Pronounced: Cray-bill-light; a sloth-like being, with unkempt patches of fur scattered about the face, forearms, and genitals; resembles a pre-domesticated Yeti, but six feet tall and wears New Balances; origins: the suburban Olney region, the Caspian Sea, or a Three Doors Down Concert. Krehbielites tend to abhor natural sunlight, manual labor, and the teachings of the Torah/Chicken Soup for the Massive Douche bag. Dietary needs: TGIFriday’s Long Island Iced Tea, Esskay franks ala George Foreman, anything that gets unsuspecting sophomore girls (boys?) drunk, and Banana Boat SPF 30. Daily ritual: masturbating, hating self, formulating intricate fables about dating millionaire supermodels (currently on shoot in Milan), digging, crying. Household concerns: routinely defecating on bathroom floor mat, dry-humping throw pillow, disregarding final notice credit card bills, and creating unprecedented amounts of filth—reducing habitat to a disjointed, chaotic entity that is unsuitable for any living thing.
Pissed-off person 1: Who’s that son of a bitch raping my West Highland Terrier?
Pissed-off Person 2: It’s probably one of those Kerhbielites.
Slightly Aroused Bystander: Who’s the piece of ass in the front yard?
Pissed-off Person 2: He’s a filthy Krehbielite. You’ll notice the a-sexual tattoo on the small of his back—clearly a Krehbiel. Is that an ass nipple?
(Now) Highly Aroused Bystander: I’m going to leave my card. Hand it to him when he’s through, would you? Excuse me, I need to borrow something in your tool shed...for ten to fifteen minutes.
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