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Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Carlos Grabs Some Sun Pear
Unlit cigarette doucheface in presence of bobble fondle spackle jump glute chew-toy schnoodle humpy hump is just no way to wake up in New York on a Wednesday.
Yup, your humb narrs is back in Gotham. Alcohol will be imbibed. East Village hotties will be stalked. Luke’s Lobster lobster rolls will be consumed.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012Porn Stars Attempt HCwDB Comedy with "Hollywood Douchebag"
As Ron Jeremy once said upon scratching his hirsute nethers, “Oy.”
I look forward to my residuals being paid in “Late to the Party” tokens. Either that, or massive daddy issues, a drinking problem, and clinging to the fading hope of vague promises of an audition for a hosting job with “E” that a sleazy dude who claimed to be a producer made one night at El Compadre.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012Reader Mail: Douchey Wallnuts Reports From The Front
The Legend that is D.W. files this report from the Front:
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DB1,
I have returned from a two-week sojourn to the Cradle of Douchilization, The Douche Motherland, the crossing of the Doucheris and the Bleethphrates rivers known as Douchopotamia; The Jersey Shore – Seaside Park.
There is but only one assessment that can be made. Society. Is. Losing. And at a rapid pace. The Rapid Decay Theory that is used to explain the decay of the planets’ magnetic fields can be applied to our society. What we get – have – is a situation where Societal Loss is occurring at an exponential rate and the end will not be pretty.
The classic douche of the past has been replaced by the freak douche – tattoos, multi-colored Mohawks, those big pierced ears things, a lack of hygiene.
The douche from the old days would be a welcomed site at this point in our devolution. He would represent a quantum leap forward from the new status quo. The few old bags that remain are not enough to stem the tide. We have lost.
Paradoxically, bleeths are in abundance. Certainly, there are freak bleeths, but they are still the distinct minority, and what we see are freak douches paired up with classic bleeths. As Mr. Spock might say, “Fascinating.”
Thank goodness for the trashy bleeths. Track suits. Poofed hair. Over-make-up. Mini-shorts. Tight skirts. Check, check, check, check, and check. But what are we to make of the divergent paths of doucheal evolution taken by the sexes? I don’t know, and I don’t care. As long as there are taut suckle thigh pooch bellys wearing skin tight, mini-clothing and super high heels I will be happy.
And by happy I mean I will have a boner. A boner, I says.
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Tuesday, July 24, 2012Translating Trent's Sumerian Pec-Tatt
“Ye who followeth the fake boobeth into the pit of dispair, will know the true meaning of little jumpy buggies hopping amongst the hairs of one’s shlongmobile.”
The Sumerians knew about shlongmobiles.
Monday, July 23, 2012Vinny Farfula Searches For His Car Keys
That’s nothing, you should see where Petey Bagotone keeps his snausages.
Monday, July 23, 2012Three People Who Like Bananas
And by bananas, I mean a euphemism for Matlock.
Monday, July 23, 2012Kissius Vomitorious Approves of the HCwDB of the Week
Ever notice this greased up party clown is always photographed in the exact same position?
At what point is this preening douchewank no longer considered a viable human, and is instead simply the sketchings of a limited graphic artist?
Props to the erotical facial moan of Mona for hott counterbalance. Her pouty lips push past the disaster of her clothes-strewn, utility bill unpaid, cheap third-floor-walkup rental on the south side of Pico and Robertson (her roommates want to kill her).
For tonight, at least, her pouty lips are transcendent pooch spankle.
Monday, July 23, 2012HCwDB of the Week: The Chainer of Fools and Pouty Cass
First of all, props to the peartastic peartastitude of the great DarkSock for running a great HCwDB last week. I monitored as best I could during the pre-trials of my llama molestation case. Luckily, I was freed on a technicality when it turned out the llama was actually an alpaca, sending the whole case to kangaroo court.
Yup. No idea what I’m saying.
But I tip the cup of ‘Train to Sock for a great week of mock.
And while we’re about a month behind on doing a Monthly, what the hell. Here’s another Weekly winner.
The toxic rot of chainbaggery paired with Pouty Cass’s sexy lickable pooch fondle, was simply too much, besting Dimitri and Yakov’s Ukranian Brides, the pukey richasseryo of the Hamptonsbags, the flat-top brothabaggery of Kid ‘n Poo, and the groinal patricide of the Hot Taco.
A damn fine week of culture shredding mock. And the DB1 for oatmeal with raisins.
Sunday, July 22, 2012Sunday HCwDB Movie: The Legend of Trogdor, the Burninator
Hide your thatched roof cottages…the Trogdor comes in the NIIIIIIGHT!!!!
Also, these important updates:
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Spikey and the Bath Salt Shaker Commend the Reader Comment o' the week
Spikey pauses from playing his Strumpet in the club only long enough to say “Yo, nice work, Bag Hunters…it’s a 3-way!”. Then back to publicly grinding the societal loss into our collective souls.
First up: Hermit, surveying the raft of 1%-er douchocity evinced in Wednesday’s “Yo, It’s Hard Up In These Hamptons”, opines:
“If one looks beyond the trappings of materialism, the designer sunglasses and fashionable clothes, he can read in the faces of these youngsters the pain lost love and broken homes. And, if he looks further, a set of low-slung milk jugs suspended by a pair of leopard skin tit hammocks.”
Then we have rat packer DoucheyWallnuts, regarding “John Largeman Jr’s Poor Life Choices”; D.W. says:
“I beg to differ. Given Largeman’s ample deficits, I think in this case he’s chosen wisely. These three would be beyond his pay grade to masterbate to, so to actually be in contact with them is on a par with the Ethiopians getting to Mars before we do.”
Mars, he says.
Finally there is Vin Douchal, riffing on “Kid n’ Poo”. V.D. simply utters “LL Stool J”…
It is this generation’s “Rosebud”.
That’s a wrap on another week of the collective mock…we’ll close out with a rare visit from Hall of Pear Queen Supreme AssPear LaPlante...Book ’em, Dano.
