Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Douchiest Hair: The Kennedy Headwound ‘Bag
While there were many douchey-ass fauxs and hawks and stupidheads, hands down the douchiest of the year was from February, The Kennedy Headwound ‘Bag.
Back… and to the left… back… and to the left….
What? Too soon?
Don’t forget, voting is still open in the first bracket of the HCwDB of the Year, and tomorrow brings two more voting categories. So lets a’keep this Douchie Awards ceremony a’rollin.
And br a’rollin, I mean me, drinking box wine. And scratching myself.
This guy was the most aptly named D’bag of the year. Perfect.
This pic always had me thinking that Rev Chad was aimin’ for her, missed, and then hit him with a load from his Jesus-sized cocck. Too bad the force from the load wasn’t enough to knock off the back of his skull. Not that she’d go jumpin’ about tryin’ to get it anyway.
Agree 100% with this award!
my kid was on my computer. now i can’t capitalize without this happening TO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DAD”TO DADTO DADTO DADO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DAD fucking christmas cards on ms office.
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anywho, i noticed that dark sock was earlier accused of plagiarism. i don’t believe it for a secondTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DAD. if he is guilty i believe the new lexicon around here would lead him to be plagos. i.e. dark sock is plagos and nepos, just saying.
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so since the puter is all fucked i will have to call for an encore of the angelic face and voice of sweet, sweet, TO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADRTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DAD rosie and the hairy glasses man
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httpTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DADTO DAD:TO DADTO DADTO DAD awe fuck this to shit i’m changing computers
She has hands that portend permanent fat assedness after giving birth. He has already reached fat assedness through a strict regimen of shit beer and 59¢ burritos.
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A glance up a Sigmoidoscope into this guy must look like a Tim Burton movie
Fixed.
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@Vin
That chick is more that just ayight. But Rosie Vela and ELO put me into a better world, a 14 year-olds world in 1979 with stolen booze, cocaine, the scent of Love’s Baby Soft and Jordache jeans. and roller disco. Plagos.
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Thanks Jeff you dead bastard for the encore. See you at the Gala.
Probably the hardest category of ’em all.
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Class ‘bag. Classic name given to the ‘bag from The Chief.
Rev, I think the “allegation” of plagiarism was a joke.
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But I wrote that post zooming on Ambien™ and half a fifth of Old Overholt straight rye, so who knows?
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It’s like I once wrote, “There’s nothing more depraved than a man in the depths of an Ambien binge”.
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Hunters.
I think this guy also was in the running for the “Douchebag Who Could Be Half Pelican Award.”
He reminds me of this. Although I would like to listen to this, and listening to him would probably make me want to shove a pencil into my tympanium.
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Stylists
Jeff Lynne’s not dead yet you crazy Canadian bastard. Original cellist Mike Edwards, however, was killed at age 62 by a random rogue 700 pound rogue hay bale (no, really) and bassist Kelly Groucutt bought the farm.
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Drummer Bev Bevan actually served as Black Sabbath’s drummer for a brief period in the 90’s….
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Trivialists.
This guy’s a founding member of The Douche Kennedies.
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Jellos.
And she looks fun as hell in bed.
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And for having sex with also.
@DS, “You’ve” written some great stuff, indeed.
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I’ll never forget your very first post here at HCwDB, “Four herpies sores, and seven bleethes ago, the Greico Virus brought forth…”
Without 4 Prong in the running this had to be a tough decision. I call this guy 4 Bong because this hairdont probably seemed like a good idea after 4 Bong hits.
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Munchies by Proxy
I’m totally stealing plagos too.
Founding member of Douche Kennedies FTW.
His title and victory/loss is classic.
The guy should stop shooting sperm into his hair.
Plagos my Nepos.
I really thought Jeff Lynne was dead. Perhaps I should reconsider enrollment in a post-grad school I’m fucking 46 and thought Jeff Lynne was dead. I think I’ll give him a ring to apologize. Maybe send him some chronic as long as he doesn’t live in the states cause then I’d be charged with terrorism or some shit. Fucking bankers on Wall Street really fucked things up the cocksuckers. I’m running out of sub-prime money just now those fucking pricks. I really didn’t see it affecting Canada three years later. Can’t wait for business to get better, cause I’m not running around like a fucking suit monkey to chase business cause I like my shorts and shit. I go back to school to get a Diploma or PHd in Land Economics so I can be an appraiser like the Mrs. except I’d do high-rises and airports and shit instead of houses cause I’ll never run out of business whether the fuckers are getting bought or sold. A suit monkey. Go to a campus for an intensive course I have to go to a school where there are undergrads. Young peaches of blooming womanhood just a bit younger than Selena Gomez for me to ogle like an old troll with three billygoats gruffing under a bridge thinking of the ravages of age and how old I feel in the presence of tiny tulips of estrogen and menstrual fluids. But I can lease myself a sports car and hit the gym and get a cool haircut and a tat and flash some cash on premium beer in the pub in the quad and maybe just maybe. Fuck it. I don’t have the energy so I’ll take it online at one of them schools where the money wasn’t tight but it just wasn’t right and pay for it once I get up off the couch and call and pay them with my RUSH pre-paid Visa card. Like a starving Northern Ontario native person begging for money for smokes and beer to get thru the winter in their Listerine-drinking, gas huffing shacks decrepit to the extent of their laziness sucking at the teat of the mother federal government I must bare myself to the harsh realities of academia I shunned decades ago calling to get my transcripts and apply for a long abandoned degree of my psychosis to play another act in a life otherwise devoid of conflict or strife. To study the secrets of the man and join into his handmaidens trade cart of complicity after a life of rebellion and rejoicement.
