Thursday, January 19, 2012

Callie Gets Caught in the Choadpress Machine

Be careful, Callie! It’s the Choadpress Machine of Douche! You’ll shoot your eye out!

And by eye, I mean self-esteem.

And by shoot, I mean shoot.

# posted by douchebag1
1:24 pm January, 19 Dude McCrudeshoes said...

Lacky Chan and Bruce Willy on the set of Rush Hour 7: The Second Degree Sexual Assaulting.

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That is the least realistic Real Doll I have ever seen. It looks like they let a child do the eyebrows.

1:24 pm January, 19 Wedgie said...

Guys, you can squeeze her all day, but nothing that comes out of her is gonna be called “Extra Virgin”.

1:32 pm January, 19 Et Tu Douche? said...

When did Benicio Del Toro go douche?

1:34 pm January, 19 Et Tu Douche? said...

R.I.P Johnny Otis

http://mojomagazine.tumblr.com/post/16112799745/johnny-otis-r-i-p-johnny-otis-producer

1:36 pm January, 19 Magnum Douche P.I. said...

Benicio Del Toro’s new film, “Choices of Pleasure” the story of an autistic mexican tattoo artist, his prostitute girlfriend and his gay asian houseboy was met with mixed reviews at the Long Beach Film Festival.

1:41 pm January, 19 The Reverend Chad Kroeger said...

That Johnny Otis show is racist.

1:47 pm January, 19 Wedgie said...

That Amos & Andy show is racist. Hey, Rev, did you check out the Bay Area weather forecast yet?

1:50 pm January, 19 Dude McCrudeshoes said...

Lik Ma Junk, the eccentric puppeteer, spent 5 years perfecting his invention, the Sex Marionette. The contraption, which required 3 master puppeteers and a rigger to operate correctly, was plagued by injuries to early adopters. These included a case of urethral varnishing, nutcracker syndrome, polyarboreal dystrophy, Elmer’s lymphomania, and finally a fatal bout of testicular splintercell.

2:03 pm January, 19 Vin Douchal said...

An open letter to the troops, we are losing and need a call to arms:

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Much in the way the rocket has made all countries capable of being warring neighbors or the way television has allowed us to peek in on situations in far away places or the internet has connected the entire world in matters entertainment, technical, industrial and political the world has become a smaller place. A small place. A place with little solace for those that say “Let me be.”

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Constant commercial bombardment, never ending fashion changes, cross breeding of animals and humans and finally self-mutilation have become not an occasional breech of sensibility but the norm.

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We know of the beauty of a child, regardless of parental heritage. Our most beautiful objects of desire retain that simple beauty into adulthood and some attain greatness in our need to witness them from their lofty view overlooking the rest of us in our averageness.

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But the “Average Person” is now unhappy with being so even though representing the vast majority. Take a man with the condition of baldness. To the confident man, it’s just hair. One can let their remaining follicles fly out the sides of their head. They can comb it over the showing scalp, or as in the case of many take a Remington set to “1” or shave it entirely. Does this change the person inside? No. However, the base instincts of those few that get hair restoration think so. It helps their confidence. Good for them. If you can afford it, do it, but you’re still a tool.

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But what of the skinny, non-athletically inclined or doughy oversized man? He can accept it. You work with what you’ve got. Maybe use your brain to satisfy the base needs of the human condition or achieve greatness knowing that heavy lifting is for others. Or a minor and relatively easy option is to build the body to average proportion through diet and exercise. .

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Or…

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He can ingest chemicals that bloat him up into gorilla-like proportions. At some point in the development this man is looking at himself, having reached average or aesthetically pleasing proportions (nice arms, no girth-flat belly) and say “I’m good” and maintain conditioning.

.

But what of the man that sees in the mirror an empty, lonely, empty, worthless, empty canvas? Larger, bigger biceps and shoulders would make him even better, no? Then along with muscular sculpting there is room for art, artwork, statements, attitudes to help convince himself that this man was made to refigure even contort his canvas in an attempt to satisfy the “self”. And in a reality bending, nonsensical way has found that certain members of the opposite sex would find this new look to their liking.

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But I say this is going to happen anyway, attracting the Bleeth. There is someone for everyone. Having a business in the public eye has taught me this. I have skinny/fat, unkempt/clean , intelligent/stoopid couplings for customers. There is no need to change the outer-self if the inner-self is a quality person.

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I also know and see a lot of these contorted, chemically enhanced types and the mentally challenged low esteemed woman that love them. I’m in one of the hotbeds of Douchebaggery, The Inland Empire.

