THERE. Stop being an impatient motherfucker. And unless you plan on massaging my sore neck when we’re done, keep your grimey hands off this hair. Never touch the hair.

2. Perfume de Ballsack: Unfortunately and without fail, you’re going to smell like a dirty ballsack at the end of your rounds. In a perfect world, ballsacks from here to Timbuktu would smell like Hawaiian Febreze and not like a seventh grader’s armpit dumped in sewage. Oh well, sex isn’t supposed to be cute.

3. Condoms: Nobody likes babies or diseases that make your vagina look like the Hulk’s, so God’s punishment to man is the holy condom. Nobody likes that shit. But if you’re gonna have your pie and eat it too, obviously you’re gonna have to go to the gym. Life is full of shitty trade-offs.

4. You Should Have 3 Dicks: Every guy’s manhood is like a 6 year-old girl. Once you’re rough on it enough to get the job done, that shit is sensitive. The majority of guys aren’t willing to go three, four, five rounds without breaks, since they’ve already blown their load so much that even touching their scepter would get you kicked out of the fucking palace. Yeah, get two more. Sincerely, the female population. More is more.

5. Get off Your Ass and Shower Before I Destroy You: I don’t care if you’re a fucking booty call. Shower your shit or don’t bother coming over. Most guys show up like a Goodwill child. That shit is not cute. I always smell like Kim Kardashian, so please do your part.

6.The Inevitable Athlete’s Sweat: There’s really nothing either of us can do about sweating like Cotto and Mayweather after the third round. The beads of sweat dropping from your forehead onto my tits is a compliment, but sadly still gross. Btw, my bad for reciprocating.

7. Sex-Hair: Self-explanatory. Have you seen this shit? Someone call my John, because now I look like a prost.

8. You’re Not a Fucking Mime: Sure, the sound of you pounding me is hot, but I’m still here. I’m not a fucking fleshlight, so it’s your job to talk dirty to me once every few minutes.

9.The Post-Fuck Scavenger Hunt: The worst part about sex is the post-fuck scavenger hunt for all your clothes. This affects the bitches more, since we’ve got socks, jeans, a jacket, a blouse, a bra, and a thong to worry about. In the heat of the moment, obviously we’re going to throw all of that shit out the window, but that ensemble costs me at least $350, so fuck you and your single-garment sweatpants.

College is over. And so are toxic nights of threesomes, student loan shopping sprees, and leftover pizza. Pfft, just kidding. I’m headed south for grad school. Aka my way of prolonging my lifestyle.

However, I can’t help but feel depressed. Alright, so maybe my premature alcoholism contributes to that, but we’ve only got a few years of undergraduate status before we should really start taking the “act your age” comment seriously. And I’m at that point. God damnit. Let’s reminisce.

Year 1: Tiny little seventeen year-old snatch. Didn’t know shit about pushing your tolerance, “mandatory” class schedules, or beautiful men on the Cal football team. Your whole life was your dorm suite, unlimited meal points, and the inevitable freshman anorexia. Yeah, fuck that shit. You actually cared about your school, and loved to go home because that meant your mom would do your laundry for you. You got a 4.0. You stupid bitch.

Year 2: You secured an above-average apartment with your best friends. You felt like such a grown-up little bitch, because even though your parents still paid your rent, you actually knew how to write a fucking check. You knew where to go, where to fuck, where to drink, and actually considered joining a sorority. But since you’re a prissy ass bitch, you turned your backs on your roomies, because you were always the one to do the dishes. (My bad, btw. I know I’m a bitch. You hoes are beautiful, and are probably going to be super successful and shit. I’ll be sure to send you a fatty check someday. Go buy yourself something nice.)

Year 3: Best year of your life. You finally came to your senses and got a shitty apartment of your own. You turned what looked like a meth lab in the cuts of Berkeley into a sexy fuck-shack put to correct use. You were drunk 4/7 nights of the week, and you barely passed any of your classes. You actually grew up. You paid your own rent, caught your own prey, and bought your own condoms. You finally learned what it’s like to abandon all emotion and morph into a full-blown Carrie Bradshaw. You started a blog a bit too personal for anyone’s taste, made a shit ton of money off of your bad decisions, and ended your last year as an undergrad the exact same way you started it—with a man in your bed. You fucked a couple celebrities, fell in love with Twitter, and found yourself.