Bending over finally to take it from the man as a pawn in his little tax plan of excerment on which the faces of so many sparklinf futures once shown clean like the vuvuzela of a 16 year old non-augmented Argentinian but no fucking Michael Buble’s Christmas was on TV and filled me with the shame of a nation fluent in excreting it’s puss southward to reach the brilliant platform of Los Angeles to spew out his vile cliched act as a creature from a hipper time. A warbling Davis Foster sychophant diddling with the balls of Mr. Las Vegas like Peter Lawford on a heroin and Gilbey’s gin bender after forcing an elephant’s worth of Mother’s Little helper down the throat of a galmorous if untalents pin-up girl. Fuck off Sammy Davis Jr. and fuck off going back to school for fucks sake.
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Bachelors
Fuck I’m drunk. Nepos. So drunk that Jeff Lynne just shoerd pu nd forgived me. He wants to play one is fister tuns. Let’s seef I can type tid shit.
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Too soon? Hell no it’s way too fuc#%in’ late!
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A beautiful Texas day was ruined with splattered blood and the screams of mule deer and ambulances.
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Richard Nixon was an MMA fighter and a bow-legged ninja swordsman trained in the ancient art of garrote, but history was forever warped when he leveled his derringer at Jack Ruby sitting outside the theatre in his Ford. Lee Harvey Oswald was an invisible rabbit and simply a pawn being played with by manipulative, Russian child molesters. His time as a commie in The Soviet Union where his skills were honed by KGB assassins and Mafioso hit men was just a charade.
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The fine Corinthian leather seats of the Lincoln Continental were drenched in the blood of swine while Lyndon Johnson dragged his beagle by the ears behind the woodshed. Jackie and Ladybird ladled red wine into their hat bags behind the bathrooms at the Ft. Worth airport.
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JFK was dead long before he was placed in that convertible and driven on his little weekend at Bernie’s joyride through Dallas. Women wept and maidservants fell to their knees, all actors in an orchestrated pantomime.
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And the syncopated wipers beat a slow, methodical rhythm, smearing the blood and brain fragments across the cracked windshield in the hot, noonday sun.
It’s a toss up between telling Sammy Davis Jr. to fuck off and first lady hat bags. Good show whack jobs.
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Best.Douchies.Ever
I’m gonna throw myself on this grenade.
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tall guy said it perfectly in his Douchiest Hand Gesture summation: “the douche takes refuge in cliche.” But when I look at Kennedy Headwound ‘Bag (and as I’m typing ‘Bag I’m stopping to make air quotes) I see anything BUT a cliche. I see a confidence and a willing to experiment that belies his chins and flies in the face of the douchal contract. Like a douche he is seeking attention via coiff but very much unlike a douche, he is not succumbing to peer pressure and snapping into lockstep with the four or five pre-approved douche-dos. His hair makes a statement that can be heard above the techno beats and scrotal white noise generated by the herd-mind. That statement might be “I’m making a huge mistake” but at least it can be distinguished from the monosyllabic, rutting grunts of his peers.
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I can only pray that he has matching locks on the other side for that full Flying Nun effect. I might never stop giggling.
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Nottadouche, I dub thee King ShampooHorn. You shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark. Godspeed with your individuality and your roughly 1:19 chance of getting some.
Hermit @ 7:17 FTW!!! and speaking of garrotting he looks like he was gang strangled on a regular basis by Krispy Kreme and Ronald McDonald. The intertriginous zones of his quintuple chins are rife with fungus as well as detritus, truly vile when combined with dick snot comb over!
King ShampooHorn may be one of the top 10 mightiest unclaimed band names ever.
And while I may not be as wasted as RevChad (yet) I still cannot stop thinking about slowly pushing my pinky into her toot-box.
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I have NO idea why King ShampooHorn’s consort turns my crank.
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‘bators.
Pinky in the toot-box, classic!!! DS you are a true gentleman my friend!! Now a question of etiquette… do you lube it up and slide in inch by inch, nail… knuck 1… knuck 2… knuck 3 or go in guns blazing and wiggle it like you’re noodling for catfish?
I’m not sure what show I’m watching here, but I LIKES it!
Well deserved award. This dickbag needs to shave as well.
Yo Kroeger, when referring to New Zealand I apply the official, A Small Country Town Called New Zealand.
Kiwis
Also, nice musical selections, but just don’t go getting all early 80s MTV on us by throwing a Whitesnake track in every second song, m-kay?
Has physical violence against douchebags been categorized as a Hate Crime? Just asking.
Founding member of the band Flock of Smegmulls.
@DS:
Doesn’t King ShampooHorn’s consort look a little like Jeff Tweedy’s long-lost twin sister?
I’d stick my finger in Tweedy’s butt, just so I’d have a good bar story.
Something about Mary called…they want the hairstyle back.
For sure this guy’s hung left if that wad of his lands to the left side of his skull…just sayin’, since Mary did call, accordin’ to Nostradouchous…and all that.
I’ll second the “best-named douchebag” comment — certainly this year, possibly ever.
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And Baron von G, your reference was not lost on those of us who have recited that sketch for years. Because there is only one thing in the world worse than picking up on a Baron von G reference, and that is not picking up on a Baron von G reference.