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Here in the I.E. acceptance is gained through attempts at individuality. By making yourself different, abnormal, you have instead joined a group, a group of woefully misguided freaks and misfits that refuse the average. There is nothing wrong with being average. An average student is just that, not the smartest not the dumbest and yet endlessly employable. Average looks can get you far if you are presentable. Average tastes will fuel entire industries ( see: Top 40 Music, Blockbuster Action Movies, ABC Television Comedies, NFL Football viewership, NASCAR, Del Taco, Fashion Runway, Top Chef, MTV, The Bachelor, Olive Garden, Gap Stores, etc, etc)…. While the different tastes of the elite, educated, experienced or experimental will allow other industries to flourish in slightly diminished numbers, flourishing nonetheless.

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…. But what separates the pack? Could an NBA player do what an NHL player is capable of on skates? I don’t think so but an NHL’er could probably hit 80% at the free throw line.

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Can a tatted up , ‘roid infested douche or a bleached hair black dude or hideous, enormously fake tittied Bleeth with horrible ink or a skinny bad attitude nitwit with a Mohawk hairdo or a smarmy pretty boy that looks like he’s in mid-cum swapping while winning Douchebag Of The Year hold our attention for an extended period or get our business as our Dentist/CPA/Insurance Agent/Phlebotomist/Mortgage Broker/Policeman/Teacher or Architect (respect)? No . And just as easily we could become one of them but we don’t. Can they become one of us? Sadly, no, as that shipped sailed once the ill-advised decision to break from the pack was acted upon.

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Why? Because spectacle is just that. Its brief flashes of assault to our rods and cones, quickly forgotten by the next shiny thing or looked away from in disgust. Let them congregate in clubs. Let them change their mortal coils into unspeakable heinous spectacles. They aren’t different, they are group thinkers, believing that this change will place them firmly into non-conformity, once the lofty goal of intellectuals and great thinkers/creators of beauty now whored out by preening never-satisfied pleasure loving thrill seekers with no ambition or desire to move the human condition forward into our next enlightened chapter nor an eye towards the future immediate or distant. Recusant conformists trying to make their choices a part of our involuntary agreement as brethren’s in species. Nope. Not gonna happen on my, nay OUR watch

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The mock must continue, folks. The spectacle must be washed from existence then our memories like war atrocities or bad pozolé flushed out in diarrhetic spurts of relief. Let’s hit them hard, mercilessly, with little regard for their feelings proportional to their little regard for our sensibilities until the war is won. 2012 beckons, pleads to be different. Let’s make it so

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Yours in rage,

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Cockkswain Vindemyer Vava Voom Jizzlode Douchalalabad

(Vin Douchal, Hall Of Mock, Class of 2009)

2:12 pm January, 19 Vin Douchal said...

Read that ^ out loud doing a Walter Cronkite impersonation.

2:29 pm January, 19 Charles Nelson Douchely said...

Laugh if you must, but these three are the happeningest party people Regina, Saskatchewan has to offer.

At least when the Riders aren’t playing. Then they trail behind Gainer.

2:30 pm January, 19 Magnum Douche P.I. said...

Wow Vin, wow is all I can say. My ADD got the best of me and I couldn’t finish reading the whole thing, but from what I did, comment of the week honors for sure.

3:09 pm January, 19 Wedgie said...

I read every fuccen word, Vin. But only ‘cuz it’s from the guy that gave us Barstool Sports.

Epic rant. The University of Fontucky is probably going to ask you to speak to the class of 2012 at their commencement in June.

3:24 pm January, 19 Nancy Dreuche said...

Um, I was told there would be Hitler memes today.

3:29 pm January, 19 Nancy Dreuche said...

@Vin, I was under the impression we were winning.

4:19 pm January, 19 Capt. James T. Douche said...

Puh leez! Look at that chick she’s fried and strung out like a bad perm!! Getting DP’d, DV’d. DA’d, Lombardi slapped and gargling with their testicle mayo is a walk in the park!

5:21 pm January, 19 Stephanie said...

Well,now she can take a crap. None of that colon blow for her.

6:39 pm January, 19 DarkSock said...

Dammit Vin why, why WHY didn’t you put the “read in the vocal stylings of Walter Cronkite” at the beginning?

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Now I gotta reread the whole fucker.

8:56 pm January, 19 Nostradouchus said...

I guess she’s hot in a crackhead prostitute kinda way…

10:43 pm January, 19 Morbo said...

It’s a pivotal scene from the SyFy movie of the week, “Tat tale.”