Then you graduated.

Unfortunately for you, I’m gonna stick around. I’d like to think of myself as your very own personal Ghetto Gossip Girl. Except I only like to talk about myself, and the occasional sexcapade we all dream of. Don’t worry, didn’t you hear? It’s summer, bitch. The bombshell is just getting started, and BerkeleyBabe is here to stay. And she’s about to fuck Cal Poly up. Thanks for getting me through it, my little bombshells. See you in SLO for grad school. Shots?

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Ode to Finals Week, according to Afroman.

Sing along to this shit.

Wait a minute, man. Hey, check this out, man. It was this blind student right, it was this blind student right… He was feelin’ his way down campus with his stick, right… He walked past this Econ lecture, you know what I’m sayin? He stopped, he took a deep breath and he said,

*SSSNNNNIIIIFFFF* ‘Whew! Good morning, Asians!’

I said Stats 45, and a Pass/No Pass,

To graduate, that’s all I need.

We can go get some ass, if we pass,

And troll some frats for weed.

And as the Asian kids learn, we can take our turn,

Cheating on questions we’ll get wrong,

Stop and check our palms, keep our grades strong,

And sell Ritalin to Mr. Ching Chong.

So *cough*, peek, *cough*, and sneak,

Our eyes do the wan-der-ing,

Because let’s be real, I’m gonna fail,

So might as well pick the right seat.

So fuck all that stu-dy-ing,

Bitch it’s our senior year,

If I don’t get a degree, you can laugh at me,

But I’ll just fall back on welfare.

Well it was just sundown in a small college town, all the kids stressin’ that they’ll fail,

When the GSIs passed out the study guides, tutors went up for sale.

Well I was standing on the corner sellin’ old theses, when I met a Sigma Chi named Stan,

I tried to cheat off his paper, ‘cause I didn’t know his maker was the Professor of the class I’m in.

I failed in my head, but aced on my score,

Cheated so bad, call me Tiger Woods’ whore,

Then I looked to my left, got a good sight,

Bubbled my scantron ‘til that shit looked right.

Thought to myself, ‘teacher-teacher,’

‘I’d suck your dick under the bleachers,’

I pulled out my transcript and I was on my way,

I’m a blowjob away from gettin’ an A.

And so I took my exam, I was ready to go,

But I didn’t know shit ‘cept for number 4.

So I peeked to the left, I peeked to the right,

This motherfuckin’ test beat my ass all night.

But I ain’t brash at this class I won’t pass,

That’s the best damn party I ever crashed.

Got a bag of weed and a bottle of wine,

I’ll re-take this class just one more time.

Stats 45, and a Pass/No Pass,

To graduate, that’s all I need.

We can go get some ass, if we pass,

And troll some frats for weed.

And as the Asian kids learn, we can take our turn,

Cheating on questions we’ll get wrong,

Stop and check our palms, keep our grades strong,

And sell Ritalin to Mr. Ching Chong.

So *cough*, peek, *cough*, and sneak,

Our eyes do the wan-der-ing,

Because let’s be real, I’m gonna fail,

So might as well pick the right seat.

So fuck all that stu-dy-ing,

Bitch it’s our senior year,

If I don’t get a degree, you can laugh at me,

I’ll fall back on welfare.

Happy Finals Week, everyone. I hope Afroman teaches you more than your Professors did.

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Amber: May’s very own Bombshell Bitch.

Follow Amber on Twitter: @amberlicous13

Want to be the next Bombshell Bitch? Get your sexy fucking T-shirt now at the Bombshell Shop, Tweet Me a picture along with your Twitter name, and be the next Bombshell Bitch of the month on thetickingtimebombshell.com!

I’m not the kind of person who likes to admit they have a type. But if you’re black, six-foot whatever, and throw the pig-skin for a living… then you’re my type. Tattoos are a bonus, especially since I get a huge she-boner when your biceps have some vague statement plastered all over you in shitty cursive.

Okay, so a majority of the general population shits on the snowbunnies for being the most infamous of the Jersey Chasers. And if you don’t know what that means, try UrbanDictionary, you dumbfuck. What I’m trying to say is that I refuse to be the 99%—of people that shit on the snowbunnies. Although I fail to fit that demographic, I still understand and commend the reasons why these bitches enjoy fucking guys who play football. Or basketball. Or any D1 sport.

