Sunday, May 1, 2011
Angel Frolics with a Garage Door
As with most frolic videos, no hot chicks. But plenty of hair grease and minimal employment prospects. And serious doucheclownery.
So to make up for the lack of hot chick, here’s some tasty Gal Gadot, Israeli model, potential Semitic thigh bongo licorice slap, and confirmed, official future ex-Mrs. DB1.
EDIT: Turns out the previous pic may not be the lovely Gal Gadot, although it looks just like her, so here’s some more tasty post-Portman post-Kunis Hebraic perfection.
Garsh DB1, you shouldn’t have. If it means anything, I didn’t watch it twice as much as a normally do. And where do I send Congratulations/Condolences on your impending nuptuials/divorce? Does Hallmark make a card for that?
A few moments ago my office smelled of manure, hangover, and smoke. Now it smells like musty wood, pool chemicals, and homoerotic lust with a not so subtle essence of male product. And self-loathing. Son.
Back when I was in junior/senior high school if we had found out about a bunch of faggots doing something like this we would have ridiculed them until there was at least one suicide. Fuck, where have the good times gone?
It used to be that garages were used for bands and kids that wanted to make music. These fuckheads have to go and gay it all up. “Hey kids, come inside, your tuna sandwiches are ready.”
OK, I grant that I live in the cave of medical residency.
BUT, when did this become a legitimate musical genre?
And when did random seizure activity become a dance move? And why do friends watch this seizure activity without attempting to help, ie call 911?
And why in a garage?
And why half-naked?
I kept hoping Mom would open the garage door, whacking at least one in head, and holler, “Hey, you morons, move it, I gotta park the car”
Listen, kids need an outlet. Not all young guys are in a circle jerk with a tub of K-Y jelly in the middle aiming their squirtage at each others facse after video taping a frolic video.
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But these guys are
That’s not Gal Gadot – that’s Alessandra Ambrosio, a Brazilian hawt of rare succulence.
And I got dibs – I saw her first.
He was dancing because he had no hot chick to FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
FUCK THE PAIN AWAY.
You know – like the clowns who made Baby’s Day Out.
OK – here:
http://redlettermedia.com/plinkett/other-movies/babys-day-out/
Here’s a giant selection of hott and surprsing Yiddusha Semitic thigh bongo licorice slap babes courtesy ot Testosterone Nation. Who knew?
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I am particularly fond of Dianna Agron and use the TV show Glee to ogle 26 year old actresses portraying high school girls
So, they have legitimately accepted the term “frolic”? I….I….Can I have one of those Ambien? Thaaaaanks.
I love being a fuccen hatter, even on “YT”…..heh heh heh heh heh…..
They have funny accents. Where is this from? I want to find that place and carpet bomb it.
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I don’t have children. But if I came home and found my teenage son engaged in something like this, I would make all his friends leave. Then I would sit him down, give him an Old Style, a Lucky Strike, and explain to him what it means to be a man. ‘Cause I spend a lot of time repairing lawnmowers and grilling meat, so I think I have a pretty good idea.
WTF is a lasahhhh? I hate made up accents.
Here’s some actual Gal Gadot. The quote that accompanied the photo was, “I don’t have big boobs, but at least I have long legs.” You got nothing to apologize for, Ms. Gadot. I’d let you bomb my Gaza Strip.
Meanwhile, at the neighbor’s house across the street, an unsuspecting father ambles into his garage only to burst in upon his naked and sweating son being penetrated in both ends by his fellow football team member’s members.
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Stunned and wide-eyed, the father slumps down, wipes his brow, and says “Thank God…I was afraid for a minute there you guys were in here Frolicking with Lay-zahhhs or something…scared the SHIT outa me….Carry on, fellas; lube gun’s on the top shelf!”.
I hope to see the sequel, “Angel frolics with an oncoming delivery truck.”
No worries on the improper ID of the hotts, Boss. It’s clear you were gazing ‘ponst the boobies.
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We’ve all been there.
Come in to the garage boys, and hang your shirts on the numbered hooks outside, the friendly voice coos. If it’s frolic you want, then frolic it will be. The door closes one last time, but with an unfamiliar clunk as the sturdy latch falls into place. Tiny hands quickly place rubber gaskets and orchids around the door, blocking light and air. The frightened sparrows bang their heads against the ceiling and windows but resistance is futile, it only brings muffled laughter from the grocery clerks and death merchants outside enjoying their black coffee and pickles.
The green sprouts of grade school creativity have been scorched brown, sprayed with the toxic weed-killer of conformity, the withered leaves ground into the dirt of shopping malls and public school playgrounds.
The music stops abruptly as the Machine backs up to the door, it’s exhaust tentacle probes the vertical surface and finds it’s opening, complete with check valve and pine tree air freshener. The sweet flatulence of eternal damnation is forced into the suburban sarcophagus. A few panicked seconds, a few muted screams, an unatural dilation of pupils, then the flesh comes off their bones and falls to the floor, like the maggot-infested meat loaf hacked apart by wretched, overworked cafeteria workers.
The Machine completes it’s job with no emotion and rolls away. It’s dashboard clock ticks off six times for the six empty seats in Mrs. Ferguson’s home room class.
┌∩┐(◕_◕)┌∩┐
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Flippin tha bird
dooooshitude!
Yowza!
You know, Hermit, if you set your prose as lyrics to Slayer’s “Angel Of Death”…….
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The sweet flatulence of eternal damnation
Is forced into the suburban sarcophagus;
A few panicked seconds, a few muted screams,
an unatural dilation of pupils….
Then the flesh comes off their bones and falls to the floor,
Like the maggot-infested meat loaf hacked apart
By wretched, overworked cafeteria workers…
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Dude, we totally need to start a HCwDB touring band. Mr. White already has a windowless van we can use.
