Wrapped Up Like A Douche

The Douche That Time Forgot: Part I
Note: While I continue skyrocketing to fame over at The Spoonbender, several of the usual suspects will be presenting their favorite apparitions of the Ghost of WULAD Past. First up: Gene.

Ian Delano Garfunkel: blogmaster, jazzercist, poet. Hello, I'm Gene Morgan from the blog, 'POMPADOURED.' You may know me from the comments section of this site, or from that time I dressed in a hard-hat and boy-shorts to dance on stage to C & C Music Factory. I'm an ass-kisser, and I'm here to talk about something very special.

From the days of Samuel Johnson and The Rambler columns, the opinion hungry public has desired someone who could deliver them from the tyranny of boring words, a lover of wisdom that could upchuck the literary-humor-done-daily nastiness, someone who in one stroke could usurp the Jews who wrote the Jesus story, roll over that cooze with the hashed-out Harry Potter books, and deliver something more filling and fat-assed than Tex-Mex.

I'm not saying that WULAD is bigger than adolescent wizards and Jesus and... Okay, maybe I am saying that, but seriously dudes, WULAD is salvation and pre-pubescent magic rolled into a tortilla and fried with a side of refried beans and rice and guacamole AND a margarita with salt. On the rocks.

Ian is bigger than queso, bigger than cheese enchiladas, bigger than fajitas - especially when it comes to putting things atop a douche and wrapping said things with said douche. In fact, WULAD is the king of douche in our douche-y but lovably fresh America. Totally. And as so, Ian is our Douche Jesus, our Harry Douche, our Franklin Douche Roosevelt—He's all of these things. He's a blog wizard dynamo jazzercist poet god, and you, yes you picking your nose and eating ice cream and tab-browsing porn, you should love his genius, forever.

So I'm supposed to pick something out. Some nugget of WULAD TNT that'll make you sweat 'til you bleed. Something so quizzical and rapture filled that your ass will fall flat out the seat of your pants, and you'll weep silently into your mound of cookie-dough and fleshlight, steady past 2045. Prepare to lose your queso puffs in mere seconds, friends. I did, and I still don't understand why.

The Tyranny of the Clone Stamp Tool



I have no idea what this means but I feel it somehow had to be made.