Full story here. Go on, click. You know you want to, you freak.
I try (eh, mostly) to stay above the shank of the base pop culture nonsense, as well as the whole voyeuristic reality thing. Unfortunately, The Smoking Gun is a heaping shot of both, and a longstanding guilty pleasure.
Incidentally—and I add this information more for the sick fucks reading this post after Googling God-knows-what, and not my regular readers—I do happen to know the secret to satisfactory ovine coitus. The million-dollar trick is to wear galoshes that are a couple of sizes too big. Then you can drop your “date’s” back legs into the extra space in the galoshes, and she can’t escape your, ahem, advances.
Sometime before the turn of the millennium, I attended an office party at which this unforgettable chestnut was drunkenly proffered. Moreover, I never got that reassuring “all in good fun” feeling from its source, receiving at most an ambiguous raised eyebrow. I’m delighted to share it with you this evening.
I’m a giver.
Also, I have never attempted to, nor shall I ever, fuck a sheep.