I couldn't get past more than 43 seconds of the slo-mo slurred speech or stilted mock East Indian mood music. I imagine the narrator is a guy doing some long, slow pulls on a hookah while sitting in the tepee his sleep-over club erected from stained Scooby-Doo bed sheets in 1993, in his mom's basement, with at least 1.5 decades worth of Doritos crumbs between his ass and a concrete floor.