Douche bags span the globe, from America to Australia and every malnourished shit-hole in between. If you were to hop on a plane right now and land that fucker on the first mud hut you came across you'd undoubtedly find some dickhead who drank too much river water and shot his pet goat with a poison dart because he thought it was funny. How do I know? Because I have an Internet connection. And because my good friend Mamadou told me.
Now these two choads are a prime example. I imagine them both standing there, getting piss drunk on XXXX and making obscene gestures at women, when the following conversation took place:
Douche Bag #1: "G'day mate. I see you weren't just actin' the goat yesterday when you said you were going to wear that to the lake."
Douche Bag #2: "Ay?"
DB #1: "You're away with the pixies, eh mate?"
DB #2: "Easy on mate, easy on. I'm gettin' pissed here."
DB #1: "That's a good bloke. Now pull your socks up, you look like a poofter."
DB #2: "Pull your head in mate, I'm lookin' for a root rat."
DB #1: "In that cozzie? Better not crack a fat."
DB #2: "Stop earbashing."
DB #1: "Well fuck it, there's a Sheila. Give it a burl."
DB #2: "No drama."
Douche Bag #2 walks up to a sultry woman in a thong bikini, and at the sight of his nut-crushing one-piece she immediately collapses to the sand in fits of uncontrollable laughter.
DB #2: "Fuck this mate, let's hit the turps. She wasn't the full quid anyway."
DB #1: "Too right!"
Undeterred, the two then high five each other and laugh obnoxiously. Douche bags are notoriously thick-skinned sons of bitches.
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