It was foretold in the lint patterns of old, embroidered into the sofas of kinds, printed on those little inside stickers that tell you how to wash things, that one day a great couch fucker will be born, a couch fucker with pretty blue eyes & mad eye-shadow game, a couch fucker to unite both the couch fucker nation, and ottoman fucker nomads, one couch fucker to rule them all (couches, not other couch fuckers).

But the prophecies were lost to time and legend, decayed like the crusty old jizz between the cushions, subject to decades of hateful propaganda by the evil those-shitty-massage-chairs-that-dont-shiatsu-but-only-vibrate oligarchy.

However in the end, the great couch fucker (GCF?) shall rise, and don’t do shit.
Not for incompetence reasons, nor all the hate speech, but because love defeats all. For nothing ever compared to that first couch, the couch he took when his parents tried to throw it out, the couch that is now in his bedroom where the bed should be.

In the end, as all great legend go, the great couch fucker was defeated by a sweet old couch that fucked, fucked good.