Sweg @johnonce - Tumblr Blog

yoncevevo-deactivated20251204

if there was EVER a better time….!

fireballat5thlevel-deactivated2

please may i have some coochie

fireballat5thlevel-deactivated2

outofcontextachewood

hausmusik

I think about this literally every time I get yelled at

cartiercocaine-blog

wнαт тнe ғυcĸ ιѕ тнιѕ?

dont-touch-my-fandoms

Elmo’s voice saying “I’ll fuck u up” is the best and worst thing ever

blocboybucciarati

YO I SWEAR THIS SHIT IS TOO FUNNY😭🤣

globalchristendom

anybody else cringe into the astral realm when a youtuber uses what i like to call a “rant avatar”

you know what i mean, like a cartoon image of themselves or other character that represents them that they have on the screen while audio of themselves whining plays over it

zillion-ronald-manus

every epic libtard exposee response video has one of these and I blame Sargon of Akkad for this

r-ssjm

ok-dingo

imaginarycircus

marisatomay

me whenever my boss asks me to do anything

ina-gartens-weave

i am absolutely BEGGING yall to watch this scene where catherine ohara laughs without moving her mouth grghsdzuvjsc

incredibly-cold

cosmicallyavg

acne is homophobic

thatenglishgentleman-deactivate

explain

cosmicallyavg

im gay and want clear skin

benevolentvulture

Jolene by Dolly Parton except it's playing downstairs while you're laying up in the loft of your cabin listening to the thunder and rain hitting the roof tiles above you

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Jolene by Dolly Parton except it’s playing downstairs while you’re laying up in the loft of a cabin listening to the thunder and rain hitting the roof tiles above you

thenicestavenger

robeblr

Oh BITCH this is a mood

ojalla

me: *speaks it into existence* :)))

universe:

okaymad

sorryfortheraybans-deactivated2

new yorker who works at a burger place: welcome to da boiga joint

new yorker who wants a burger: gimme a boiga

new yorker who works at a burger place: one boiga comin up

new yorker who cooks at the burger place: time ta cook a tasty boiga

heathens-and-kings

“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.

A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.

I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,

“I am the manager.”