Thursday, April 12, 2012

An Entire World of Flush

The douchal signifiers of this stenchy Jackalope and Bleethy Hott Nichole smell like Calcutta in August.

I’m talking flies, rotting dog, and a discarded mound of backwash restaurant trash.

Even the enhanced Cleavite on Bleethy Hott Nichole is not enough to soothe my troubled psyche as it faces a Camus novel worth of taint.

# posted by douchebag1
12:10 pm April, 12 Doucheywallnuts said...

I love re-posted photos. And by that I means I would love to ejaculate on her bodice. Bodice, I says.

12:14 pm April, 12 DarkSock said...

Its deja vu all over again…

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Indeed, DW; I would like to make her penciled on eyebrows get all Alice-Cooper runny with my pulsing yogurt pencil.

.

.

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what?

12:14 pm April, 12 DarkSock said...

And it’s not a repost…with some of these turds you just gotta flush twice sometimes.

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Twice, I says. Twice.

12:14 pm April, 12 DarkSock said...

Son.

12:19 pm April, 12 Leon Brothabag said...

Repeat photo? From the same month — WTF?

12:23 pm April, 12 Anonymous said...

I think she’s gotten cuter. But she still lacks hips.

12:34 pm April, 12 YA said...

This looks familiar.

12:39 pm April, 12 Mr. Scrotato Head said...

Her arm is so thin she plucks each eyebrow hair by the root.

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P’fft. Like we’d all forget her DarkSock pipecleaner appendage.

12:40 pm April, 12 Mr. Scrotato Head said...

Her arm is so thin her bracelet is a chain link.

12:41 pm April, 12 Mr. Scrotato Head said...

Her arm is so thin she wears a condom to clean her toilet.

12:44 pm April, 12 Et Tu Douche? said...

I didn’t notice this the first time it was posted but looks like to me she sporting a DIO wristband. I kinda gots some respect for Ronnie James although he’s no Ozzy but then again who is?

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Rainbows in the dark.

12:47 pm April, 12 Nancy Dreuche said...

Now I know this is the same photo from awhile back. That’s a good sign. It means there’s less hott and douche comingling goin on. Also I think this is the same chick from the pic below. Which is also good news, because you get to see this bleeth twice and with a different poor choice in each pic. Anyway, maybe the work we’re doing here is actually making a difference. I consider myself to be sort of the Pollyanna of this site. You know, always hoping for the best. Great repeat pic DB1. This solidifies you as being back on your game as the leader in all things douchey. Looking forward to seeing some pics we already saw. How bout some old Donkey Douche? That way we can be all like, “You in jail now. Even though this pic is hella dated, that still doesn’t change the fact that you in jail now.” You know, stuff like that. You might as well just rerun your archives and have an intern type your stuff. I don’t think anyone would notice as long as there was plenty of T and A, na mean.

12:49 pm April, 12 Nancy Dreuche said...

Sorry to crush your bleethy dreams Et Tu, but the Dio prolly has an r at the end as in Dior. A favorite designer of many douche and bleeth.

12:54 pm April, 12 Nancy Dreuche said...

And hey, what happened to our sponsor BroGame Sports? I’m actually interested now that its baseball season. I’ve already showered with my fantasy team so we are good to go.

1:10 pm April, 12 fatness said...

Bleethy Hott Nichole has anti-gravity chest puppies. Those things are actually hanging up

1:20 pm April, 12 Capt. James T. Douche said...

Her face looks like it’s permanently frozen in that expression.

1:24 pm April, 12 Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche said...

Just to repeat my earlier post: I STILL says her roots are darker than his.

1:32 pm April, 12 The Reverend Chad Kroeger said...

Her tits haven’t moved

Since the gyroscope was put

In her Monkey Hole.

1:34 pm April, 12 The Reverend Chad Kroeger said...

The left side of the ear wax exhibition was placed dangerously close to the flood light.

1:42 pm April, 12 The Dude said...

I’m still working on getting a boner for Tits on a Stick. I close my eyes and think about the cute girls at Hot Dog on a Stick by the Santa Monica pier.

