Welcome to our Pedal Pumping and car stuck site! Here you’ll find Pedal Pumping videos and pictures of sexy young girls who got stuck hopeless with their car, jeep, suv or van in mud, snow, sand, clay or wet gras[s]. See Pedal Pumping with sweet muddy feet, barefoot or with boots, pantyhose, pumps, high-heels, riding boots, sneakers or buffalos. Our cute girls try to rock, push and tow the car out of the mud. So when you like spinning tires and love to see a girl who [sic] stuck in the mud or maybe a muddy catfight - Then you are right here, because we are the experts for carstuck and Pedal Pumping video!
- www.carstuckgirls.com
Consider this futility which I have noted under the sun:
A slightly-overweight young “urban” male heeds the guiding watchwords of our times with vigilance: “Get a vasectomy and keep it a secret.” He lives in a world of fragments and ruins, and he worships the monuments and values of a gloriously whitewashed past. He is told that he fears castration, but he doesn’t agree. His greatest moments of insight are littered with advertisements for the $5 footlong from Subway. He criticizes those who lack his education and background as crude and insensitive. He is contemplating getting a Prince Albert. He’s heard good things. Like so many of his era, pornography is a passionate hobby. He considers unadulterated access to a variety of pornographic media to be a fundamental right (and who are we to legislate away another man’s ideals?). He has strong opinions about the quality and arousal-factor of various erotic sub-genres.
He is particularly fond of doctor-patient scenarios. He dreams of directing his own film:
-What is it, doctor? Is it bad?
-Well, it’s… ummm…
-Give it…. Give it to me straight, doctor.
-It’s your pussy, ma’am. It’s so… well… it’s just so… tight.
-Oh my…
-I haven’t seen a pussy this tight since back in… Vietnam.
[cut to a hotel suite in Japan in the early 1990s, where our doctor-protagonist is blowing a twelve year old Korean boy.]
Ladies and Gentile men, we avert our gaze and move onward to the office of a middle-aged Jewish businessman. He sits busily at large oak desk, engrossed in spreadsheets. His desk faces a wall-sized map of Ljubljana, Slovenia. On either side of the desk is a standard issue OB/GYN table, upon which sits a butt-naked busty blonde, secured by straps and stirrups. The blondes look bored and tired, but their eyes are fixed on the flat-screen television mounted on the opposite wall. MSNBC. Chris Matthews. Volume down. Through the subtitles we are asked to participate in the latest, highly scientific political poll: Which candidate’s wife would you most like to take home after a key-swapping party? Special guest commentator Pat Buchanan ruminates about the possible bearing of the Bradley Effect upon the current poll. Send in your text message now to 1-212-MSN-BC08! Chris Matthews does a line off the news desk. A small white spot remains on his nose throughout the rest of the broadcast.
The Jewish businessman ignores his surroundings. He’s above that petty bullshit. He came of age in the era of Richard Milhous Nixon and Linda Lovelace; what has he to do with the titillation that passes for hardcore these days? At this very moment his wife is at Whole Foods, picking out some ripe zucchini, cucumber, and yellow squash. Organic.
We live in a digital age, sisters and brothers, and we must not blink for one moment. Eight years into the future and we’ve only just begun to understand the new values that define our times. Gone are the days of moon-landings, deep-sea diving, and Double Vaginal Double Anal. Frontiers open up a mile a minute. We cannot afford to think in only two dimensions! Nation-states and borders are incidental. They represent the archaic and the obscene. A younger generation is slowly finding its voice and it is demanding an end to the missionary position as a hallowed institution! We know that we have asked our gods to give us kings and that we have paid the price. We no longer fear the dark spaces, for we know that it is only sterility that can destroy us. We are prepared to profane the sacred and to destroy the very notion of profanity! We’ll keep searching in vain for the wombs and primeval seas of our dreams. We will side with Leviathan.
We’re well aware of the vapors which have coalesced against us as a solid mass of steel and syringes. This time around we know that we cannot succeed and we accept that fact. We also know that our own demise is contained within ourselves. Collectively, we are a 20-something female grad student with heightened nipple sensitivity and a biological clock in panic mode. Her boyfriend lets her know that several years ago he got a vasectomy, but never told anyone before. Unbeknownst to her he secretly reverses his vasectomy and slips fertility drugs into her drinks for several months. She gets pregnant, drops out of school, and soon finds out that she’s having triplets. Her boyfriend, meanwhile, gets another vasectomy and maintains that he was always sterile. He produces documents. He calls her a whore and never sees her again. She is left to raise three children on her own.
Friends and colleagues, remind yourselves that time is always the one thing we don’t have. We cannot afford not to publish our precise measurements of the Almighty! Events are unfolding with unprecedented speed, and the choices before us were never more urgent. Let us not delude ourselves with pleasantries and letters of hope and promise and advertisements for double-knit suits. We lace our cigarettes with Vicodin and we booty-bump to stay thin. In homage to the third world, we choose jenkem as our psychedelic of the month. We represent the rigidity of relativistic ideologies and we willfully ignore the flaccidity of Law. We ascribe value to opinion and consensus. We are raising children without a pleasure-function.
Nancy Reagan is a harbinger of death! The safety net is gone. The cards are laid out before us. The future is clear as crystal.
And yet, we remain.
The businessman reaches into his desk drawer and removes a box of “It’s a Girl” cigars and a straight razor. He picks up a cigar and places it on the desktop, slicing the butt end with the razor. The nude blonde to his right watches out of the corner of her eye. A few tobacco flakes stick to the blade, and the man brings it up to his mouth and licks them off with the tip of his tongue. The razor’s edge pierces the supple flesh ever so slightly, producing a trickle of blood that runs down to his lower lip. (Chris Matthews is speaking silently to the busty young lady to his left about a child slavery ring operating in Hoboken, New Jersey). A chilling calm descends upon our principle players, the businessman and his two naked companions, and a light snow begins to fall outside. The man picks up a matchbox and presses the cigar to his lips. The dried tobacco leaves that make up the casing absorb the pooled droplets of blood as he lights the cigar and takes four assertive puffs. The blonde to the right looks on with a mix of rage and intense fascination. She wishes she could think of anything beyond the current moment, but she cannot. She sits transfixed, strapped to an uncomfortably mechanical relic of the modern age.
She attempts to remember where she came from, how she got here, or who this man is that arouses both hatred and allure inside her. She fails. She can’t even remember her own name. After what seems like eternity a single memory from her life floats forward to the level of conscious thought. It is a memory from childhood, obscure and seemingly long-forgotten. She is alone in a forest. It is night but the moon provides just enough light for her to see her immediate surroundings. A small furry creature bounds forth excitedly towards her, ears flopping, tongue panting, wet nose probing. She is overwhelmed with delight and she lovingly caresses its neck and scratches its floppy ears. She knows this creature well. It is hers, domesticated and familiar. She searches her thoughts in order to remember what to call such a thing, but she comes up empty-handed. The closest word she can muster to designate such an animal is “bunny.” She knows it’s incorrect, but that it will have to suffice. It’s all she has. She leans forward sweetly and tenderly. “That’s a good bunny,” she intones softly. “Good, good, bunny,” as she rubs its belly.
Horsecockedly.
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