Doutzen understands that this outfit simply demands a pearl necklace. That's just good breeding, that is.
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I’ve always felt it was very appropriate that Doutzen Kroes is from The Netherlands, ’cause I’ve always wanted to explore her Nether Regions. But now that dream is over, thanks to some Cash Warren-level douchebot who has spilled his dollar store baby balm all over her Dolce & Gabbana uterus, and dammit, you just can’t get a stain like that out. Well, not without visiting that special dry cleaner with all the protesters on the sidewalk, anyway.
It looks like one of Dolly Parton's wigs got loose and is trying to eat her alive. And I still think it's hot.
(The line to complain about that last joke –much like your mother’s massages– starts at the head of my penis. Don’t forget to speak up; my nuts are hard of hearing.)
If I were Don Draper from Mad Men or George Clooney from Awesomeville, I would insist that any woman living with me be dressed and posed just like this every time I come home. I'd walk in, flick a cigarette butt at her, and she'd pour me a scotch rocks. Then we'd do it up against the wall while I kept a fistful of her hair in one hand and my drink in the other. Then I'd have a nap, while using her ass as a pillow. (I have very specific fantasies.)
At this point, the spermination of our planet’s sexiest women is reaching epidemic status. In fact, I want to see the CDC get involved before Blake Lively trips over a paparazzo’s foot and lands vagina-first on some dickweed plastic surgeon’s unprotected cock. I mean, I don’t want to go on a murderous rampage through the streets of Hollywood, but I will if I have to, people.
Fifty percent of the vaginas pictured here are officially on their way to being wrecked. And one of them will probably end up boning Shia Lebouf on the set of Transformers 3, which is almost as bad.
Just to compound the pain in Doutzen’s case, the DNA donor is a fucking DJ! A DJ! You know, the profession so ridiculous that people even let Pauly D do it.
And what's up with that name? "Sunnery"? I hate you, you fruity-named model mangler!
I leave you now with this gallery, a memorial of sorts. Ah, Doutzen… we’ll always have Paris. And that stack of Victoria’s Secret catalogs next to the toilet.
Anyway… I’m told that, in a bizarre twist that can only be explained by a bottle of chloroform and a uterus with profound self-esteem issues, Monsieur Massengill over here is the kid’s father. Yeah, I had the same reaction. It’s like finding out that Punky Brewster raped a large Jamaican man behind Caesar’s Palace in 1998… it’s wrong, and doesn’t even make sense.
