Sir Douche-a-lot
All hail Sir Douche-a-lot, King of all Scrote!
Slaying dragons and saving hottie maidens wherever he may go, Sir Douche-a-lot has no need for armor or fancy clothes. His simple untucked white shirt and old-man-in-Miami
shorts simply work to conceal his enormous power in an aura of pathetic and weak k-mart douchitude.
But Sir Douche-a-lot is not to be trifled with. He hides behind the clothes of the Kathy Lee Gifford ‘Bag product line to belie his powerful presence and kingly demeanor.
So bow! Bow to Sir Douche-a-lot!
I see you’re still fooled by the extensive facial pubes and sub-Supercuts Flowbee haircut. Sir Douche-a-Lot cares not for outward appearances. Sir Douche-a-lot simply lets his scrote do the talking.
And what tales that scrote can tell. What fables those balls can spin. Listen closely for Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrotum sings the poems and fables of ancient lands where douchitude runs free and hotties are Bleethed out beyond all recognition.
Listen.
Listen to Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrote. For it weaves a magic tapestry of rhythmic delights and eternal longing. Of years of fruitless quest and loneliness and isolation. Of unchanged underwear.
He is Sir Douche-a-lot. And he is saluting you right now in ways you can not, and would prefer not, see. Hail to his kingly presence once and for all! Lest he pull his sword from its stone. And believe me, that’s not a pretty sight.
