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Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Mack the Nozzle's Sad Decline Continues
Next up: Selling water bottles by the vending machines at the Super-8 Motel out by I-95.
Such is the declining life of the party douche with face tatts. You made that choice long ago, Mack. Francine is long gone. She married an Asian Design Major and bought a house in Decatur.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012Reader Mail: The Twenty-Five Pound Watch
Morbo sends in this pic along with an astute commentary:
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DB_1,
Saw this over on the thereifixedit.com blog and felt it could stand for a little internet cross-pollination.
It’s the concept of the 10-pound watch taken to its illogical extreme.
Adding to the douchebaggery is the look on the wearer’s face. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He didn’t pull this stunt because he desperately needed to know what time it was and his actual wristwatch was broken, and his cellphone died. This asshole is craving attention, desperately wanting someone to ask, “Hey man. What’s up with the clock on your wrist?”
He would then play it off as if it weren’t much at all, when deep down he was giving himself a high-five for being so cutting-edge and cool. In fact, I bet this is the third time this week he’s worn this thing. Hell, the poor bastard sitting in front of him probably has a Grade 2 concussion from getting conked in the head every time the bus goes over a bump.
I feel like the fate of our long-running battle with douchebaggery hinges on the guy in the seat.
He is The Chosen One, though he knows it not.
If he looks up and asks about the clock, we all lose. Flava Fred here gets his moment of glory and he will lead an army of numbnuts across the Earth for the next millenium. Even a snarky comment means victory for Flava Fred.
If Seat Guy continues to look at his phone, quietly gets up at his stop and shuffles off to work, we win.
Stay strong, dude. Stay strong. We’re all counting on you.
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Tuesday, September 25, 2012Snuffaluffacrotch
Don’t look now, Aging Vegas Party Girl Gina! But there’s a Snuffaluffacrotch about to nibble on the neck of your nape!
Laugh it up, Sidekick Frank. When female rejection at the pool reaches 100% saturation, your hamburgers are next on the menu.
Monday, September 24, 2012"Bozies in Brooklyn"
This pic is an except from Michael Chabon’s latest McSweeney’s article, “The Time In That Bar By The Place I Used To Know.”
It’s a pensive and whimsical paean to a lost, mythic world of Brooklyn bars in the pre-internet age, written in short, staccato sentences that alternate between pop culture deconstruction and British literary L’Enfant allusions to the Amis/Hitchens years. And, of course, with the obligatory reference to David Foster Wallace.
EDIT: Since “A Chick in a Bikini Riding a Bike” was taken off YouTube, I took down the link. You’ll just have to imagine its awesomeness.
Monday, September 24, 2012The Pear Bomber Strikes Again
Who knows what doucheyness lies in front of the pears of women… The Pear Bomber knows…
Monday, September 24, 2012Mexican Mini Me Approves of the HCwDB of the Week
Two times.
Monday, September 24, 2012HCwDB of the Week: Yankee McSpankee and Andrea's Dreas
Maybe because my beloved Red Sox upchucked the proverbial half-chewed bit in a hail of suckwad this year, but I’mma give the HCwDB to Yankee McSpankee and the glories of Andrea’s Dreas.
Last week also had Epic Dump, the Worst Anything in the History of Everything video, Herpster Jett, and even Paco McScribble and Candy’s Cans in competition.
But idiotic grenade tatt is enough to claim ‘bag this week.
And the Dreas are glories pokie prods of suckle fondle.
So chalk ’em, and your humb narrs for a toasted english muffin. With jelly. Lots of grape jelly.
Sunday, September 23, 2012The Worst Anything in the History of Everything
It’s eaten things that would make a billy goat puke.
Saturday, September 22, 2012Comment of the Week: UFO Destroyers
UFOD brings the cost analysis to blowing up the Hard Rock in the Epic Dump thread and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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The military has actuaries that caculate how much it might cost in case a jet crashes in populated areas or a bomb goes off the range and strikes private property. The reasoning is to determine the “risk-reward” equation. Now, if a fully-loaded remotely piloted B-52 (the bomber, not the band) crashed into the Vegas strip while on departure from Nellis AFB and wiped out, say, Rehab on a Saturday afternoon, the “reward” side of the equation would be off the charts. Fewer future welfare recipients, fewer Ed Hardy purchases thereby putting the company out of business faster, fewer STDs, fewer room temperature IQs clogging up the gene pool’s filter, and a lot of new construction jobs to rebuild the area so it could be done all over again. Also, it would give the Air Force a chance to test out remote control bombers and their precision target acquisition guidance systems. It’s not like the military would be losing any possible recruits, just your local Valvoline Instant Oil and McDonalds.
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Friday, September 21, 2012Friday Thoughts and Links
Oh Orange hatted turd and bleeth. How you deserve each other.
Your humb narrs is sipping on a URC of quality Mogen David fortified strawberry and lime wine. To honor the New Year.
I sit my unshaven ass in temple and reflect. And by reflect, I mean checking out the hott Beverly Hills Semitic Suckle Thighs. They of the overpriced bags, dating the overpriced ‘bags.
And so my rants continue, but also in a new venue. Lucky Punkass.
Finally live. No idea what I’m going to say on it. Doubtful many will read it. But I need it for my sanity. So there’s that.
Here’s your links:
“‘”What has restrained the beasts of prey who are called men?'”
Malaysia declares V-Necks to be “gay”. This is awful, bigoted crap. Mock douchebags for looking douchey, yes. I can support that. But targeting gay people based on some supposed dress code? We should drop these clowns into Jersey and let them try to categorize sexual preference based on clothing. Pisses me off. Even makes me want to start wearing a v-neck as a gesture of resistance. Not that I will. Just sayin’.
The many faces of Cusack. Loooong time readers of HCwDB might remember my trip to the Better Off Dead house back in the halcyon days of ’07. Please do not judge my choppy-ass writing in that post, I was still figuring the site out. That movie was perfection. My pilgrimage to Lane Meyer’s home was my own trip to Mecca.
Oh, racism on television. Is there no ethnicity you can’t mock?
The Champagne Sisters (Katie, Kelly, and Karmen) are nothing but trouble. Boobie trouble.
Next thing you’ll tell me is that the obnoxious guy in those 1990s “eat something!” Subway ads was actually Keith Olbermann.
But you are not here for 90s Olbermann. You are here for Pear.
The ripples of a better tomorrow. And, to honor my former life in NYC:
Juicy.
