Friday Thoughts and Links
When Champagne Katie plays poker with low-rent Andy Garciabag, the moon is in the seventh house music, and Jupiter aligns with Bruno Mars, then you will know that Friday Thoughts and Links are here.
Doing some site upgrades this week, including adding a personal rant blog for your humble narrator to vent on things not directly related to hottie/douchey dialectics.
Am otherwise plodding along with my strange Hollywood career, while peep-lusting at the Hollywood Yoga Hotts through giant yoga windows on Venture from betweenst ferns and gullys.
Yoga. Where privileged white people go to perform Zen masquerade for others as a spiritual band-aid covering profound and existential lack.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB DVD Pick of the Week: “When you got an all-out prizefight, you wait until the fight is over, one guy is left standing. And that’s how you know who won. “
Some scrotebaggy writer defends Pretentious Herspter Foodie Douchebaggery. Uses the word “artisanal” many times. Fails.
Samantha Bee and the great Daily Show report on Douche Fever in Wisconsin.
Many items from the pop culture dustbin known as the 1980s have aged into moldy gouda. But Peter Gabriel’s Biko remains as potent, and as brilliant, as ever. One of the greatest songs ever written.
“That’s a clown question, bro.”
The most important academic competition in Europe since Hoyle didn’t share Fowler’s Nobel Prize for Physics in 1983: Best Pear of Holland. Mmm… Nordic, Aryan, Ubermenschen Pear.
An eagle-eyed reader caught this news headline about an Axe Bodyspray Thief. Closeup of the Thief: What you think.
Remember that Asian Hott and Uberdouchey Rocker Shitestain who were famous or something? Yeah, me neither. They broke up.
Skinny Girl Cocktails. Teaching Hot Chicks to “Wooo!” with primal mating call. Which would be good, if not for douchal attraction.
But you are not here for cocktails. You are here for Pear.
1980s Pleather Office Furniture Pear
Pear is tactile. Pear is true.
I wonder if 1980s Pleather Office Furniture Pear is Dutch?
Awesome pear fest. Nice thick blonde pleather pear.
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Herpsterbag chick writer can suck my dirty martini dipped Jesu-sized cock.
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Madison Men funny. Biko solid. London Tipton a single mother. I like that.
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I’m gettin drunk and refinishing furniture and sniffing the fumes. I’ll be doobing it up at Lenny’s annual pool opening stonefest. Buzz on my mateys for summer is nigh. Son. Son. I says. Give us a story DW.
Vaguely Hispanic Johnny Depp and CK make a nice couple. Wasn’t The Tale of the Axe Bodyspray Thief an Anne Rice novel?
Juannie Depp don’t deserved that Argentine cholita.
The best thing about reading pretentious whining foodie douchery is knowing that the writer and those that genuflect towards said writer regularly consume bodily fluids of the wait and kitchen staff.
“Yes. Yes. The ingredients in the special were produced within 50 miles of the restaurant. I guarantee it. Those short curly hairs? Oh, no. That’s not hair. That’s Eastern Indigo farm grass. It’s a specialty of the house. No extra charge.”
The thought of Greta Christina (pretentious foodie) creaming her jeans make me ill after seeing her photo.
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Mmmmm……..1980s Pleather Office Furniture Pear!!!!!
Juannie Depp, FTW. Good to see CK is back in the game. Why she never made the HOH still escapes me to this day. My mind it is a boggled. You show em CK. Get that Used Car commercial, but this time in English. That’ll stick it to the haters.
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Well a Friday is upon us. I’m getting ready to go on a little walkabout myself. Tried to say that to someone out loud but I felt like such a pretentious dickbag I just couldn’t do it. Gonna flyover some states in a plane. Eat some food. Not take a picture of said food and Instagram it. And hopefully use the bathroom when the time arises. If I’m lucky get seated next to an attractive bookish athlete who loves his Mom. Pretty big plans.
@Nancy
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The problem with sitting next to an attractive bookish athlete who loves his Mom is that if he’s had an appetizer he with display projectile vomitus towards you when he sees your big fat ass and cheek boils.
That’s not poker, it’s roulette. The chips are worth 25 cents
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Jive Honkies
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What an attractive young lady in the main pick. Who is she? I suggest induction into the HoH now that the gates are unbarred.
Please oh please oh please don’t let Dreuche be sitting next to me. Or the Rev. or anyone else for that matter.
Wow, I thought the weekly pear couldn’t beat the “best ass of Holland” video. But Pleather Office was showing off championship PToTT. Nice find, DB1.
And describing western yoga as “zen masquerade” is most apt.
@McCrudeshoes, I said attractive and bookish, not rotund and emotional. So that rules out The Rev. I’m thinking you look like a cross between the dumb kid from Growing Pains and Corp. Klinger from MASH so, there’s that.
Pleather Heather for the Week Ass. Said.
@Drueche, I’m not anywhere near as good looking as Jamie Farr. But I do shoot people in the jungle, so we have that in common.
“1980s Pleather Office Furniture Pear” = “Jessie Rogers.” I found that in the upper left corner.
