Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Between a Schmuck and a Soft Place (Hermit Edition)

Resident auteur supreme Hermit shares with us this cautionary tale:

When Chaturi left her native Sri Lanka for the United States on a ninety day student visa, she dared not reveal to her strictly traditional parents that she hoped to meet a nice American boy. She now finds herself flanked by Bruce, who oddly shows no interest in her perky, push-up booble cleavage, and Vince who does, but smells of Aqua Velva and false confidence.

She’s quickly becoming homesick.

The Smirking Rooster

What do The Smirking Rooster and Scarlet O’Hair have in common, besides an affinity for Lady Clairol “Paint The Town Red #044”?

Why, they both love exotic pet birds of course!

She’d like a cockatiel, and he’d like a cockatoo.

Sorry.

Friday Haiku

Dialing in the sounds,
Jen’s pale human boombox has
Rectal subwoofer.

Ahab’s grandaughter,
Pinches nipple of White Whale,
Moby’s Dick gets hard.

– Hermit

We have brotha-bags
Hipster-bags, All kinds of bags
Is this Farmer-bag?

– Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifeit

Chazz Bono’s pool time
Causes others to throw up
“Pool Closed- Ten Minutes”

– Vin Douchal

Albino walrus,
Lets loose with a mighty roar,
Where is my seal club?

– Rockabilly Johnny and the Electric Foreskin Benders

Check out this jukebox
you twist his nipple to play
but it’s all Great White.

– Medusa Oblongata

HCwDB After Hours: Floral Pear

Enjoy the visual bouquet set before you.

I hope you like daisies; due to this being a family-oriented site I was unable to show you her tulips.

sorry…

EDIT: From my walkabout, your humble narrator checks in, but alas I must replace ‘Sock’s pic with a slightly more work friendly Pear for those hunters reading at work. For those seeking the original Floral Pear, Pear Away. My sherpa is angry with me. I must repent by self-flaggelating with yak hooves and bamboo….

Jame’s Affliction

What is Jame’s Affliction?

Apparently it has something to do with navel pus weepage (look closely…)

What is Jane’s Affliction?

Well, Jane, you have 80-year-old-man belt height positioning syndrome.  Which can be easily cured by disrobing in the presence of a licensed Baghunter (and/or huntress) and having Skippy’s peanut butter ritually rubbed into your bare skin with a vigorous circular motion hitherto unknown to the people of this area, but destined to take the place of the mudshark in your mythology.

A Scrotal Wrinkle in Time: A White Paper By Jacques Doucheteau

HCwDB Comments Thread Regular (and overall deeply disturbed person) Jacques Doucheteau delivers a scientific dissection concerning the Unbearable Slightness of Douching. Take it away, Jacques:

The laws of causality dictate, as Hume defined, that “cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time”, and that “there must be a constant union betwixt the cause and effect.”  This particular scrote ridden scene as subject of our exploration of causality as a product of existential determinism can best be explained by using the Einstein-Minkowski light cone in special relativity as a model.

The frame of reference within the picture is a snapshot in time.  A single event of pudwankery as viewed by the casual observer much akin to a flash of light on the three-dimensional plane of present spacetime.  Just as a flash of light spreads out through space over the course of time, best imagined as a four-dimensional cone spreading out into the future from the singularity of the event in the present, past occurrences contract in radius until it converges to a point at the exact position and time of the event.

What past events led to the exact circumstances, or cause and effect, of this captured flash of douchey light; and what does the hyperbolic partial differential of its effect have on future events?

For instance, A vast array of materials and actions stemming from the organization of hydrogen atoms over billions of years into base elements and indeed the organic matter and ingenuity that labored to create the complex electronics of the twice used DJ mixer.  Following the event is it’s opposing future of being traded for an X-box, years of sitting in a pawn shop, and eventually being broken down into scrap metal to be re-manufactured into countless iPhones’ circuitry.

Just our viewing of the image, and the rage we experience seeing yet another pair of shoulder nuzzle cuties forever sullied, alters the causal relationship of events within and indeed expands the sphere of this specific event’s influences.

One can’t help but contemplate the complicated history of the mini grow room venting into the neighbor’s back yard, and even the recently empty drink perched upon it, and their equally complex futurity of floating mold and narc unit raids.  Mandana Dave’s strep infested Long Island Iced Tea and tongue.  Mandi’s heroin arms and unnaturally contorted neck.  The malnutrition forcing Kristi to frantically suck the nutrients from Mandana Dave’s infected ingrown hair.

The mind boggles.

– Jacques

Caption This

“Tonya would be forever grateful to her cousins for the donations of their entire livers and kidneys. However, Vin and Joey were beginning to feel a little jaundiced about the whole affair.”