Number One: While the rest of us are trapped in the mindset of how the hell we’re going to cheat our way towards a Bachelor’s Degree, it’s refreshing to prey on the guys who eat, sleep, and dream nothing but the sport they play. It’s fucking sexy. Odds are the guys that are more concerned about how much they bench press over how they scored on a midterm, aren’t going to be concerned about the amount of intelligence I really don’t have. All they’re concerned about is…

Number Two: Some yummy Fuck Food, in the words of Tech N9ne. Athletes tend to be way more demonic in the sack. Why? Because they’re cocky as shit and know what they’re capable of. I can only imagine them hearing nothing but their coaches’ voices while pounding the hell out of you. HARDER! FASTER! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT! And if you’re like this bitch, then you’re not one to settle for some D-Grade smashing. I want some crazy-passionate-angry-hate sex, which to this day I’ve only been able to attain through guys who sport giant numbers on the back of their jerseys. Can you blame me? That’s what I thought. So STFU.

Number Three: With the exception of a few golden eggs (Go Vikings), athletes don’t generally prioritize education over their D1 scholarships—as it should be. So because of that, these guys are even sexier with attitudes that pack nothing but their lack of fucks to give. They know they’re the shit, and don’t need an A in Stats 2 to prove it. That’s what I’m here for ;)

Number Four: Athletes are the elite of college life. Nothing has changed since high school. Don’t lie, bitch. You know you want to fuck the quarterback.

Jersey-Chasing is not a crime. They’re sexy, they’re sweet, they’re hilarious, and they major in Football with a minor in The Kind Of Sex You Saw In The Notebook. Swoon.

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Sunday school obviously didn’t teach me anything. All I remember is something about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit (oh, how they all must hate me). And at the heart of the internet Holy Land, we all bow down to The Holy Trinity: the Facebook, the Tumblr, and the Holy Twitter. There are no close seconds—with the exception of its disciples: Pinterest, YouTube, and CollegeTownLife.

If the internet has taught me anything, it’s that a good 60 hours of solid effort put into creating a fool-proof identity via the Holy Trinity can turn you into Cindy Crawford virtually overnight. Let’s face it. In reality, you’re a twenty-something college student, majoring in the freshman fifteen you earned by slinging burritos at your off-campus Chipotle. I don’t blame you, bitch. I’d do the same thing. For all you know, I could potentially be a 65 year-old baby rapist that preys on beautiful athletes with the help of the 140 characters I’m allotted on the Holy Twitter. Don’t trust Jack SHIT when it comes to me. Just kidding, you can. I just feel bad for the people who knew me in high school.

The point I’m trying to make—if any—is how big of a piece of shit we make ourselves look in person, per being dishonest with our Holy Trinity. The internet gives us the ability to hide the fact that all we’re actually doing with our lives is, well, Jack SHIT.

The Facebook You: Let me guess. Your profile picture was taken by someone who has a Canon Rebel, right?. Bitch, I see you frolicking in that field. You must be so happy, right? Am I right? Your vaguely-lyrical status update, paired with over 1,000 friends and an album of your anorexic summer body is totes you in the flesh, yeah? Cool. I knew it! You don’t fool me, slut. Those Ciroc bottles in your cover photo were probably purchased by someone else who has the money you don’t have.

The Tumblr You: Let me guess. You own every pair of Louboutins you reblog, right? You’re so passionate about causes like KONY2012 and beautiful cancer patients, yeah? All of the beautiful women under 100 pounds and over 6 feet tall is totally what you look like, true? Is that true? Your American Apparel outlook on life is about as deep as the kiddie pool I would piss in as a child. Transparency is a gift, and apparently you are queen.

The Twitter You: Let me guess. You’re an #Entrepreneur, right? Your hashtags are super original, right? I’ve never even heard of #SelfMade before. 140 characters says so much about the business-person you are, and it goes something like this: BULL-FUCKING-SHIT. Side-note: #Entrepreneur just means you’re unemployed. I’m sure all of your followers bow at the helm of everything you tweet. That’s for reals going to get you so far in life. Your TwitCon says one thing, and one thing alone—I love photoshop.

