Kersh is him bro

It was a perfect day for the Douche Off, and Kersh was going all in. Posted up in front of the Pi Kapps house, he rocked a Canada Goose puffer with no shirt underneath, sipping a Natty Light like it was a fine whiskey. His main competition? The Peckinator, flexing in a sleeveless quarter-zip, shotgunning beers for clout.

But Kersh had an edge—The Dask. His mentor stood behind him, nodding approvingly, a silent master guiding his apprentice in the art of supreme douchery. Today wasn’t just about winning. It was about cementing a legacy. The crowd watched as the tension built. Then, in a move straight out of the Douche Hall of Fame, Kersh poured half his Natty onto the sidewalk, stared at it like it had personally offended him, then tossed the rest without breaking eye contact with The Peckinator. Silence. Then a slow “Douuuuuche” chant started, growing louder.

The Peckinator hesitated. The Dask smirked. And in that moment, everyone knew—Kersh had won.