Bedtime for Little Timmy
Drift off to sleep, little Timmy. But before you do, let me tell you the tale of Shirtless Douche and the Blonde Hott.
Like a greek tragedy, the coupling of Shirtless Douche and his Blonde Hott personifies all of the dark fetid underbelly that is douchebaggery. The dark forces unleashed when hottie meets scrotebag.
Oh look. Little Timmy is sad. Don’t be sad, Timmy. We must mourn the greasyness, but also be strong.
Don’t worry, little Timmy. Tomorrow we can light incense and ring the mourner’s gong in the Temple of Douche Spirits. For every time a douchebaggy wankputz pollutes a firm young thing, an angel dies.
Yes Timmy, an angel dies.
Stop crying, Timmy.
It’ll be okay.
Come here, little Timmy. There, there. Stop crying. It’s not your fault douchey pitbulls are mawing hotties as we speak. Nor is it your fault your mommy hates you. What’s important is that, no matter how dark into the realm of the collective douche unconscious we roam, we can still take solace in glimpses of firm cleavite.
What’s that, Timmy? You want to know what cleavite is? It’s what mommy stopped showing daddy, which is why they got divorced, little Timmy. And yes, it is your fault.