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And look at what else I found…..probably NSFW, but you perverts don’t care, do you?
I pride myself on pushing the NSFW envelope. Chick in a thong preening at a white piano is ~in bounds~
Guess what I’m watching?
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Syfy movie. “Almighty Thor”.
Starring – wait for it – Richard Fuccen GRIECO as an Asgardian demon god. They painted his face all pale and gave him evil looking black leather armor and surrounded him with computer generated evil minions…but his hair is still marinated in L.A. Looks.
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I’m so happy I could cry.
Pleather Pear has a waxy sheen to it that is reminiscent of waxed fruit. So I just waxed it myself.
That is fuccin awesome, Baron. Sounds like Krull meets Conan the Destroyer. Please tell me Micheal Bay is somehow involved.
I agree with Biggs on both counts. Db1’s analysis of pretentious storefront yoga practitioners is spot on and Pleather Office Pear is perhaps the finest derriere to ever grace these pages.
Lämp would be proud.
@The Baron, looks amazing ripe for mock. It’s starring that Greico guy? The same Greico guy that is so amazing and powerful he sucks any hot he meets into a vortex of lame? Yeah, I still don’t see it. I hope the guys over at Rifftrax take care of this one.
And L.A. Looks ref FTW.
KILL THE DOUCHEBAG NOOOOW!!!!
YELLOW BANDANA LOOKS GAAAAAAAY
SHOOOOOT HIIIM IIIIN THEEE FFFFAAAACCCEEE!!!
(does that sound angry? 😉 )
OOPS! Posted for the wrong pic, dammit.
Pear is Jessie Rogers, new Brazilian porn starlet. She recently had her boobs enhanced to match her fantastic ass.
I was a drone throughout the 1980s. I got around some. Even went to Europe once.
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Never saw that furniture.
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Fucked all kinds of chicks like that Pear on the Herman-MIller crap in my office, though.
Jeet Kune makes a fine point, if he were pointed at the other pic.
DH has some Action Jackson in his background, as I read.
“Pleather Pear has a waxy sheen to it that is reminiscent of waxed fruit. So I just waxed it myself.”
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It’s not three miles long, but that there is some vintage Wallnuts genius there. Vintage, I says.
Oofa, what a day. I’ve been on the road and was busy today. But I was thinking about the old days.
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Back in the 60s when I was trying to make some extra Fazools I went on a series of collection runs for a Big Apple Shylock named 52nd Street Irwin. I was shadowed by a guy named Patsy the Wrench, who was there to make sure I gave Irwin the money that I collected from the jamokes who owed him, and didn’t take too much of a taste for myself. That was pretty standard stuff back in the day when guys was collecting the juice for the big timers. Patsy the Wrench used to beat guys with a big friggin’ Monkey Wrench. He’d whack a guy in the mush if they gave the Wrench any guff when he was collecting. Not very creative, but very effective.
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The social and cultural revolution of the 60s wasn’t limited to just pop culture and “normal society,” as mob guys looked to break away from the traditions the Mustache Petes had established way back when the whole thing started. There were a lot of guys in the muscle racket who tried new ways to extract money and information from certaIn people. Guys was whacking guys with sandwiches, pastries, and imported and cured meats. Jilly Pepperoncini used to stuff hot peppers down a guy’s gullet until he complied with whatever the particular request may have been, and Sally Figs (no relation to Ralphie Figs) would tie guys down, strip them and trow dried figs at the ball sack. It got to the point skells was beggin’ to get beat the old way.
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Back when Skinny D’Amato invented the Ass Punch it was a big change from the accepted norms for guys in the muscle racket. It used to be broken knee caps and fingers, smash a guy in the face with a black jack or a sock filled with nickels, maybe a shot or two to the crotch; not much variety and certainly nobody was messin’ with the ass or any other orifices. This guy from the St. Louis crew was known as Angie the Squeeze because he’d grab a guy by the balls and squeeze them til the guy paid-up, fessed-up or his balls popped. A couple of Sinatra’s goons thought they’d give this method a whirl, but they found they just didn’t have the stomach for it. Plus they thought it was kind of Homo. After all, nobody’s really afraid of a guy they think is a Finnoch. Am I right when I say that?
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So anyways, we go on a juice run to collect some of 52nd Street Irwin’s dough. Irwin got his nickname because when he got started taking action he did it from a magazine stand on 52nd Street, and being in this area of the city he took a lot of action from types who worked in Broadway theaters and in some of the nightclubs like The Latin Quarter and the Copacabana. There wasn’t a tough guy in the bunch, just a bunch of pot smoking musicians, waiters and bartenders, and even some of the cocktail waitresses and show girls from the clubs.
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Believe it or not, a bunch of these skirts owed Irwin a bunch of cabbage after taking a beating on college and pro football, and the Knicks. They were easy marks, but a couple of cuties held out and thought they could trade boffs for bucks, which the Wrench and I wanted no part of since it was Irwin’s cash. I wasn’t paying off some dame’s marker for head. I got all the head I needed, na mean? So we got the money.
