It’s nice to see that the JCPenney pajama pants I got my mother for Christmas back in the late 80s found a holy home on the body of St. Angie. Those fug pants might be the reason why Billy Goat Brad looks like someone farted up his nostril. Or maybe he’s got that worried look on his face because he caught his reflection in the car window and finally realized he has a grandmother’s wild pube bush on his chin.
Why must Billy Goat Brad continue to fight the hot?! If he’s not going to take a cat comb to that thing, he might as well shave it off.
Will someone please send a carrier dove to St. Angie’s toothy vagina and ask it to chew off Brad’s GOATee when he’s kissing on it?