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Hot Dog in a Stick. mmm

1:44 pm April, 12 JeanClaudeVanDouche said...

When mid-life crisis douches and bleeths venture forth to display their own particular brand of peacockery, often they leave a trail of tears, vomit, and diarrhea in their wake. It is not only due to their moronic attire and general materialistic fakeness, but it is most possibly due to the fact that they are parading for the new Yankees official parfum…yep…they must be promoting this, it’s the only explanation:

http://hardballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/02/06/the-yankees-are-introducing-an-official-fragrance/

yep…the 2012 douchepocalypse is uponst us.

1:45 pm April, 12 Southern Scrotic said...

Been there, done that.

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http://hotchickswithdouchebags.com/2012/04/wrong-drink-roofied-rufus/

1:53 pm April, 12 Vin Douchal said...

His vest states, “Assistant Manager” above the “M” logo for “Manuel’s Lawnscapers” .

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She does not appear to eat. At some point when she needs sustenance, my own personal protein would serve her well if I could keep from splashing it on her silicon stretchies

2:04 pm April, 12 Capt. James T. Douche said...

Her face might permanently be frozen in that expression but it is an expression that says I am fond of adventure and excitement… and by that I mean butthole pleasures and taking yogurt ropes to the chesticles.

2:17 pm April, 12 Et Tu Douche? said...

@Vin

What I think you meant to say was your own personal Brotein, I could be wrong.

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Real Hockey starts tonight!!!!, 3 original sixers in the playoffs and I can’t wait to wins me some loonies from The right honorable Rev Chad.

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GO BRUINS!!!!!!!!!!!

2:24 pm April, 12 Wheezer said...

I knew something from my birthday gave me dry heaves. The aftertaste is no less pungent and bilious.

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And by that, I meant the sleeveless and clueless hermanoheim. Nichole is still underfed, but she has decent boobies.

4:02 pm April, 12 g said...

plastic fantastic lobster telephone

4:34 pm April, 12 Choad the Douche Sprocket said...

Her arm is so thin….Karl Lagerfeld designed a dress for it.

6:45 pm April, 12 Morbo said...

Man, Wilmer Valderrama isn’t doing so well since MTV declined to pick up “Yo Mama” for a second season.

8:31 pm April, 12 The Right Honorable Member for, The Very Reverend Mother Her Duchal Serene Highness, Dr, Hortense Sussudio Fuckerfaster said said...

he is a point shy from a douchey award, and by point i mean, he has all the other key signifiers, why scrimp on the westside, the point, the shocker, something….

its been quoted in these tomes before, but it ought to be quoted more often, when i kiss her lips i taste what other men had for lunch”

kinnisons.

8:35 pm April, 12 DarkSock said...

Brotein?

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10 points to Gryffindor!

11:36 pm April, 12 Jacques Doucheteau said...

That bitch reminds me of the last time I went to a strip club in Springfield, OR. If y’all haven’t had the pleasure, I’d recommend swinging through that tumor on the ass of Eugene of a town. It’s entirely populated by meth heads and University of Oregon students who can’t afford to pay the rent to live closer to campus in Eugene. It’s as though Metallica played a concert in a field back in the mid eighties, and everyone left behind in their drug addled and hungover state the next morning was like, “whoa, Metallica’s gone man. Well what do we do now?”

..

“I know, let’s build a town right here, with lots of cheap apartment housing, piss colored street lamps, and a strip club on every block downtown. We’ll call it…I don’t know, Springfield, or something.”

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Anyway, this particular strip club – Phil’s Clubhouse was the name, whoever Phil was – was recommended by a friend of mine who lived in the area and said he knew the DJ. Well, I made the mistake of actually visiting this windowless establishment downtown, tucked between a taco shop and a used car dealership. The place stank of cigarettes, beer sweat, yeast, and that perplexing odor similar to sour milk that you first experienced as a child when spending the night at one of your poor friends place in the trailer park where for dinner you had frozen peas, a slab of dried out pork chop, and a slice of white bread. Though even upon entering a room with that smell and the scattered crowd of inebreated sanitation workers cocking their heads to getter a better view up some girl’s cooch, the smokey haze of the room with overuse of black lighting and the thumping away of Ester Dean “Drop it Low”, was oddly comforting. That, and I’m a depraved old bastard who often enjoys immersing myself in the filthier aspects of human endeavor, so I decided to stay.

