Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Yo, it's hard up in these Hamptons y'all
“Things been rough since Pops had to give back his fall bonus to CitiBank and sell the third vay-cay pad in Tahoe, homeslice. I’ma raise hell if the yacht gots to go…I’ma go move in wit Moms and her tennis instructor, Ricardo, down at the guest house.”
Bweeee
So William H. Macy is hanging out in the Hamptons with slouchy blondes and Prep Bags deserving of a beatin’?
Over / Under: Total IQ of 200
Head-tilt Hilda has the hips of a twelve year old boy, the compact breasts of a maidservent and the eyes of a full-blown retard.
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My kind of gal. Put her in the H.O.H.
I think these two overly quaffed Polo ad wannabes would be happier on Fire Island.
Over/under on their combined age being 51 or better?
It’s always been a fantasy of mine to defile some rich bankers naive and rebellious daughter with my blue collar DNA meaning I’d pecker slap her silly as well as make her scream “I’m being fucked by someone in the 25% tax bracket over and over again” while her mom and dad were having a cocktail reception for her older brothers release for doing an 18 mo stretch for insider trading. Then yes I would wipe my schwantz on the $10,000 drapes (respect Doucheywallnuts)
Hamptons?, Nantucket? it’s all the same. Nouveau Riche stinking the place up with bad attitudes, unwarranted senses of entitlement and dog awful clothing selections that screams “I’m and A-Hole”. Now on the flip side is all the naughty daughters who wanna try something else (Anal, three ways, etc;) before they settle into a dull marriage wracked with pills, eating disorders and boozing starting at lunch time. Then you have the trophy MILF who are bored and by bored I mean extremely horny cause their coke & oycontin addled, workaholic husbands are never around and when they are it’s usually a boring, missionary, 5 minutes or less, one & done situation.
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White bikini hott would rather be doing blow and getting banged in the guest cottage on the family estate by some random dude she earlier at the bar whilst the 2 guys would rather be talking about the internships they just landed (daddy made a phone call) at some investment boutique in Greenwich and how they’re gonna own a townhouse in the “city” by the time they’re 25.
The Boardy Barn in Hampton Bays sells more beer in four hours on a Sunday – the only hours they are open all week – than is sold at Yankee Stadium for a game. I have been there. These three haven’t.
I’d penis prod her navel from the backside with the tip o’ my dick, smeared in coal tar and volcanic ash, while my pendulous nut hastings slap her tawny ass with each rhythmic thrust. Then I’d grind that stupid heart tattoo off her abdomen with a mummified wombat anus coated with rubber cement and embedded with powdered glass stuck on the tip of gas powered 100cc Ryobi fisting machine.
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Not really. The fisting machine would probably be a Husqvarna
What the hell happened to John Cougar Mellencamp? It’s supposed to be little pink houses, not little pink shorts.
I’d do her hard cause I liked skinny bitches to abuse and toss away so they’d come back for more. Bitches.
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But all has been said except these two guys remind me of this.
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And I like booze starting at lunch time, DW. Or preferably, for breakfast.
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Tomorrow morning I’ll be knocking back 4 oz of Guaro in preparation for a 10k. I’ll be vomiting isopropyl stinking lime juice on the long-haired race marshal’s REI Vibram five fingers shoes at the finish line. He won’t care since he’s still high after one week straight of speedy acid and sweaty BO sex with floppy breasted 20-somethings from Appleton, WI that smell like Dr. Bronner’s soap and moldy bread.
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Not quite my type though. I’m go for the micro-brew swilling yoga teachers that have Sanskrit tattoos and facial piercings and listen to Swedish black metal and D-beat while riding their fixed wheeled bicycles down to play Joust 2 at the nearest bar-cade. Go Pre!
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God, I love Oregon.
If one looks beyond the trappings of materialism, the designer sunglasses and fashionable clothes, he can read in the faces of these youngsters the pain lost love and broken homes.
And, if he looks further, a set of low-slung milk jugs suspended by a pair of leopard skin tit hammocks.
I’d also bang the chick in the blue shirt.
