Because of the internet I know we're all supposed to be sexually-immune to stacked smokehouses in swimsuits like it's your Aunt Doris sunbathing at the community pool and rec center for the family summer reunion BBQ. With one click of a button you can watch a masked midget whip a masturbating tranny to the tune of Yankee Doodle and still remain jaded. I get it. There's just something special though about the sweet innocence of a chick wearing just enough to keep me up at night scheming how to burn Andy Roddick in a South Texas egg farm fire, throw on some Lacoste tennis gear, and motorboat those mountains until I get stuck in there.
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