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There was this one degenerate gambler, his name I forget, who owed Irwin a lotta cheese and gave us the run around. He was a real strunzo, a trumpet player at the Copa. We’d go to his place to collect and his wife said he was at work. We’d hit the Copa and they’d say he wasn’t working that night. By now the Wrench was getting worked up and was ready to go and tune up anyone in the horn section at the Copa. They was rehearsing and the Wrench walks into the middle of the band, grabs the Fluglehorn player by his hair with one hand and takes out his wrench with the other. Everybody knew who the Wrench was in those days and knew that he was oobatz, so as this guy is pissing his pants he spills it that the trumpet player is at Aqueduct watching the ponies. Oobatz, I says.
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By this point the Wrench had become totally unhinged and, as we’re flying down Rockaway Boulevard and getting closer to the track, he was getting more agitated by the minute. We pull in and he don’t even bother to find a spot in the lot, he just leaves his white Coupe de Ville with the landau roof at the curb right in front and storms through the gate and down towards the track. He finds the skell standing along the rail and grabs him by the back of his pants and drags him towards the paddock area. All the guys who worked at the track knew the Wrench, since at one time or another they all had lost money to Irwin, so no one stops him as he drags the guy into a horse stall, yelling at the trumpet player the whole time.
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This guy also starts pissing himself as the Wrench starts waving the wrench around. By the way, getting two guys to piss themselves in the same day is quite a feat, by any standard. But rather than hit the guy, the Wrench grabs the skell by the back of the head and shoves his head up the horse’s ass. Madonna mia! I ain’t never seen anything like that before or since. The guy was shoulders deep in the horse’s rectum with the Wrench’s hand along for the ride. So while this is going on I rifle through the guy’s pockets and he’s got over 5 large on him, which meant Irwin would get his dough with $500 each for me and the Wrench. I says to the Wrench, “Wrench,” I says, “Let’s blow this clam bake, I got the dough.”
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So he works to pull his hand out, but the horse musta clamped up real tight because the skell couldn’t pull his head out of the horse’s ass. Both the horse and the guy lodged in its ass were making terrible sounds, and before we know it, this friggin’ horse rears up and takes off out of the paddock area, jumps a fence and starts running in the fifth race on the day’s card, all with the gambling trumpet player dangling out of its ass. Dangling, I says.
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We see two flatfoots high tailing it towards us and so me and the Wrench scram to the car and get outta there before the heat comes down and we gotta answer a lotta questions we don’t wanna answer. We heard from one of our crew, whose job it was to pay off the jockeys to make sure races finished the way we wanted, that the horse won the race and that the trumpet player who wore the horse’s ass for a hat lived through the race and subsequent extraction. So it was a happy ending for all of us.
Doucheywallnuts is writing the great American novel,meanwhile Rome/America burns.
Is using the word “Bro” autodouche?
DW ftw!
Hey. I’m new to this douche forum but I’d like to know where I can access the douche archive? I submitted a foul douche roundabout 2-4 yrs. ago. I’m suspecting it was in 2010 but could be off. It was a douche with a rocker blond and prince douche with removed shirt and exposed nips with the gaw gut and greasy hair -I’d argue classic and traditional douche. I’m going to remind this individual of his status in douchism -I’m sure he has forgotten.
steve
Chicken fuckin Wallnuts dinner! Grooooooooo!
Listening to mindless Tchaikovsky while reading DW’s brilliant prose is like listening to mindless Tchaikovsky while reading DW’s brilliant prose!
So is listening to any other stupid music, except Bleethe-oven. She deserves a chance and holy shit, I’m stoned.
Wallnuts, are you actually Elmore Leonard? Holy fuck, you write like a veteran…arian <j/k there about the aryan part…it's all I got, I'm stoned off my normal sense of what's correct in this….huh?
Wallnuts FTW!
Fucking funny. Fucking, I says.
D. Wallnuts can sit in the same aisle as me. Preferably a homo seat in between outta respect for the guy.
DW, it actually took longer to reread (=read, on account of my condition last night) your tome this fine morning, and this morning was rendered finer and funnier as a result. Thanks dude!
I’m thinking maybe an animated series, na mean?
Trace Cyrus,,,,societal loss.
Cyrus family,,,,vomit.
@ Douchey Wallnuts
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Greatest bed time story ever. Ever, I says
@The Dude 8:39a, the man who goes to bed sober wakes up in morning feeling the best he’s going to feel all day.
While we’re waiting for a Saturday post, let’s check out Kristina Akra, the Washington Nationals’ sideline reporter
The whole freaking album by Gabriel is awesome.
Kristina Akra^ also has a sister named Katherine. They’re apparently twins.
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I would’ve loved just living next door to them while growing up.
http://bustedcoverage.com/2012/04/17/hottest-sideline-reporter-sisters-in-baseball-history-katherine-kristina-akra-photos/
Happy Fathers Day to you hatters!
The Untouchables is one of the most overated movies of all times. It sucks.