Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Bret Michaels
For riding a six month Hair Metal career into twenty years of scrotal infection, for being the lip-herp of reality TV, and for puffing up like an overbaked Alaskan salmon, it’s high time we honor Bret Michaels with an honorary Douchebag of the Month.
Joining such past ass-clowns as John Meyer, James Blunt and Mystery, the B.M. macks on the hotts with sleazy patter, a lack of a second “t” in his first name and a shirt with his own face on it that looks like smelly ass mold.
Not all 80s Hair Metal survivors are ‘bags. Slash gets a pass for being ironic and grounded. C.C. DeVille turned out to be pretty hilarious on The Surreal Life.
But Bret Michaels? Twenty years of nozzle water festering like an overgrown swamp.
If Midnight Cowboy era Jon Voight mated with a week old lump of soggy wonder bread, the resulting half human half bread creature would shat out a Bret Michaels in its stool.
And, not to forget the HC side of the equation, dig that blonde drink of water in the back. She makes baby seals “arf” with joy at Sea World.
