Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Joey Takes Umbrage

Joey does not appreciate dead baby jokes.

Connecticut Sue Makes a Poor Life Choice

She blames the four strawberry daiquiris that Todd bought her by the cabana during happy hour.

Later, happy hour will turn into not so happy hour. And by not so happy hour, I mean thigh rash.

JaMon is Not a Douche

Some dudes, many of them brothas, can pull off a look that no white man can achieve. This is the immutable nature of coolness, and has been since Cab Calloway first donned a zoot suit.

Even with ‘bag hand gesture #26 and chest reveal, I’m willing to go notta. Why? Because JaMon’s fro crosses over into Jewfro territory, and for that, I feel a kinship. He’s verging on violation of the brothabag leniency, first enacted as penance for the appropriation of black subculture by white suburban tools since the mid 1980s. But he has not crossed over.

Seductive Spanish Paprika Hott Pilar makes my nethers cha cha to gringified salsa. She is the spicey chiquita of life, and I bow to her ancestral thigh rub.

Where's Sleazy Gun Tatt?

Somewhere in this pic of murky boatbaggery and aging Blu Blockers ™ I’ve carefully hidden a sleazy gun tatt.

Look closely.

Can you avoid bacterial lake water infection long enough to find it?

Bartleby the Scribbler

As Melville once wrote: “And lo, the hunt for white boobies take man to the deepest darkest plunges of self-immolation ‘neath the quivering waterlands. Only that ‘ere betwixt the globular moons of Vegas sunset will one find peace.”

Jack the Lipper

There are many schools of flush that circle the toilet bowl of life.

Jack the Lipper is one of them.

A steaming brown turdlike substance that smells vaguely of wheatgrass and trust fund.

A shmorgasboard of faux “Rock star” impersonative taint.

I write this not as poetry. But as mock. For Pouty Michaela’s Mayan Eye of Coitus suggests the girl you did drunken shooters with at the oyster bar near the sandy cove during junior year spring break. And for that, I wistfully honor her memory by rubbing up on a tree stump and humming the theme to Kojak.

That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas Approves of the HCwDB of the Week

We know That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas approves, because That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas fist-pointed.

Tri-Tip Kelly giggles mellifluously and orders another Bud Light.

HCwDB of the Week: Methholio and Rachel

Last week had Creepy Photobomb, and the wonderful future thigh rub Eurohott that was Inga. There was even Ed Hardouche and the Twins, which could easily be the Weekly HCwDB winner/loser.

And while BroKevin and Supple Ashley also brought a solid fleshial challenge to the fight, in the end, this site is about mocking those most heinous of couplings between wretchchoad and pooch suckle.

And oh, yes, Rachel offers the quality pooch suckle. I would tickle a Furby in a bout of 1990s-era nostalgia just to Chubawumba her Cake.

And holy crap, “Self Made” Methholio is all that we have collectively decided to fight here at HCwDB. This toolwank needs Alex and his Droogs to sing Singing in the Rain to him beneath a barrage of lead pipes and British “What’s all this, then?” Bobbys looking the other way.

For theirs is poo. And theirs is the Weekly.

Goldblum Sounds

Because every Sunday is better with a little Goldblum.

Comment of the Week: Troy Tempest

Topping what was a superb thread of mock in What it Looks Like When a Father Fails, legendary talking puppet T.T. busts loose and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:

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Her belly button forms a tiny cave, where little people live. There’s 4 of them – Jimmy, Bobbie, Lori, and Denise.

Some times the belly button gets unhappy and says “Bwaaaa – you people go away!” So they just pour booze into it, and that shuts the drunken old slut right up.

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