There's nothing more enjoyable than a rowdy night out of douche-karaoke, in which someone finally gets drunk enough to put 0n the late 80s Sir Pecsalot classic "Douchey Got Back." Its moments like that when we all remember the retro-grease genius that is Sir Pecsalot in all his douche-rapping genius.

And by genius, I mean 'roids.

In analyzing the enhanced douchebaggery of Sir Pecsalot, it is important to note that he can, with very little effort, break me in half. Like a twix bar. I hate it when the greasy pumped up 'bag pictured can snap my sad little spine like a twix bar. Because I like twix bars. And they're easy to snap in half. That being said, the dude is dripping hair gel, Tag Bodyshots and bling like a Corsican sailor selling dried apricots.I have no idea what that means. But I like dried apricots.

I'm hoping once his tats are translated, we'll have more fragments of the Douche Sea Scrolls with which to expand our knowledge of the early 2nd Century Gnostic Scrotebags.

Asian hottie busting the skulls bikini sends my synapses popping with confusion by using the age old simu-attraction/repulsion technique. I'm lost. Dazed and confused. I want to explore the ambiguous inflated hinterlands but reel at the douche virus infection's douchey douchiness.

So instead I will much on a twix bar and dried apricots, and stare longingly at the red thigh scarf while hoping Sir Pecsalot doesn't two turntables and microphone my face.