PoolBag
So I’m sitting on my couch enjoying a tasty glass of Trader Joes Blood Orange Soda and a package of Lil’ Debbie snack cakes, when it occurs to me.
I haven’t featured a poolbag in at least a week.
I rush to my computer. And there he is. Illuminated, glowing with religious fervor like a 15th Century Hans Memling painting.
All the requisite douche attributes shine on the wings of angels. And by angels, I mean Grieco. The tats. The tongue. The douche-face. The bikini hottie entraped by his douchey wiles. Well, no hand gesture. But I’ll let that one go.
So I toast my glass of as yet unspiked Blood Orange Soda to you, Poolbag. May your nads get wrinkly and may the chlorine help subside that awkward burning sensation you’ve had since that 3 day binge in Tijuana.