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Gotta say though, the bitches were U-GLY. Those that weren’t bony and anemic covered with meth acne, had no abdominal structure left whatsoever after their umpteenth pregnancy and subsequent late term abortion. One girl had a stomach that resembled a soufflé that collapsed in on itself after being prodded too much while still in the oven…which, is actually how her stomach probably got that way ironically enough. I spent the whole time at the bar (or at least, they called it a bar).

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After a while the “hottest” girl there, who looked much like scrawny blonde ho in photo above, approached me and offered a “sample”. I’ve been to a lot of clubs all over this fine nation, but I’d never heard of this. I later learned that in Oregon they refer to this as taxi service. I asked, pensively, “how much?” “However much you want, hon, but usually it’s a dollar for a quickie.” A dollar? Hell, might as well give her double that and see what happens. She proceeded to grind her scantily clad, bony ass into my groin like she had the worst ass itch imaginable and my pants were made of sandpaper. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, and her mostly unappealing skin and bones structure – maybe it was the seventh glass of Bud Light, which is all they had on tap other than PBR – but I detected a definite redirection of blood flow in a certain appendage we shan’t mention at this juncture. Strippers must have a sixth sense for such moments of distracted states, cuz she honed in on mine and heavily whispered in my ear, “wanna have some fun, privately?” I hesitated, which she picked up on and immediately followed with “you’re really cute, so we can go $10 a song.” Then she giggled “just don’t tell the owner”.

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Normally I have a strong constitution in such matters and can see right through bullshit lines like that. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, and have had my fair experience with strippers, on and off the job; so normally I’d just respond with a gentlemanly “thank you no, maybe some other time.” But for some reason my naivety was on par with a college turd being dragged to the strip club closest to campus by friends for his 21st birthday. I agreed to be led back to the VIP room, my wallet filled with $1 bills in tow.

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Now I’ve had a few private dances from a few ladies in the entertainment industry before, in varying states. First off let me start off by mentioning that in Oregon the law is only a little more conservative that Nevada, in that total nudity is fine, though touching of uncovered breasts and mid-region are discouraged, which isn’t to say it doesn’t happen all the time. But Oregon girls are cheaper than Nevada girls, so if any of y’all happen to pass through our fine city of Portland, do take the time to stop by a couple of the fine gentleman clubs we have to offer. But never has a girl gone straight to the dirty this fast. They usually work up to it, snaking their body around in front of you while discarding undergarments one by one, before finally rubbing all over you (package excluded). Before my ass settled in that worn out sofa with no legs, she was down to only the stripper pumps and straddling me with those itty bitty titties jammed in my face, and the we weren’t even through the intro of the first song, which was something off of David Bowie’s “Low”, adding a surreal edge to the moment. Then I got a dry humping the likes of which I haven’t experienced since high school. It was an aggressive, momentous dry humping, and all I could do was sit there and get harder. When the song ended, she didn’t stop. Just paused and said “one more song?”

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“If you keep grinding away like a bitch in heat like that then sure, I’ll spot you a Jackson for that” I responded. Foolish me. She continued to slide her shaven mound up and down my clothed, though now fully hardened meat grinder. Then she shoved a teat in front of my mouth and said “bite it”. I opened my craw, but hesitated. “Bite it!” she insisted. I chomped down, rolling her pierced nip back and forth between my teeth, eliciting an unrehearsed moan from her thin lips. I peered around the room, half expecting to see a bouncer rise from a bench in the corner to walk over and lift me up by my arm and chuck me out the door, but the room was empty. We were completely alone.