You: Combine all three facets of the Holy Trinity, weed through all the bullpiss, and the ending result? A slightly confused attention-whore who knows his and her way around a social network. Your mom still pays for your car insurance, and you’re about two tweets away from dropping out of college. I love the real you.

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Wow, what a shallow and self-motivated piece of narcissistic trash she’s about to write.  Said no one ever. Hoe, I do what I please. You know you’re about to read this piece of shit all the way through, anyway. With the whole condescending everyone is beautiful outlook pushed aside, I’d like to remind everyone that there is always going to be someone in the world who is far more attractive than you are. Take my neighbor, for example. That bitch has legs for days and an ass fatter than mine, minus the cellulite and muffin tops I had for breakfast this morning. However, I refuse to be one of those females who mope around like a dope-fuck, broadcasting how unattractive they are, all while uploading flawless pictures of themselves just to make the attention a lot more gratifying. I refuse. Bitch, I am decent. And I have no problem saying I am. Didn’t you see the dime piece in my bed last night? This face. I thank this face right here. I am pointing to my face.

But being hot, per se, is not all cookies and milk. It’s nutrageous bars, too. Keep that ass fat. And just like growing up in a home that makes you do slave-labor, the more effort you put into making yourself look like a high-end Kim Kardashian knock-off, the harder it is to keep up with your Mac foundation budget. Hot Girl Problems.

#HotGirlProblems

Hot on Your Wallet- It takes an entire fucking paycheck’s worth of Asian slave-labor to keep up with the number of fills, retouches, waxes, and makeup that I am forced to subject myself to every month. Do you know how much each of these materialistic pieces of shit costs, hurts, and degrades? A fuck ton, that’s how much.

Team No Sleep Ever. Fucking ever. -Hot girls don’t get sleep. That’s why hot girls are usually paired with the bitch-ass personalities you’d much rather find in the dumpster. Why do you think we’re so mean?! We lose sleep by waking up three hours earlier over making ourselves look like absolute sexpots every day, so don’t blame me for treating you like something I found in my sock.

You Look Tired Today - Thanks, asshole. That’s just your polite way of saying I look like complete shit, when in reality all I’m really doing… is not wearing makeup. I hate to break it to you, hot girls. The more foundation we cake into our pores, the more we’re going to resemble Shrek once the makeup comes off. Whatever. I love that movie.

Split Ends and Typos - Flat-irons and acrylics are to blame for long hair that smells like genocide and emails that appear they’ve been drafted by a cohort of three-year olds. Do you know how hard it is to type with inch-long acrylic nails? That shit is worse than herpes. But we deal with it, because nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Wait, that’s anorexia. Fuck that.

Hot Man Roulette -Raise your hand if your little black book is full of jack-wads who don’t text you back until hours after you’ve initiated the booty call. Out of common courtesy, I usually wait twenty minutes. But upon lack of receiving a response, I just mass-text the hell out of my LBB and wind up putting myself in a situation where they all respond at once. Boo hoo, bitch. In the event that should happen, ask yourself this. On a scale of 1 to Eight Rounds and Purple Bruises, who is most deserving?

Eating Your Feelings -Most hot girls deal with the stereotype of being dumbfucks by trapping themselves in a closet and shoving twinkies down their holes—for emotional relief and practice. Not me, though. I eat because I’m a fat ass.

Remember. Hot girls, we have problems, too. We’re just like you. Except we’re hot.

PS: That song gave me an aneurysm. I hope someone kicks their moms in the ovaries. Don’t watch this.

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I know what you’re thinking. When females laugh via text, there’s an emotional and systematic difference between lol, haha, OMG, LOL, HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA, and ha—the difference being how easily she’d let you get past those panties. When males laugh via text, there is only lol or ha. Let’s be honest here. When guys text you, they’re about as emotionless as the hypothetical baby conceived by a brick and Kristen Stewart. The difference between males and females? Women will judge you on the basis of how many unnecessary extra letters you use at the end of heyyyyyyyyyy. Bitches love that shit.

But we’re not here to talk about the hoes. I’ve done that shit already. As much as you are convinced that male texts are absent of any hidden messages and ulterior motives… bitch, you are sadly mistaken. And just like real life, men hide behind faces like this -_- to conceal what they’re really trying to say to you. But you can’t fool me, boys. I see past your one-dimensional oks and lols. You are as transparent as the condom you just slid on your average-sized pee pee. And they’ve all ended up in my inbox. I’m about to reveal all your slutty little secrets.

