Victoria Beckham is pretty much made entirely of plastic. She’s like a blow-up doll that can talk back. And nobody wants that. Especially me. I tried to return her to the adult bookstore, but her husband David Beckham showed up. He was yelling all kinds of stuff about kidnapping, defiling his wife, but I couldn’t understand his weird British talk. I told him I just wanted my $50 back and, unless he wanted to taste the sweet strength of my tree trunk arms, he best step back. Sure enough, he cowered in the corner and started licking a soccer ball. For such are his ways. This story totally happened. Except for the $50 part. I only paid $20. A bunch more shots after the jump.
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