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I CALL DIBS ON LEAD GUITAR; EAT IT VIN DOUCHAL!!! UR ON BASS LULZ FAILIKOPTURZ!!11!!
^ I’m on glockenspiel.
At the 00:06 mark….did he really say “…dat’s mah nigga Febreze an’ Pretty Jeff…“?
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Really? Febreze? Pretty Jeff?
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I bet dey rolls hawd up inna klub.
^ I call Mouth Organ!
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Wait. What?
^ I call Mouth Harp!
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Wait. What?
^ I’m on synthetic marijuana and Nyquil & reg;.
@Hermit, I knew that machine was good robot. And if I ever need a new rap name its gonna be MC Febreezy. Cuz I keep it fresh.
i gotta uke…it has a sharp edge which can scalp frollickers
Their boyz Ultra Downy and Lacey Bruce couldn’t make it, they be out in da’ hood bangin’, yo.
^ I got drums. And Hermit, that was a beautiful continuation of your dialectic “Working Title: The Machine.” The nuance of your works gives me chills in an Orwellian sort of vibe. A bit “Lord of The Flies” meets “BladeRunner” with a soupcon of “Total Recall” tossed into to the utilitarian framework to give it a futuristic edge while you are discussing the subcurrent of our generified, de-unionized reality with it’s Trumps and Obamas and Bilderberg shit. It makes me aware of the terrifying realities of the IMF, Bretton Woods, Bohemian Grove, The G-20, and all of the things Davis Icke scares me with. The spectre of China using our technologies against us allowing the machine to work overtime at sucking the wretched remnants of humanity from our bloated, medicated coccoons. These thoughts lead me to realize that the economic and political realities I studied were meant to change so my mind would not be programmed to deal with changes in society as geopoliticians fuck with our minds daily to keep the Machine greased with our sorrow and hope. A new millenium Cayce warning us of the frailty of humanity as we lurk ever nearer to realizing our inevitable death in the self-serving cage of our grey matter. Closer to the day when we will have to be called to Carousel, used as biological experiment, recycled as the soylent green to feed a bankrupt world of narcissistic apeish creatures focused on youth and aesthetic. Bereft of any reason for us to continue, the Machine may prematurely decide that it has tired with us and go on to another pastime and we will wither as a species. Sucking our last gasps of fresh air from a bottle we bought online for $95.22. Dreaming of skateboards and playing drums as our deoxygenated blood screams for mercy and our hearts in one final heroic moment go into arrest and the last one of us dreams his last dream.
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Oh Yeah! You forgot to put the second “n” in “unnatural.”
Rev Chad,
Your grasp of the Machine and it’s implications are spot on. It sometimes troubles me to the point of despair. Yesterday, for instance I caught myself huffing the warm, moistened air coming out of the dryer vent. I stumbled into the dining room and fell, striking my head on the table and passing out. I woke up hacking up of lint and small articles of clothing.
But, what can you do?
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The spelling gaff I can live with, I’m more troubled with the redundancy in “overworked cafeteria workers,” and the fact that I’m out of coffee filters.
Vin, thank you for the link. The only thing about the link was the guy kept talking about how the women looked like his wife. I couldn’t tell if he was bragging, or storing fantasy material for later while schtupping her…either way, that part was really fucking weird.
Hermit, you gotta a whacher callit? Mowteef goin’ on up in here, huh? Right on.
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(deep breath)
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The dust motes cut the late afternoon sunshine into buttery slices of hazy light. The cooling fan on Pretty Jeff’s laptop whispered quietly in the stifling heat of the garage, like the voice in Amityville Horror saying (‘get out’). The boys were done rubbing cocoa butter on each other (and a healthy dollop in each asshole for later), and Febreze (his nickname because he kept fabric softener sheets in his underwear, hoping it would cover the smell of semen, shit and blood from his last ‘frolic’). Febreze tweaked his nipples one last time, and he nodded to Pretty to start the music.
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Pretty touched his greasy finger to the side of the tool chest to discharge any static (he loved his computer), and the discharge from the static electricity ignited the fumes rising from the semen and gasoline covered rags in the corner of the garage. The (w)hole caught fire, and in less than thirty seconds (because of all the cocoa butter and other oil), the entire garage was consumed in flames.
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Wait, maybe it was that bomb that Medusa dropped on the garage, since, she was able to locate it by the smell alone.
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Is proud to announce that my Biafrican brotha Barack announced that he has or has influenced the deadedness of the right despicable Osama Bin Laden. I do not joke because Chad showed me the light back when I was chasing a young Cher around my car.
Looks like the leader of the trash people: Ben Rama himself has finally been killed. No sex for Ben Rama now.
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Cocksucker!
this video is living proof that douchebags are a greater threat to humanity than Osama bin Laden.
and ain’t that the truth.
i think they spent the grant money on pizza and beer and just read this site the whole time…
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/2275331/Beware-of-the-narcissist-Plucked-eyebrows-may-reveal-a-personality-disorder.html
This just in….Donald Trump and a new “Deathers” faction in the Tea Bagger party demand to see an authentic death certificate for Bin Laden…
They also demand to see President Obama with a long salt-and-pepper ZZ-Top style beard and a stolen white hotel towel photoshopped onto his head.
I think DB1 should have a special douchebag award for ObL. something like “Violent dickwad from hell whose murderous mouth is a cloaca full of menstrual fluid.” Or something like that.
Indeed. A true Douchebag is dead.
He’s got a lot of static coming off those pants. Maybe his mom should consider switching fabric softeners.
And after the dark dancing,in the garage,they all made male love to one another on top of a sack of dog food.