Through a combination of scientists trying to play God and a horrible lab accident in which Janitor Joey knocked some chemicals off a countertop and was splashed with them (thinking they were an Axe product, he actually rolled around in the puddle on the floor), Joey’s tattoos have become sentient. With Joey’s limited intellect and will to resist, he’s a perfect host.

Now, they need to feed.

Seeking out their prey, they zero in on Callie. Five minutes before this picture was taken, she was pure as a meadow in spring upon which butterflies dance. She only came to the club at the urging of her best friend, Vanessa, who has been trying to get her to find a man for almost two years since her last boyfriend died in a tragic lawnmower accident.

Sensing the desperation and an easy kill, Janitor Joey’s Tats smell Callie like lions catching whiff of an antelope carcass on the Savannah.

They stalk their prey. Sidling up to the bar, the Tats influence Joey to order a Margarita for Callie and a Goose on the Rocks for themselves. For the Tats are thirsty.

After passing up several other potential hot meals, Joey and the Tats catch sight of Callie. It’s easy pickings. They corner her. She screams, and Alejandro comes to her rescue.

He’s a former member of the scrote clan who has seen the error of his ways and is trying to change his life. But it’s hard, man. It’s hard. The Axe commercials are everywhere. Going out to a club without being wooed by the Goose or tempted by bleethy harlots is damn near impossible. Alejandro can’t live in a monastery, bro.

But this is his chance — maybe his only chance — to do something good with his life. He rushes in to save Callie from the deranged Tat’s that have infected Joey.

But Alejandro is too late.

The Tats have already leapt from Joey’s arms to Callie. They’re devouring her wholesomeness like a starving Ethiopian chowing down on a pallet of bread from Feed The Children. They’ve gotten a foothold in her, and she’s falling under their spell. Even if he wrestles Callie away from Joey’s clutches, she’ll be going down on another stranger in the bathroom within the hour. She’s been infected by the deadly Grieco-Bleeth-3 Virus, and there is no cure.

“She didn’t deserve this. No one does,” Alejandro thinks to himself.

So he presses himself into Callies warm and inviting flesh for one last dance with purity.

He smells her hair, which has the lingering scent of sunshine and Prell. He nuzzles her neck and gives it one long lick before moving on. Her innocence will live only in his memory, but it will live long and well. Callie’s sacrifice will not be in vain, he tells himself. She will be avenged.

And as Alejandro loosens his grasp on Callie, the Tats swarm onto her body. Joey gives Alejandro an angry stare, then turns back to Callie and asks, “So … you come here a lot or what? I know the bartender. I can hook you up with some free drinks if you want.”

Callie gives one last look toward Alejandro, then heads toward the bar with Joey. A few minutes later, a rose appears on Callie’s ankle. Less than 30 minutes later a dolphin is visible on the small of her back — the final, telltale sign of total, hopeless infection.

Callie is now completely under the influence of the Tats and Janitor Joey. The Tats will devour her soul whilst she devours Joey’s cock in the front seat of his Mustang convertible. By dawn, the Tats will have discarded Callie’s now-hideous body like the bags of trash behind the bar where she and Joey had one last go-round at last call.

Neither the Tats nor Joey will call again. They’ll move on to the next victim in a day or two. Callie, meanwhile, is left with shame, regret, and the scars of a chance encounter with an evil fate.

And what of Alejandro?

Saddened, he slips back into the darkness of the club. His chance at redemption gone, he ponders his purpose in life. He should leave this evil place, he tells himself. He will not find what he’s looking for here.

He looks at his watch. Only 11:30? Damn, it’s too early to leave. He’s not going to church tomorrow, bro.

So Alejandro scans the bar, the thumping club music drowning out his deepest thoughts. A few moments later, he sees what he’s been looking for all along.

Callie’s friend Vanessa.

And holy mother of fucking god, is she hot. Looks loose, too. Those tits have GOT to be 36Cs, minimum, and … lordy, they’re about to pop out of that dress. Time to move, bro.

As he heads toward the bar for a Goose and a Margarita for the lady, Alejandro curses his inability to turn from the ways of the Douche. Little does he know, it’s hardly his fault. For under his watch, the one that now says 11:35 — time’s wasting to hook up with the hotty, yo — a single drop of tattoo ink has spilt onto his wrist.

The Tats, sensing someone that’s more familiar with the Douche Side and even more invincible than Joey, has found its perfect host. Alejandro orders the drinks and makes a beeline for Vanessa. He spies a rose tattoo just above her left breast as he moves in.

In one voice, Alejandro and the Tats proclaim they have found their new queen.

As the credits roll, the audience shudders and realizes the world will never be the same.

8:07 am January, 20 I R A Darth Aggie said...

I think her self-estime fled long ago…

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