Falling in Love in LA

I searched for an image of a donkey fucking a squirrel as the capper, but came up empty.

Douchebags are like Rainbows

Thee are so many infinite kinds of douche-ka-teers. They are like the many hues of a leprechaun's rainbow that leads to a mountain of bat shit rather than a pot of forbidden treasures. There are indie douches, gym douches, jock douches, raper douches, DJ douches, red neck douches, Mass-hole douches, preppy douches, frat douches, hippie douches, average Joe douches, and every other variety of douche that one might conjure up in their pea brain that I haven't the time, exposure to, or patience to list right now.

I have been exposed to all these varieties of douche over the last few months. My brain is going to literally explode in a muck of chest hair, Armani exchange shirts, neon hues, Drakkar Noir, faux-hawks and Reebok Pumps. A bloody river of spray tan teeming with inflated biceps will flow from my nostrils. Stunner shades will propel themselves from the core of my soul like boomerangs. The fist-pumping army of chodes will march forth from my chest's cavity, chanting, "Fuck yeah, bro! Will we conquer-ington? Obvi! Wanna knuck? Best not!" They will take over the world, spreading their mantra of fucking anything with feet and popping bottles in the VIP like a swine flu/HIV love child.

Unshackle me from these gold-plated ice chains that weigh down my heart.

Truth? It's damn good fun. But I need a douche break.

TAKE ME TO BAKERSFIELD WITH THE WOMAN WHO OWNS MY HEART.

I need a weekend of cowboy and cheap eats with somebody who I love.