The Paul Bunyan Trophy
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Think of the first night. Imagine The Shawshank Redemption except with more sodomy. The tribal tattoos. The acrid smell of burning couches. His self loathing over his wooden arousal at being stroked by skanky, beer swilling harlots who managed to cobble together enough sentences on their admission applications to avoid LCC. Would he ever be able to look at a beer commercial again without a flashback? "My God, is that a mullet? What IS a Brah? Are they going to watch 300 again?"
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