Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Hawk Friday

Here’s a classic case of what happens when cuties commingle in the presence of faux-punk suburban wanks.

First come the hand gestures. Then the giant sunglasses.

Then they’re greased up with one boob hanging out as they stumble around at 2am clutching a bottle of Goose like a phallus substitute.

That’s the path of Bleeth.

And it’s up to you to stop it.

So I sit, dazed and bemused, I sip my PBR and enjoy a tasty Hostess apple pie, and I bask in the sun. The douches grow, but so does societal consciousness about the plague of scrotal wrong. So there’s that.