Wyd: I get this god damn text message every day. Acronym for ‘what you doing,’ this particular text, when deciphered, has no real interest in what the fuck you’re doing. If guys had any interest in what you were doing, they probably wouldn’t go to so much effort and send you three whole fucking letters. If you get the wyd text, this means he either just saw a whoreish photo you posted on Twitter, or you’re the last resort down his prioritized line of beautiful hoes who haven’t texted him back in the past hour.

What’s good: Oh, the motherfucking infamous. One time, I got four ‘What’s good’s simultaneously at 7:04 PM on a Thursday. Let me put this lightly. What’s good = Let me come over and fuck your insides. What’s good conveys a deeper meaning that what’s up or how are you fail to get across. Because, in fact, you do know what’s good. The answer to that, my friend, is your kooch. Your kooch covered in lace and leather at 11PM on a Thursday is what’s good. They just want the ‘goods.’ See what I did there? So what’s good, bitch?

Hey:Odds are you’ll get the short and dull hey from the dude whose dick you wanna devour, and the long, emoticon-raped, ass-kisser text from the creep in your Bio lecture who’s never had a girlfriend and likes all your Facebook pictures. That’s just how life works. There’s nothing you can do about it. But don’t fear! Underneath that hey is a doucher of a prick who will never care about your feelings, family, or music of choice. Why? Because hey from a male is nothing more than I’m bored. Do something about it, slut. And what would you do? You’d likely send him back some long, ditsy response that feeds off the fact that you’re a stage-five clinger. Perf.

:-) : What? He sent you a fucking happy face? Get stoked on your life, bitch. This guy actually thinks you’re a cool person. Not a lot of guys are into showing any emotion on the keyboard, so the fact that you brought it out of him really goes to show that you either sexted him the best picture of your life, or he is actually being a decent human being who knows what girl code means. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now. Nothing makes a bitch more wet than an inbox full of smiley faces.

*No Response*:What I hate about chicks is their natural tendency to assume males don’t know how to work technology, never got your message per technical difficulties, or lost their phone somewhere, in the case that they don’t text you back. WRONG, HOE. If a male doesn’t text you back, it means THEY. DON’T. WANT. SHIT. TO. DO. WITH. YOU. Bombarding him with winky faces and innocent questions like ‘What are you up to? I’d love to see you :)’ is only going to shrivel his ballsack back up into his body. That is not attractive, ladies. If you’re not down for a one and done absent of the sweet messages, he isn’t going to give you shit in return.

Alright/Aite/ight/Ok: All of these tokens of confirmation say the same thing: I don’t give a shit. If you’re trying to make plans with this guy, you’re definitely and indefinitely going to get a response verbatim the above. You’ve got to learn to accept it.

Good morning: Oh, honey. If you’ve been hit with the good morning texts without any ties whatsoever, you’re doing something right. You either bought his last meal at Chipotle, or let him unwrap his burrito in the sack last night. Jump on that shit right away, because when a male good morn-ings you, he’s really saying hoe I’m taking the time to send you this good morning text, so I better be getting some head tonight. Painstakingly, you oblige. Good mornings are the best.

He6y wuseup: It’s 2 AM. He wants to fuck you.

In a perfect world, we’d each give 50-50 via text message. But we live in a world of 90-10, ladies. As per usual, you’ve got to do all the work. Suck it up and know what’s good. I certainly do. So what’s good?

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The Bombshells. Get Yours.

I am not a big fan of Team Condom. At all. And you shouldn’t be either. That shit is straight up condomnation. But in the event that your alcohol expenses exceed your budget for high-end contraception, you resort to those chafing rubber slingshots as a safety net—just like your parents’ house. Unless you decide to be a fucking idiot and hit it raw like someone I know. Don’t do that.

Your choice of condom speaks largely on behalf of your character. If you whip out a rubber more disappointing than your dick, there’s still a possibility that I’ll ask you to leave. Think about it—you may be the one slipping it on, but it’s my bitches and I who have to deal with burning rubber residue post-fuck. Choose your friends wisely. Welcome to your daily Slore-oscope. You can call me Madam Trojan(aiah).

