Thursday, January 8, 2009

Meditations on the Punch-Face


Once, when I was meditating on the boobie hottie suckle thigh in a daisy field in Uttar Pradesh, a young ‘Bag Hunter approached me.

DB1, he asked cautiously, How will I know when the douche-face becomes the punch-face?

Aha, young beetle bug. I responded, laughing lightly and crumbling some pinched snuff in my hands as I squinted in the harsh Punjabi light.

You will know the punch-worthy doucheface by involuntary primal muscle spasm. And only then. Not before. And not after.

He looked confused.

So I reached into my satchel I’d been given on a Maori walkabout in ’02, and handed him this pic.

The young ‘bag hunter glanced down at the picture. Upon registering this tool’s muggy visage, the young one sprang to his feet, twitched forward about twenty paces, then sucker-punched a nearby goat-herder named Umbete in the nads.

He had learned his lesson.

# posted by douchebag1

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