What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

All the ladies love to grip his racquet and hold his golden set of balls. Attracting sexy, able-bodied women like Bjorn Borg collects French Open trophies, the Paco Camino Man scores at will, serving flirtatious crosscourt volleys with backhanded forearm precision. Flaunting Tony Manero dancing hair and an irresistible Chico and the Man moustache, this club ace proudly wears an expensive pro shop v-neck and bulging white tennis shorts that he secretly charged to the Underhills. Whether playing hard court singles or dirtballer doubles, the Paco Camino Man has mastered the art of the sweet spot and keeps right on swinging. Game, set, match.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, he can see paradise by the dashboard light. Trying to get all the way around the bases and score with his hot backup singer proved challenging. Would he love her forever? Need her? Never leave her? Make her feel so happy for the rest of her life? Will he take her away? Will he make her his wife? Baby, baby, just let him sleep on it. I know she’s got to know right now! (before they go any further), but damn, it never felt so good, it never felt so right, and they were praying for the end of time. But more importantly, the American Express card. The Paco Camino Man never leaves home without it.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

Now summertime’s here babe, need something to keep you cool.
Aw now summertime’s here babe, need something to keep you cool.
Better look out now, Paco’s got something for you. Tell ya what it is.
I’m your ice cream man, stop me when I’m passing by. Oh my my.
I’m your ice cream man, stop me when I’m passin’ by.
Now see all my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy.

I got bim-bam banana pops and dixie cups. All flavors and push-ups too.
I’m your ice cream man baby, stop me when I’m passing by.
You see all my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy.

Well I’m usually passin’ by just about eleven o’clock. Uh, I never stop.
I’m usually passin’ by just around eleven o’clock.
And if you let me cool you one time, you’ll be my regular stop…

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

He thinks this new vampire craze is fucking bullshit and that Robert Pattinson is a total fag. With the cranky temperament of basement dweller Arthur Spooner and Festivus founder Frank Costanza, The Paco Camino Man for centuries, has sucked the blood of hot women the old fashioned way. That means sleeping in a coffin all day, donning a cape and tuxedo at night, and turning into a bat to get around. So it’s no big surprise Bela can’t stand today’s pretty boy vampires walking around in broad daylight like a bunch of sparkle fucks, and he could give two shits about asinine crap like Twilight, True Blood and The Vampire Diaries. The only things the Paco Camino Man endorses is Bram Stoker, Count Chocula cereal and The Count from Seasame Street, whom he finds both highly entertaining and always educational.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

Oh he’s found Nemo all right. Using his deep maritime experience (from taming bearded clams to hunting down and killing a vindictive white whale), he’s now making waves in the scientific oceanography community as the inventor of a gigantic penis pump named the Blowfish. Really now, this guy makes Troy McClure’s fish fetish look all wet. Steve Zissou & Aquaman think he’s a total freak of nature, and Jacques Cousteau must be rolling in his Davey Jones’ locker at the thought of the Paco Camino Man smoking coral reefers and conducting the first ever fish four-way with two sexy scuba assistants.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

Nicknamed the Cobra, he’s a badass batsman standing tall in an unbelievably cramped pro locker room. The first million dollar contract hitter remembered for his killer throw to third base to nab Jim Rice in the 1979 All-Star Game, this 2-time National League Batting Champion, 3-time Golden Glove Winner and 7-time All-Star once knocked the cover off a baseball. That’s why no one says shit if he wears one shoe and accessorizes with wristbands and a cowboy hat. The muscle of the 1979 World Series, this Paco Camino Man inspired MVP Willie Stargell, unheralded Phil Garner and reliever Kent Tekulve (and his weird sidearm pitching) to deliver three clutch cargo victories, rallying from the brink of elimination against the Baltimore Orioles. We Are Family indeed.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

Ooh baby. He’s a legendary cocksman with a sausage compass set permanently north. Inspiring the cover art for a thousand trashy romance novels, the Paco Camino Man flaunts a mythical mane of untamed hair, amber-tinted Aviator sunglasses and sans shirt, pulls off exposing his piliferous chest with a peach-colored Members Only jacket. Reeling in two smoking hot maidens using his tractor beam radar, this lustful lothario radiates animal magnetism that blows the buttons right off one chick’s rayon blouse to reveal a matching seafoam Dacron bikini. Nothing like his doofus brother Cosmo, (a bumbling NYC apartment dweller living across the hall from an observational stand up comedian) The Paco Camino Man is setting sail for another yacht-rocking experience.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

He’s a lady-seeking stingray in a speedboat. Suave yet sporty, his curly mane of windblown hair, designer Ray-Bans and on-the-go black & gold ringer T perfectly accessorize his giant phallus-like watercraft that makes any yacht look like a flaccid dinghy. Going the nautical mile to stay abreast of hot bikini-clad chicks, the Paco Camino Man will commandeer your gal pals from right under your nose while you’re fiddling with your seacock below deck. And like shooting fish in a barrel, he’s reeled in a couple more hotties to come to the big party tonight at his exclusive Oceanside villa. It’s always high times on the high seas when you’re reading Paco Camino.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

He’s a thrift store superhero. His conquests include scoring a sexual positions black light poster at a flea market in Santa Monica, a wire art painting of a unicorn riding a rainbow at a community garage sale in Monterey, and a black velvet painting of Elvis dead on a toilet at a gas station in San Juan Capistrano. Hot women are powerlessly attracted to this stud who really knows his crap, and this dirty blonde browser just can’t help overhearing his suggestion to use a native American pot for “dried cat tails, incense burning or even weed storage.” Maybe it was his authoritative tan adventure outfit or his sexy antique observations, but this Paco Camino Man is going home with a charmed brunette, a curio blonde and something to throw his spare change in.

What Sort of Man Reads Paco Camino?

So what if the plane went down in the ocean an hour ago? Smart enough to lock a handy machete in his carry-on luggage and lucky enough to escape without getting a spec of dirt on the same casual white slacks he wore sitting in first class, the Paco Camino Man is always collected after a commercial aircraft disaster. Cool as the rum coconut cocktail he just had comped at the exclusive beachfront hotel bar located a mere 50 yards away, he’s stoked that two hot chicks are totally digging him, because damn, they’re probably extra horny for cheating death in a plane crash. With an embarrassed and apologetic airline paying for everything indefinitely, the Paco Camino Man has but one lost initiative—to get the bikinis off of Dharma and the other.