Okay, everybody, let’s break fresh ground here and INSULT Lena Dunham’s looks for a change! How about it!

Someone’s no longer in shape to rock her slave-girl bikini…

Please tell me that isn’t a My Pretty Pony tattoo.

Getting multi-million dollar book deals and television shows…and she can’t front the cash to fix her teeth?

Do yourself, and viewers alike a favor – whiten those teeth(and stop showing you 6th grade boobs). Then maybe, we can stand to look at you. Nasty.

She’s a 10 when the bars close at 2 a.m.

This bitch created a show starring herself so that she could pull herself up from a 3 to a 9. True Story.

If you hear her speak, her looks are the best thing about her.

Every time she gets naked on that show my penis tries to throw itself out a window.

Morgellon’s Disease attacks Dunham’s shoulder.

Spider veins are the pits.

This is the type of girl that hits on you when you’re out at night, drinking way too much and she offers you a ride back to her place, so you can “crash and hang out and stuff”.

Your buddies all laugh at you behind your back as you stumble to her car, making out with her, she keeps trying to grab your dick, you know it’s a mistake and you don’t care. Every time she kisses you, you feel vomit percolate up in the back of your throat, just to barely get itself back down and you don’t care.

She tells you that she actually doesn’t have a car and that you guys have to take a cab back to her place. She’s all over you in the back of the cab, you know she isn’t anything special and you’re both crazy drunk and she has that b.o. from dancing all night, but you don’t care.

Eventually, you go back to her place. You drunkenly fuck each other. It’s weird, awkward, you try things, she tries things. She smells terrible in all the wrong places. You don’t care. You go to sleep, she’s still drunk. You don’t care.

You wake up in the morning, see what you’ve fucked and then you start to care just a little. Things start to seem a little off. You realise that your friends know you fucked this girl and you start to care. She realise that she’s still drunk from the night before and aw, man… you start to care.

You go to the washroom, clean yourself up, decided to just cut your losses, be nice about it, tell her it was a one time thing, “please don’t call” and most importantly don’t come by where you work to say, “hi”.

You go back to the bedroom and see that she’s up and – holy shit, still drunk. Wait… she isn’t drunk… oh sweet-Mary-Mother-of-God…! She’s not drunk. She’s… she’s… retarded! You start to care and feel shame and sorrow and wonder how shitty your friends truly are. What the hell is wrong with you? You now care.

But then she talks and you realise you’ve actually NOT slept with a retarded drunk chick, but with Lena Dunham and you feel better. Because, you don’t care.

And oh yah, you throw up everywhere and your buddies make fun of you forever because well… you slept with Lena Dunham. Gross.

She’d be cute if she whitened the toofers, stood up straight, and put some clothes on that actually fit her. Candidate for “What Not To Wear”.