^Okay, Baghunters; I didn’t exactly set the bar too high. Bring it, guys…

HCwDB of the Week

Ladies, gentlemen and HCwDB regulars – it’s official. The unholy pairing of the US Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team and Grecian Greta get The Nod.

Medusa Oblongata rails:

“The tattoos are what drive my selection. Double-outline star tatt on the neck. You’ve made the decision to have an un-hideable tattoo. And you chose to broadcast to the world that you wanted the most unoriginal, least interesting and biggest pain-in-the ass-to-do, especially on the neck, tattoo. Congratulations. You have won the Fail Lottery…Let me add that Grecian Greta got a great boob job, especially considering how thin she is. Grets, gain 5 pounds and no one will have a clue that you weren’t born with those, trust me on this. And call me. I got those nipple vibrators we were talking about.”

Country Molestern and his Reverse Cowgirls prance their Boot-Scootin’ Boobies into a distant second place.  Crusty curmudgeon Hermit, in spite of his vote, states:

“The closest this cowpoke ever came to ridin’ the range was when he “got a long little dogie” while watching Brokeback Mountain.”

Toolio Twice and Siam Suki take bronze, both in this context and on their epidermis (epidermii?).  Sergeant Scrote Stain opines:

“I cast my vote for Toolio Twice because I’m positive that he has a to-scale picture of “Criss-Cross” shaved into his pubes… Normally, I’d be more inclined to support a man wearing a jean jacket, but this pud-stump has disgraced even the most earnest of sleeveless jackets, the denim vest.  “Faux Earnesty”?  What has this douchey world come to? If it weren’t for the calming nature of Siam’s plumped pillows, I’d have beaten a defenseless hobo to death with my bare hands for inspiring Toolio’s stupid wardrobe.”  <–Watch yourself, Hermit.  Stay safe, Brah.

Taking it on the chin with a distant fourth place finish is Larry the Lavender Love Lizard and his wolf-jawed vixens.  Veteran mocker from down under, Tall Guy, admits that while he’d throw another chin on the Barbies:

“…Larry’s hair coupled with his blank expression push him over the line. Which in time will probably be the unemployment line.”

The US Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team may have climbed atop the podium for this event (and by “podium” I mean “one another”) but can they propel the luge of douchocity long, fast and hard enough down the icy tunnel o’ shame, fueled by longing for the sinewy curvatures of Greta, into victory for the Monthly?

Tune in next week; same poo time, same poo channel.

And, by the way:  It was a gas bringing back for a limited time only the voted (and drunkenly tallied) weeklies, but it is TRULY an ass-load of work to do the write-up, count votes, and post the winner.  Only a few of us here (Me, Boss, Country Molestern) know first-hand the clenching pain of an assload.

So I did it, and had fun with it, but let’s face it: I only had to keep it up as long as Anna Nicole Smith’s groom.

So please curb the wailing and gnashing of teeth when The Boss returns from Walkabout and resumes hand-picking the weeklies.  The man is a professional.  Think of it as our own little electoral college.  Son.

HCwDB After Hours: “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Buttered” Pear

For some reason I’m suddenly craving buttered hot cross buns…

Peter Pumpin’Head and Mary Mammageddon

Exaggerated ex·ag·ger·at·ed (v) 1. Enlarged or altered beyond normal or due proportions.

Ludicrous lu·di·crous  (adj) 1.  Amusing or laughable through obvious absurdity, incongruity or exaggeration.

Grotesque gro·tesque (n) 1.  A very ugly or comically distorted figure, creature, or image.

Wow. Just Wow.

So…I remember the time as Wee Sock in 1978 in the outskirts of Town when Momma took me to the “California Concept” barber shop.  It was a classic late-70’s “butt-cut” hair-do factory (think Bruce Jenner, or Jackson Browne) and I was there to get a “big boy” haircut.

As I sat in the chair I faced the mirror in front of me, which reflected the wall mirror on the cutting station opposite me, I realized that I could see myself stretching on into an infinite reflection between the two grease-sheened surfaces.

I ponder if that’s what’s going on here.  Peter Pumpin’Head and Mary Mammageddon: two textbook narcissists, staring into one another, not seeing the other but rather themselves refracted off of the slick glossy sheen of their own ego; their strutting ids run amok, flexing in the funhouse mirrors of each other’s thin magazine-glossy souls.

Peter Pumpin’Head does not see Mary”; nay.   Rather he envisions himself strutting into the night club with this uber-candy on his swole-assed arm; all heads turn to look…at Him.   Egoasm!

Same for her; bounce into the club with heels high and blouse straining, all heads turning, aaand cue the silicone dome theme song:

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,
And they’re like –
“It’s better than yours,
Damn right it’s better than yours…”

Ah, but yes.

If you will excuse me now, I must go stick my head into an oven.

A toaster oven.

Do what it is that you do, my comrades.  Existentially dissect these specimens for answers.  And by “answers” I mean “giggles”.