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I didn’t know where this was going, and I really didn’t care to think about it, until she unbuttoned and began unzipping my pants. It almost happened too quick for me to do anything about – and do be honest, I wasn’t in much of a resiting mood – but she had her hand down my boxers, wrapped around my John Thomas, and started jacking away right there in the VIP lounge. She was good at giving an old fashioned, almost TOO good. Without thinking, I put a hand on her ass. Then I remembered the holy “no touching” rule that I had up until that point always respected, but she didn’t stop. Her hand motions up and down my swollen ham fister quickened and became more deliberate. Obviously feeling adventurous, I starting rubbing that boney ass in a circular fashion, which each revolution spiraling closer to betwixt her legs. Seeing as how all my preconceived notions of boundaries and stripper etiquette have been blown away, I may as well test where they really are. They were apparently a lot farther then I had even dreamt of, for soon I had the tip of my middle finger on the edge of the abyss. How far can I really go with this bitch? She promptly answered that question by rotating her hips into my hand and spreading her legs a little wider.

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Well, as long as she’s got her hand all up in my genitalia, I may as well be courteous and return the favor by sticking my middle finger in her twat. It was loose and sloppy. I don’t know if she was really that exited, that sort of girl, or if that was the coagulated jizz of a thousand patrons before me. But, I may as well finish the job as she seemed intent on doing as well. It wasn’t long before she evoked spitting gobs of prostate goo on my stomach, at which point I removed my sopping wet finger (hand by this point) from her clammy snatch. She procured out a paper towel, from I don’t know where, and cleaned up the mess on my stomach, even having the courtesy to zip and rebutton my pants for me. How sweet.

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I don’t know if was the post-orgasmic guilt, or my faltering blood alcohol level, but a strange clarity set in and I suddenly felt unnervingly dirty. I also realized we had been at it for four songs. Shit, forty bucks. I hadn’t planned on spending that much, but at least I had it, making me feel even more guilty. Without saying anything I fumbled for my wallet and handed her a twenty and a fist full of ones. She looked at it, then looked at me and with her face suddenly sullen snapped at me “that’s a hundred and fifty, hon”. What? I appreciate the special treatment and all, but what kind of rube does she take me for? Did she think I expelled my ability to add along with my seed? “That was four songs, and you said $10 per song” I replied. “I have another ten I can give you as a tip if you insist, but that’s all I have.” Without saying anything she looked over at the entryway to the room, and there was a very sketchy looking man standing there. At her glance, he walked over and asked her, while staring me down “Is there a problem here?” This guy wasn’t a bouncer. I remember seeing this guy sitting at the bar a few seats down from me earlier. He was having an argument with another one of the girls at the time, I assumed he was regular patron or boyfriend. WTF?

.

“This guy owes me $150 and won’t pay up” she exclaimed with her hands on her still unclothed hips. He looked at me with a straight face and asked rhetorically “Is that right?”. Shit, he wasn’t a bouncer, a patron, or a boyfriend at all. I’ve been had. I need to pay up, and fast. “Look,” I said apologetically, “I only have fifty, but I can get the rest from the ATM”. They both followed me to the ATM, conveniently located next to the video poker machines, and stood right behind me as I ran my card. This guy might beat me down the moment I enter my PIN and just empty my accounts for all I know, but what choice do I have? What recourse do I have? Complain to the club owner? The cops? I was a fucking John, they would have no sympathy for a scum bucket like me.

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It was only the second time I used a strip club ATM, and those of you that have made that mistake before know why. $5 transaction fee? Getting robbed while I’m getting robbed, great. Fortunately the pimp and his bitch let me finish my transaction, hand over another five twenties, and be on my way. My bank account, kneecaps, but not my dignity, in tact. After that experience, I’ve never spent any time at a gentleman’s club without carefully eying each and everyone of the supposed patrons suspiciously, and every girl that works there with a hint of contempt.

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Fucking thieving Springfield whore. That’s definitely who this bitch reminds me off.

11:36 pm April, 12 Jacques Doucheteau said...

Wait a second…

11:47 pm April, 12 Douchble Helix said...

Great story, JD!!

.

Maybe if things get slow around here, we can all post a “Letter To Penthouse Forum” here, except the stories might be true.

5:04 am April, 13 Nostradouchus said...

Been there, mocked that.

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