There is nothing quite like that sense of anticipation preceding a big sloppy wet kiss from Cracker-Jack Jesus. Well, maybe food poisoning.

“Oh shit, this dude’s about to kiss me.”

“I’m changing my name to Jack Mehoff. Are you interested?”

The fetid stench from Brand’s armpit is no doubt bad enough, but to have his moist garlicky breath assault you at the same time . . .

“I’m tellin’ ya, it was a right brilliant move. Did you see that snap of her arse from outside Cirque Du Soir?”

Notice how Russell’s scarf matches the other guy’s collar liner. These two were made for each other, I tell ya.

“And I told Head and Shoulders they could kiss me freakin’ arse! I ain’t washing my hair every year just to sell their freakin’ shampoo!”

This is a private moment. We shouldn’t intrude.

Please tell me he just got out of the shower and that is not how his hair is normally.

“Tonight, let’s pretend your first name is Tom. Okay?”

Russell, I am going to eat your face.

God I hate Close-Talkers.

FUCK OFF HOBO

my god he’s hairier than Cat Stevens

“Of course her tits are bigger than yours, but you have the suave and personality to make up for it, plus I rather fancy your arse.”

I AM going to kiss you….

“Can you get ahole of a wheelchair for the evening?”

Pictured moments before Criss Angel challenged him to a douche-off.

Russell Brand is hairier than Chewbacca on Rogaine.

“But, that’s the beauty of it, mate. When you put your penis in my mouth it’ll feel like you’re fucking an old-school vagina, 70′s style. AND… I get enough money to buy some more meth. It’s win/win!!”

Baby, you’re a firework. Show me how your colors work. Or just a handie will suffice.