Alvin from "Alvin and the Chipmunks" is not a chipmunk. This is proven by the name "Alvin and the Chipmunks", as you can see, Alvin is separated from the chipmunks, suggesting that Alvin is an entirely different species, making him an "imposter" amongst the others. Also, in "The Chipettes", Brittney has the strongest resemblance to Alvin, so why is it not called "Brittney and the Chipettes". So all that proves that Alvin is not a chipmunk. Not to mention that Alvin wears red, and I'm not sure about you, but that seems awfully sus to me. In the video game "Among us", the color red is was the birth of the obnoxious catchphrase, "red sus", being that the color red in the game is a stereotype that they are the imposter. While that might be unrelated, keep in mind that Alvin wears red too, and he is also the imposter amongst the other chipmunks. So this proves that Alvin is not a chipmunk, or anything like that. Alvin is just a sussy amogus imposter.
(โฬฟฤนฬฏโโฌโดโฌโด Psst... kid, you wanna disable adblock?
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Molly
Cock and ball torture
Cock and ball torture (CBT) is a sexual activity involving application of pain or constriction to the male genitals. This may involve directly painful activities, such as wax play, genital spanking, squeezing, ball-busting, genital flogging, urethral play, tickle torture, erotic electrostimulation or even kicking.[1] The recipient of such activities may receive direct physical pleasure via masochism, or emotional pleasure through erotic humiliation, or knowledge that the play is pleasing to a sadistic dominant. Many of these practices carry significant health risks.
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I have done it, 80 years and not a single nut bust
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I have done it, 80 years and not a single nut bust. Thanks to my incredible goal i have obtained an iq of 156 which i have used to build a pc that deletes system 32 when it loads any type of NSFW. Iโm currently in a hospital bed dying of terminal disease, however, this is a victory as in 72 hours iโm expected to die. Wish me luck in this final run.
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Natalie Portman is the reason I work out
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."