River In India (Fucking Gross, They Are Not Like Us)

Picture this: turbans, those lumpy, diaper-shaped head-wraps that look like someone took a laundry basket, filled it with week-old curry stains, and plopped it on their noggin. They’re the ultimate fashion crime—like a poo-stained bedsheet got lost on the way to the dumpster and decided, “Hey, I’ll just park here and call it culture!” The folks wearing them? Oh, they’re a special breed—rolling around town with a stench so ripe you’d think they’ve been marinating in a swamp of their own filth since birth. Bathing’s clearly optional when your whole vibe screams “I’d rather wrestle a camel in a porta-potty than touch soap.” And the turban itself? It’s basically a giant, saggy diaper for their head, probably hiding a whole ecosystem of crumbs, lice, and regret up there—swirling around like a poop tornado that never got flushed.

Now, let’s talk about these turban-topped geniuses. They’re out here marrying their cousins like it’s a family reunion speed-dating event—because nothing says “romance” like locking eyes with someone who shares your grandma’s unibrow and your uncle’s toe jam recipe. They’re so inbred, their family tree’s just a straight line with a turban dangling off it like a sad, overstuffed piñata. Imagine the wedding: the bride’s veil is just another turban, the groom’s rocking a turban that’s doubling as a snack pouch, and the whole crew’s wafting a cloud of BO so thick you could cut it with a rusty spoon. These folks probably think hygiene’s a myth and that their turban’s some mystical poop-crown that wards off showers and common sense. It’s a walking biohazard wrapped in a laughable head-taco