So last week, while you were knocking back a couple happy-hour beers at the bar after work, or smoking a joint you bought from your cousin in college, this guy was partying. Like seriously partying:
Don't judge him. All he wants to do is bump into you and tousle your hair, knock over your beer and dry hump your friends. Then he's off, singing "doot, doot, doot, Coachella" as he runs. It's like he's on a mission, a whitey-tighty clad, drug-fueled quest to act as fucked-up as possible. And he's doing a great job.
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