David Beckham is a Douchebag
Somebody needed to call out this Nordic Aryan Dolph Lundgren in drag uber-douche as the scrotey wank he is. So it might as well be me.
Here’s to you, pretty boy occasional soccer playing greased up metro-douche. I’ve seen less oil in the United Arab Emirates. I’ve seen less carefully chiseled attention to detail in Rodin’s “The Thinker.”
You are the empty vessel of shiny pretty douchebaggery. The physical specimen with nothing to say and nothing to offer except name-brand designer douche, excessive hair-gel and annoying tats that’ll be out of style by March of 2008.
Your once cute girlfriend has become so distorted by extended exposure to your Brit-douche colonial invasion that she’s mutating into a smurf. You denegrate the country of Shakespeare by virtue of your vacuousness. Your opinion-free corporate hegemony would inspire Guy Fawkes to blow up a soccer ball. Your only contribution to society is having your last name in a movie that brought us Keira Knightley.
For getting off a plane last week and polluting my already shallow city with corporate sponsored pseudo-hype and brand-name manufactured media created “spontaneous enthusiasm,” heres to you, Soccer Scrote. You are a douche.
Now take your soccer ball and go home.
