And then there are mornings like this morning, when I roll out of bed, make up a nice bowl of Count Chocula with a hearty glass of Sunny D to wash it down, turn on my computer, and see this pic of uber-douche tonguebag with his exotic hottie sidekick. And it is only then that I realize Nietzsche was correct when he said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Douchebags are scrotes."

And then I wash away that existentialist realization with alcohol. It works nicely.

Exotic Hottie is all sorts of Persian goodness. I'd roll her in a taco and dip her in guacamole.