Talking about love on Valentine's Day, but all we get in this one is a front-row seat to a masturbation marathon while laying next to Jay Mac. 

We're deep in the shit with 3D porn that makes your dick look like a fucking garden hose compared to the monster cocks on screen. Your living room? Sounds more like a fucking porn theater with an 80-inch screen of titties, making your place look like a crime scene under a black light. CSI would have a field day with those glowing pillows.

Then there's the art of not getting caught, with techniques that would make a spy blush. Hiding your phone behind the Vaseline while you jerk off in the bathroom? That's not just strategy; that's fucking espionage. And don't get me started on the horror of soap in the hole—your dick's worst nightmare.

Richard Branson? You idolize him like he's the god of crazy-ass adventures, water skiing with chicks in bikinis like it's his fucking job. And the game show idea? Mixing sounds of races with retards? That's not just a game; that's a fucking social experiment in bad taste.

Oh, and 50 Shades of Grey? You're out here like you wrote the fucking book on BDSM, breaking it down to the contract signing like it's legal advice for kinky fuckers.