So I'm sitting on my carpet, only minimally hung over, when it occurs to me. She is rural Boston gum snapping sexy/trashy cute. And this guy sucks.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "DB1, why is that an epiphany? That should've been obvious from the moment their pixelated visages first reached and registered on your synapses." And yes, that's true.

But there's another point that emerges from his suckage.

We've covered many of the douchier scrotewankeries locked in perpetual yin-yang dialectic with the hottie boobie. But sometimes we catch douche aura in action. The emergence of a spectral scrotosity. Ethereal, like a ghost. Yet quantifiable, like a titmouse.

Because if anything is quantifiable, it's titmeese.

This is a perfect example of douche aura. Yes he sucks for the unworthiness of the Plissken t-shirt and the mug of punchable muguousness. But the primal gut reaction of this coupling is greater than the physical factors at play.

It is douche aura rendered corporeal. And as such, he, uhm, sucks alpaca balls.