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Saturday, February 2, 2008
Where's Waldouche: Rambling Edition
I know it’s quieter around here on weekends and I should probably be kicking back with my bottle of Thunderbird, my tasty HoHo snackcakes, and relaxing rather than mocking the choad.
But I just can’t resist.
Only minimally hung over from last night’s festivities, I sit back and wax philosophic on this Saturday.
I ponder the simulation and the authentic. The original and the copy.
The spectacle in the age of multitasking multimedia revolution. The eroticized name-brand plumage of store bought purchased identity. Identity as marker of commodity fetish reinvented as eroticized object of desire. Spectacle as commodity. Douchuousness as reinscribing one’s self worth within the media age.
The masses of swirling overstimulated over-caffeinated uber-cacaphony, transmuting down the waterslide of digital media in a shower of pixelated ones and zeros. The form over function in an age of spectacle without nourishment. The artform of schizophrenia, the blurring of aesthetics, the noise of multimedia bombardment on the senses. The attempt to rise above the age of market supplied media chaos by embodying the spectacle. By becoming the cartoon. By personifying the deification of the consumer product as object of worship.
The ritualistic embodiment of the simulacrum as merit based fame determinant. The need to mimetically refract the shared signifiers of meaning and value to achieve self-worth.
A confused, disjointed, overly stimulated masses of consumers. A crisis of morality, a breakdown of spirituality in the age of “do you want the Lamborghini? You’ll get the Lamborghini!” Gatorized aesthetics.
The unsatisfying club going chase. The endless pursuit of glitter without depth. Popped collars meant to amplify the face into store bought product. To rise above the everyday and become human commercials, walking billboards of product-as-identification reinforcing the paradigm of conquest. The douche as frontiersman, as conquering cowboy, of empowered Manifest Destiny achiever within the consumer culture media age.
And so I sit back on a Saturday, and ponder the hott and the douche, locked in permanent gender transmogrification, and I muse into my alcoholic afternoon with the boozy detachment of boobie bouncing ramifications.
I do what I can.
I offer you a “Where’s Waldouche?”
Because within this dialectic of boob and choad, of metrosexual forehead greased douche-face and the object of his acquisition, the boundaries of society begin to break down, crack and reveal themselves.
And we have Red Bull inspired Revelation: redbullation.
And boobies.
Saturday, February 2, 2008Saturday Thumbs
Listen up, Albanian Alfred E. Newman. Your double serving of Asian Hotts see through your horrific cheap cologne and ambiguously eastern european accent.
So step back before I chop socky your ass with the humorous gait of Hong Kong action star Sammo Hung.
Friday, February 1, 2008Deathtongue II
Yep.
Time to start drinkin’.
Friday, February 1, 2008Reader Mail
Horrid Crap writes in with the following picture and incomprehensible but somewhat genius email:
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Ok Ok I admit:
first is that I have a thing for asians, given where i live its a good thing too. Second off if that I used to produce club events, now I think that this probably puts me close to douche in most peoples books because of the way that most people in that particular profession come off to the world, very truthfully, as total and utter bagnoids.
My saving grace is that I am in the entertainment industry and mainly used it as a way to skip lines, anal bouncers and bar tabs, as well as have hoots at all the bags and nuzzle boobs with hotts, can’t be blamed really….
But what is now left in the rank and undernourished flappy scrote that makes up the Honolulu club scene is two-bit bag promoters, who put stansions outside of restaurants , throw in a marginal DJ and a couple of hotts for go-gos and try n charge you $20 Dollars to get in.
If that’s not bad enough , these viral idiots don’t even have the decency to understand that they are complete hosers and thus start assuming some big boy roll, lucky for you and fellow hunters like you, you can be secure in the fact that when i see them , just is thrown down in the town and they are thus I reminded of the shallow existence in which they wallow, scumscukin toe jam by birth bagglings that they are.
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Well said, H.C. At least I think.
And isn’t the “Rank and Undernourished Flappy Scrote” replacing the “Rutti Tutti Fresh and Frutty” breakfast at IHOP?
Friday, February 1, 2008Boobies and the Gogglebag
Oh boobies. I love you so. There’s two of you. Sometimes you look identical. Sometimes slightly different. If I grow tired with one boobie, another boobie is right there to say hello.
Oh Gogglebag. Your sunglasses suck. Your hand gesture is annoying and your hair is poofy. Your sleeves are big. You need Ving Rhames to get medieval on your ass.
Oh boobies, take me away from Gogglebag. For he smells like poo.
Friday, February 1, 2008Basic Training Choad
I have another pic of Deathtongue and his feline perfection, but I can’t do that to you back-to-back. I just can’t.
So instead, here’s a standard issue Basic Training Choad (with requisite Yankee Cap, bling, tatt and shine-face), and a nice serving of freshly prepared stripper hotts.
All mixed up and served in a redrum.
Friday, February 1, 2008Deathtongue
This one just hurts. Like a baseball to the groin while Bob Saget comments, “Whoa, swing batter! That’s gotta hurt!”
Yes, Bob Saget. Yes it does hurt.
Like a horse kick to the jaw. Like a Ramboian electric bedspring torture device in the jungles of Vietnam.
She is perky cat-eyed hott.
And he is Deathtongue, All that is Douche.
Run with the Devil!
Shout Satans might!
Deathtöngue!
Deathtöngue!
The Beast rises tonight!
Friday Haiku
Pirate Janitor,
Basement electronic grooves,
Someone throw breaker.
Love in the basement:
An Aerosmith B-side song?
Or douchebag anthem?
— mr. white
Spears rehab pic
No wonder she got so sick
Greico infected now
— jonezy
salsa in basement
living la vida loca
chollo unafraid
— creature
Willing chunky bleeth
‘bag desperate for hard-on
Still prefers young boys
— the grateful douche
Almighty button
you fight and strain to restrain
douchebag’s potbelly
— douche mcallister
Electricity
Pirate wench loves the button
Keep it closed baby
— all your douche are belong to us
couldn’t get into club.
so what? dance in the alley.
take out the garbage.
— pfah
no bulge in his pants
for the bleeth humping his leg
douche favors wide stance
— newmans own balsamic douche
Friday, February 1, 2008Caution: Highly Doucherous
I have three, and only three words to summarize this pic.
“Toxic.” “Gross.” and “potpourri.”
Why “potpourri”? Precisely because of its randomness. Because the limitations of language to adequately convey this atrocity of humanity requires a dose of illogic. Thus, potpourri.
In an unrelated story, a hearty Douche of the Month to Barstoolsports.com for grabbing a bunch of my pics without a link or credit. Even worse, it resulted in dozens of people sending me the link suggesting I should use those pics on my site, refracting the simulation of the simulation back to its orginary source. Cue Baudrillard reference. Suck it, Barstoolers.