Good call Rev. Ah, Animal House. Another Oregon filmed masterpiece, like Goonies, My Own Private Idaho, and Kindergarten Cop. I actually had sex with a girl on my 19th birthday in the Dexter Lake Club in that very booth Belushi sat in. She was some homely looking girl from Coos Bay that I agreed to nail cause I was drunk and she kept supplying me with clove cigarettes. Normally she’d have been too ugly for my taste, but she wore way too much black eyeliner, liked to cut herself a lot, and I was going through my Nivek Ogre phase. The condom broke halfway through, but I didn’t give a crap and just reamed away until I splat my deposit on the booth seat. We didn’t even put napkins down on top of it. With how depressing and unkempt that place was, my mess is probably still there.
And these two dick tubes are complete wannas. 1) Those aren’t Ray Bans, 2) that watch is a Timex, and 3) I think I saw that polo shirt at Target on the Summer clearance rack.
Another Penthouse Letters day on HCwDB?
White bikini chick should get some cosmetic surgery – on her spine.
I’d still bed that paltry young woman child until she clearly remembered every one of her repressed memories of sexual abuse by the babysitter.
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Which should take all of 15 seconds of menstral soaked kidney prodding, threats against her parents, and burning the hair off all her My Little Ponies.
Damnit Jacques, now you know the Rev is going to have to try and top you with some godawful unintelligible family reunion three way tale. Also is there really a place called Coos Bay? If so I’m moving there just for the laughs.
I’m pretty sure I ran over these Hamtucket Trustafarian Troglodytes with my speedboat last weekend. Last a saw a school of humbolt squid were fighting over their entrials while spinner dolphins were playing with a pair of implants. Spinner dolphins, I says.
A friend arranged a casual meet up with some middle aged single gal – kind of a group thing.
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Within 15 seconds she has announced quite clearly that she has daddy issues.
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And not the “I do porn” daddy issues. “Crazy broad” daddy issues.
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No skin off my nose.
Spaulding Smails-bag on the left.
@DH, who knew there was a cool kind of daddy issues. I learn so much here.
I’d like to insert my flaccid yogurt baster inter her clenched starfish while she hums the tune to “Killing Me Softly”; then on the second refrain when I can’t hold back anymore and my turgid marauder awakes, she’ll stretch like a balloon for a split second before popping off my man-ram like a nurf rocket with a ‘sshooosh’ and disappearing over the horizon.
When she’s 30, she’ll have a kid and name it something trendy / “classy” sounding, like Brentwood or Jarvis or Zanzibar Buck Buck McFate. And she’ll be a great mom. And she will love her hubby lots, and her hubby will love her.
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Every few years, some ne’er do well “contractor” (former tennis instructor) will show up to do some odd jobs – you know – fix the steps in back or some thing. It’ll take a few days. And when hubby goes to work, she’ll be sucking down Ricardo’s baby batter. After a few days and the stairs are fixed, he leaves with a few grand.
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“Let me know if you need any ting else feexed!”
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18 months later, the guest quarter’s bathroom springs a leak. Ricardo to the rescue, and Madison, a few pounds heavier and a good bit drunker, is back on her knees slurping spooge.
@ Drueche, yes there is a place on the Southern Oregon Coast called Coos Bay. It’s named after the Coosan Indian Tribe, or the Coos Cut (a cross between a military buzz cut and a mullet). I forget which. It’s a former lumber town, now best known for oysters and the biggest Indian gaming casino between Canyonville and…the Pacific Ocean, I guess.
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Speaking of Native Americans, I just found out there’s a Land Before Time 12. Shouldn’t Littlefoot and the rest of those little walnut brained shits be old enough to be fuel for my 100c Husqvarna fisting machine?
@ DMC, that was fucking poetry, man. Fucking poetry.
Nancy FTW. Little pink shorts.
These guys have a lot of street cred. They play badminton, wear sweaters around their neck,go to Ivy League schools, and beat up street people. Is that the new Gilligan Collection at Brooks Brothers?
If y’all don’t object, I’d like to hang on to a very precious memory of the name ‘Hilda’, and by that I mean I’m trying to figger out a way to take her to BangKocck… not that Hilda, another one. Never mind.
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I’ll never get laid with Hilda, waahhhh!
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What, maybe I still can? Yes I Can Can CAn CAn? Alright, thanks everbody! I’ll keep her posted. With, well you know…
@Captain. It’s “coiffed”, not “quaffed” (or, indeed “queefed”).
It’s a Tea Partay
Ahoy polloi… where did you come from, a scotch ad?