All That is Douche
Ah, hello there, classic ‘bag.
Hello there, all that is douche.
The Mists of Avalon form your iconic visage. The ghosts of Christmas Past embody your tatted up grease. That single curl of douche-hair wandering into your greasy forehead like lost Magellan’s solitary boat cries out for the horroshow that is your tighty muscle-t and hint of guyliner.
And lo, bespeak the boobies of smiling hott.
For angels cry over the existential crises presented by that leopard print boobies pressing against one so foul. One so rank.
Yes, somewhere betwixt low riding hott jeans and a giant white studded douche-belt, lies hope. Within douchey hand gestures and red ceilings, the hottie/douchey couple stares into the abyss. And the abyss cries out, “Hark!”
It’s 7am. And the DB1 needs coffee.
