Time to lay down the pipe where it COUNTS. Where does it count? You need some quality control: a rating system. Now, before anyone gets all butt-hurt, my 1 through 10 rating system for hoes isn’t really 1 through 10. It’s 5 through 10, because all women are beautiful in their own way; and it’s really because it would be cruel to label a woman as anything less than 5 — that damn #5 bitch might kill herself if I do that. We’re measuring slabs and flabs here, big chunky ass butts, thunder thighs and potbelly guts. Trust me, I can smell the thick sweat off a buffalo-slut hundreds of paces away; it’s like a 6th sense that helps in assessing her
quantitative or rather qualitative value. I mean, I also got a magic measuring stick in my head to accurately guesstimate her BMI, number of rolls and weight — it’s like I’m spider man with his spidey senses.
First comes first though, I have to give credit where it’s due. Shout out to the most pimped-out motherfucking player of all time, the most qualitatively quantitative man ever, representin’ Sesame Street. My man Count Count. He taught me to count when I was growing up, and how to evaluate things numerically. Slab by slab, I’ll share that knowledge with you. Let’s put his lessons to work.
First we’ve got the 5 and below. Now I told you that I don’t rate bitches anything below a 5, cause that would be mean as hell. We’re trying to make women feel beautiful and love all of God’s creatures, like this bundle of bones:
Man, I think her boney ass would stab me. Fuck that shit, bones are for dogs, but I prefer hogs. Next we got us a 6!
666 is the number of the beast, but she is just one lonely 6. So I guess that’s 1/3rd of the size of the beast then? Oh well Satan, I’d still hit that — slay that bestial pussy in the name of Christ, Amen.
Next we got us something like a 7:
I hate it when my one night stand (typically a 6-7 like above) tries to make me breakfast in the morning, trying to win me over by playing with my emotions and shit. Nice try bitches. This is why I get up earlier and convince her to go to Denny’s for breakfast instead. Then I bounce, leavin’ her moderately-fat-ass at the restaurant with her pancake ice cream special. Good old hump, plump and dump. Bitch ain’t thick enough for me to sport at the hungry hippo ball.
On to an 8:
Oh man… god dayyyyum. Look at those slabs, each crevice or cut in between each slab is like one giant tight pussy for my chocolate stick to cuddle with! Wrap it around me baby, wrap it around and take it down town. Get snuggie with my joint.
Just when you didn’t think it could get better:
Good thing my joint is so big and hard that it turns into a rigid black crowbar, pryin’ open heavy asses like you’d open a crate at a warehouse, Nigel’s warehouse. Nothing turns me on like sweaty flab so heavy I gotta work my jackhammer-pelvic muscles drillin’ that ass for gravy. Gotta pull that forklift-doggystyle on her.
And finally 10:
All I can say is, thank God I live in Louisiana.
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