Girls usually drool over them , and have the hots for them.They are all pretty much in love with each other and in love with their bodies, since most of them are really fit, and muscular.serbian boys 1: hey man check out my abs;) serbian boys 2: oo yeahh but look at me , ima sexy mother fucker! ;) serbian boy: umm girl, its my serb boys night out!The sexual act of shitting into a towel, wrapping it around the girls head to make her look like a terrorist, followed by lighting in on fire and fucking her in the ass, and hopefully cumming before her hair burns off. The name Ivana is very popular as well as Danica.-If you can get your hands on one watch out cause that girl turns all heads! His legs, gummy and striated, bring to mind a pair of Twizzlers. With his narrow neck and solid pelt of hair, he looks a bit like Pierre, his toy poodle. A few years ago, he became famous for his imitations—Rafael Nadal picking at his wedgie, Roger Federer prancing swaybacked along the baseline. He absolutely believes one hundred per cent in that kind of philosophy of life. Two weeks earlier, Djokovic had lost, painfully, to Rafael Nadal in the semifinals of the French Open. The other night, after a match, he pulled an Afro wig out of his racket bag and danced to “Get Lucky.” A book he recently enjoyed was “The Secret,” by Rhonda Byrne. Still water—not too cold.” (He avoids ice water—it inhibits the flow of blood to the muscles.) He also ordered a mint tea.Their arrests were made during a bust on a chain of Belgrade's most powerful drug dealers in Takovska Ulica located in the centre of the city of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia, according to Svet.
They refused to say where they had got the drugs from. It is also the only Grand Slam that Djokovic hasn’t won. At an exhibition in Bratislava last year, he stuffed his shirt with sweat towels and hitched up an imaginary skirt. The French Open is the only Grand Slam that is played on clay, tennis’s slowest surface. After he won Wimbledon, in 2011, a hundred thousand people gathered to celebrate in front of Belgrade’s Parliament. At one point, a rumor went around that he had bought up the country’s entire supply of donkey cheese. His clothes were from Uniqlo, his sponsor: trim trousers, blue leather shoes, blue linen blazer, good white shirt. When he sat down, he said to the waitress, “Maybe a water, please, would be nice. The President of Serbia told “60 Minutes” that he could win the nation’s highest office. In addition to Wimbledon, he has won thirty-six other A. He looked as though he’d just towelled off and stepped into a watch ad.
He hasn’t lost before the semifinals of a Grand Slam in three years. He is an origami man, folding at the waist to dig up a drop shot, starfishing for a high forehand return, cocking his leg behind his head in an arabesque as he blasts a backhand down the line. He once yelled—in Serbian—“Now you all will suck my dick! His showy personality and subtle game are a niche taste. Jerzy Janowicz, the Polish player, said recently that he was “a fake.” But now, with the waning of the Federer-Nadal duopoly, which has fixated tennis for the past decade, the love he craves is within his reach.