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The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeance, to suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful. Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5 occasionally flirts with the joy of choadwankery and attitude that made the original four douche classics, but the gel quickly comes off. All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future.
Because you live in the age of infinite, accessible information laying at your fingertips. All that value the notion of humanity above primal animal urges and violent impulses of the jungle. But the most glaring thing that consistently thwarted my attempts to enjoy Bro Skater 5 were the rampant performance issues.Find free contents, premium videos, porn blogs, Forums and all the most famous web pages focused on porn.Never loose your time or your device using bad websites.For this site would be a mere flicker in the darkness of the storm that soon must rage to restore a more balanced and equinimical world not only betwixt ‘bag and hott but human and fellow human. I am here to wish you a Happy Holidays, a Happy Hannukah, a Merry Christmas, and a Scientology Xenu Day. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. Megods, me-pantaloons, this buffonic douchetool chews scenery worse than Richard Crenna in First Blood. If, at any point, you found the hottie/douchey mock to entertain, enlighten, enrage, or another adjective that begins with “e,” I am grateful. Kinda hard to find joy in the assinine foibles and bad taste of youth dating when the world is toking a shmeg pipe filled with rat poop and pumpkin seed. Thus proving my theorem that even in the age of Trumpocalypse, douche aura permeates beyond the performative signifiers. Monday, January 16, 2017 What a flaming Slouvakian dumpster fire. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition. Do not dispair, fellow hotts, ‘bag hunters, and those that traverse the socially constructed gender binaries therein. But your humbs narrator is still kicking his ubiquitous red cup o’ Night Train, munching on tasty Hostess products whenever possible, raising two little HCs, and staring at the world cockeyed and bemused, or maybe more bleary eyed and vaguely nauseous. I don’t just mean this pic of Zach and his Bro, K-Whizz greasing up on Marissa as if her derriere is hosting a bake sale featuring a trenbolone sandwich. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads. I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. But any of that nostalgia was quickly erased by Bro Skater 5’s frustrating job prospects, bland personality, and over-reliance on a trust fund.
They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy. All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick. I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. Then codified with a Douchebag of the Month in 2011. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.
But still keepin’ on as best I can in a world of too many Aryan crypto-Nazi movie stars named Chris and not nearly enough Madchen Amick. In four days a tangerine uvula will spittle across our collective national identity like an angry, castrated llama gnawing on a Jolly Rancher. You have given in to the dark forces of greasy pec butt fondle spikewank. But the time for mock has never been more important. It’s like a fourth grade purple nurple delivered by Timmy Flynn to poor Gavin Mac Garninkle mated with a greased up Arizona cactus and then that hybrid being vomited up a Poltergeist II tequila worm, only to see that purple cactus worm vomit hybridity coalesce into human form just to pinch Victoria’s tooter.
Perhaps obvious douchewanks with hot chicks in tow have vanished like Rollo Tomase chasing Keyser Soze.
Like some crusty psychological remnant from the deepest darkest orbs of the inner ear crawling outward, Trek II style, to reveal itself.
Thursday, November 10, 2016 And so the nightmare is real.
I do believe that spankee is doing the classic trying to “swim” away from her spanking technique. It’s been a busy year with lots of changes all for the good so I’ve neglected this site for my private life.