Loopy Saturday
It’s true that your humble guide through our dark cultural nightmare, The DB1, was a little loopy yesterday.
Maybe it was my newest discovery — Malomars and Mr. Pibb. So tasty. So sugary. So chemical.
Or maybe it was having a picture like this emailed to me that pushed me over the edge (warning, no HC in that pic).
Last night, your humble narrator wooed the hotts away from the multipiercing red cup drinking uberdouche that patrol this fetid swampland like arthritic tse-tse flies. I did my best. Because that’s what I’m here to do.
And every time a boobie hott is saved, our culture shifts ever so slight back towards the sunlight of golden glow.
So it’s Saturday, and it’s a three day weekend.
The bluebirds are singing and the DJs deserve a kick in the nads. Because seriously, assfaces, you play records. That’s all you do. You’re an ambulatory iPod. You’re a shuffle play that can walk. With stupid sunglasses.