For Her Pleasure

You’re the kind of chap that has his panties in a fucking bunch. Unless this bitch is your girlfriend, you shouldn’t be depending on a piece of rubber made by a five-year old Asian slave-child to pick up the slack for you. These condom wrappers are lavender, which is pretty much self-explanatory when speaking on behalf of how much of a fruit loop your ass really is. You probably enjoy artists such as Phoenix, MGMT, and One Direction—when nobody is looking at your iPod. Your position of choice is Missionary—boring, basic, and nut-busted within the first 10 minutes.

Magnum/XL

Let me just say that there is a reason Trojan Magnums are packaged in a BLACK box. BLACK packages should be purchased by BLACK packages, and BLACK packages alone. So unless you’re an abnormally-hung white boy, like Michael Phelps perhaps, I’d stray from the XL’s for fear of making yourself look like a complete fucktard whose hotdog looks like it’s wearing a poncho. However, if you’re an appropriate purchasee, then why are you wasting your time reading this? Shouldn’t you be taking off my panties right now? The Trojan Magnum, purchased correctly, shows that you are a decent human being who enjoys chilled white wine and some hoe’s ass on your rod. Your favorite position probably involves breaking and/or spraining certain body parts.

Ribbed

If you’re ripped, gripped, and resort to the ribbed, then you are the kind of guy who is silent but deadly. Chicks wouldn’t expect you to be any good at the art of uterus-punching, but those fine lines they forgot to read between are as refined as the ones on your choice of Trojan. You enjoy watching forgotten shows like Whose Line Is It Anyway? and making Pasta Primavera for dinner. Once the ladies find out that you’re more than just a lanky underachiever barely passing community college to focus on your music career… they’ll probably still think that of you. But fuck it—you’ve got ribbed condoms.

Extra-Lubricated

Sometimes I feel the need to say comments like how dry and crusty of a snatch you must have lured into your bed… but then I just don’t. However, I’m all about honesty and feel the need to say a comment like how dry and crusty of a snatch you must have lured into your bed. Obviously you’re doing something wrong—enough to prevent her whistle from the appropriate wetting. But no fear! Extra slimy Trojan is here to save her from pubic rugburn. And no bitch likes pubic rugburn. My advice to you is to stop watching SVU on Netflix Instant Watch, and switch over to some PornHub. I mean, it’s free. So take some lessons.

Non-Lubricated

Either you’re a complete idiot, or you’ve got one hell of a balloon fetish. Ever watch Strange Sex on TLC? They aired an episode about some fat prick with a balloon fetish, so I’d imagine that if he were to ever get the chance to have sex in this lifetime, he’d probably use the discounted non-lubricated Trojan condoms that you’ll only find in the back of some cheap Indian convenient store. There is nothing appealing about a non-lubricated condom. I realize that this contradicts what was just said about extra-lubed balloons, but take it from someone who’d rather not have a powdered condom up her vagine—let alone any condom at all—just don’t do it. You’re probably going to end up on TLC’s new fucked up series about guys who buy non-lubricated condoms.

Thin/Ultra Thin/Barely Anything There

You, my friend, were hand-crafted by Jesus himself, and dropped off in the classy section of the condom aisle at the new two-story Target. You’re one badass motherfucker who understands that the last thing we want to come between both man, woman, and an orgasm, is a piece of shitty rubber. Alas, we resort to the stingiest of them all. You enjoy Grey Goose, Egyptian cotton, and the San Francisco 49ers. Your favorite position is of the reverse cowgirl sort, and you admit to enjoying Chelsea Handler on the weekends, and the new Dorito crack-taco at Taco Bell at 4 in the morning.

Fire & Ice

I’m sorry, did I spill hot sauce on your new Gucci belt? Even though you’re loaded and could probably buy me a Maserati at the drop of a dime, your choice of Trojan Fire & Ices is not going to change the fact that you’re a total douchebag. Shania Twain is my bitch, and she speaks the truth—that don’t impress me much. Do you want to know what would?

Hitting It Raw

Alright, so it’s irresponsible and would probably land you in the clinic with something very undesireable. But, I mean, if you can’t resist as badly as I can’t, then the rubber probably would’ve burned off anyway, and it would not have made a fucking difference. Show me the honey.

Don’t forget—strap or get the clap. Round of applause.

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