a peanut-buttery, crispy, chocolatety, butter-scotchity treat invented by my grandma in the 1970s for one purpose: to be consumed by her two favorite grandsons (nameless on this site, but we all know who they are) at Ocean Shores.
Ohpa: (auf Deutsch) You made a full pan of scotcheroos. Where did half of them go?
Ohma: You know.
When you bring a girl home from a bar, and she passes out. You take her panties off, take a dump in them, and then put them back on her. She wakes up and thinks she shit her own pants.
That drunk bitch thought she shit herself after I gave her a Georgia Scorcher
One who scorches. He's always one-step ahead of you, no matter what you do. He leaves you in the dust absolutely burned blind, every time. You've got nothing on him at all. He represents the quintessence of Man. A real Man. And not just man of gender. Man like how they say when you mean humanity. He is the ultimate human, an aesthetic elegant mind. He can destroy your weak conscience simply by casting the slightest earnest glance. You definitely owe him a debt of gratitude