Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Von Goolo of the Week: Baron Von Goolo (not pictured, it's HCwDB after all)

A hearty and blood sucking round of applause for the brilliant and eviscerating mock brought to the site last week by the great Baron Von Goolo.

BvG is one of the longest tenured ‘bag mockers, a scholar and a gentleghoul, and a true American Vampiric slayer.

The often underexplored connection between Jesus bling and douchebaggery suggests a gothic horror tradition long lurking beneath the surfaces of the ‘bag mock. BvG was our perfect guide into that netherworld on this Hallow’s Eve.

For those of you anywhere within walking/driving/flying distance of Portland, be sure to stop by Frighttown and say hi to Baron.

Your humb narrs is back from a week of alpaca shaving.

And by alpaca shaving, I mean meditating on the relationship between jelly dong and ham dangle.

Lets do this.

THE END TIMES

My friends, it has been nothing short of an experience moderating this blog for you over the past week. We’ve had some good times, haven’t we? Oh, indeed we have. Remember that thing with the thing in it? I know, right? Good times, good times.

As for myself, I’m surprised that I’m able to construct whole sentences after the last two nights at FrightTown. Most people assume that Halloween proper is my busiest and most challenging night, a righteous crescendo to the month long run of a haunted attraction, but no. It’s always the Friday and Saturday before Halloween. Which means that for the last 48 hours I’ve been up to my coal-black nipples in PBR-soaked douchebags and prepubescent hoodrats, each one believing themselves entitled to punching or destroying whatever’s in arm’s reach, just because they bought a ticket. If it wasn’t for the parade of slutty costumes, I’d throw a fence around the whole mob, douse them all in teriyaki and go nuts with a snowblower full of bullet ants.

But the slutty costumes were indeed plentiful. And I digress.

I’d love to stay and chat but I have loins to gird and thousands more pants to fill with terror before I may rest. You all have yourselves a Happy Halloween. And if there are any Hollywood producer types out there reading this, and if you’re looking for a horror movie host to squeeze six seasons of fart jokes out of, you now know where to find me.

UNNECESSARILY SLUTTY COSTUME OF THE DAY: SLUTTY CRY BABY

Aw, poor Cry Baby. Wassa matter?

Are you sad because the costume company took something so pure and innocent that the Catholic Church had to fabricate a sin for it, and turned it into a primer for aspiring pedophiles? At least someone at the catalog had the common decency to turn on Photoshop and rub out her camel toe.

Seriously, ladies. If you pass over all the slutty vampires and slutty Hilary Clintons and grab this one, you’ve bypassed slut and dived straight into horrible person.

COMMENT OF THE WEEK: JACQUES DOUCHETEAU

Looking from the inside out, I have a new-found appreciation for the subtle genius of rewarding creative commentators with the coveted Comment Of The Week while at the same time utterly phoning in an entire weekend day by re-posting something you didn’t even write yourself in the first place.

Oh DB1, you sly boots.

Semi-aquatic regular, Jacques Doucheteau, takes home the gold this week with his pithy observations on the dearth of worth when it comes to bedding a bleeth in IT’S ALIVE…PROBABLY.

———-

That broad looks like a migraine f@#k. The p@#sy isn’t that great, but a damp hole is a damp hole, and the satisfaction of getting to brag about tagging that scrawny ass with much disrespect would make it that much more worth it. However…

Funbags there no doubt gets her ideas of what’s sexy from redtube and pornhub, like oh so many more of those pseudo-SoCo girls. They throw out fake scream/grunts with every thrust, a grimace of half pleasure, half discomfort from unaroused lack of lube as they force out “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!” repeatedly in the same ascending pitch. The sound of their bad porn actress moans drives into your eardrums like old Asian lady in a Saturday Market on a closed street, taking out unsuspecting neurons and running over your more cherished memories of girls giving genuine moans of coital triumphs, spinning the tires on their faces until they’re ground down to a bloody gore and bone soaked sludge of “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!” Like a cluster headache, once you get your d@#k wet you reach the point of no return, where the pain behind your eyes is so intense the only way out is a forceful injection of lidocaine and double-aught buckshot into the sinus cavities.

I’d still tag it.

———-

So say we all, JD. So say we all.

FRIGHTDAY THOUGHTS AND LINKS

Look at those two kinda regular looking guys. And all those hot chicks. Man, there sure is something douchey going on here. Ha Ha!

Aaaaaaand I’m spent.

But soon, dozens of young ladies in their slutty costumes will be parading their lady business about my magnificent FrightTown. I must rally. For the good of the children.

BVG DVD Pick O’ The Week: Oh hidy ho officer, we’ve had a doozy of a day. There we were minding our own business, just doing chores around the house, when kids started killing themselves all over my property.

Who’m I kidding? I can’t pick just one.

In general I am not a fan of horror movie remakes, what with Michael Bay being the Great Satan and all. There are, however, exceptions to every rule.

This will either be the worst movie I’ve ever seen or the greatest movie I will ever see. Either way, I bet I eat a bullet when the credits roll.

Ahmunna start my Christmas shopping today.

We’ve talked a bit about slutty costumes going too far, but that is not to imply that I am against sluttery in general. Au contraire. It can certainly be done right.

Perhaps even with a dash of the ol’ ultra-slutty.

Another thing about slutty costumes: they mostly come at night. Mostly.

But remember, ladies: when you’re preparing your slutty black cat costume, improper tail placement can send the wrong message. Unless you’re wearing it for a room of visiting German businessmen. Then you’re probably fine.

Werewolves howl,

And vampire bats flap.

This poem blows.

Get ready to fap.

And as long as we’re on the subject, you poor readers have put up with a fair share of abuse and an unfair share of my self-absorbed rambling this week. You deserve a reward.

Nerdy Pear.

Bah! That couldn’t possibly sate you. Open wide, now

Cool Hand Luke Pear

Buff Thigh Pear

Waiting For Norman Pear

Scottish Candelabra Pear

and lest we lose sight of the season, Jack O’ Pear.

(*sigh*) I guess I’m just a romantic when you get right down to it.

FRIGHTDAY HAIKU

TMI, Kojak:

“The carpet matches the drapes.”

And there goes my lunch.

UNNECESSARILY SLUTTY COSTUME OF THE DAY: SLUTTY CHINESE TAKE OUT BOX

“Okay, one more time. We’ve got slutty french maid, slutty firefighter, slutty Batman, slutty Finding Nemo… one more, guys. We just need one more.”

“Jeezus, Phil, it’s 4am and it’s only March. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow can blow me. I want that performance bonus. Now what do you got?”

“What I got is to go to bed. Y’all can keep my share.”

“Don’t think we won’t. Okay, who else? How about slutty giraffe?”

“We did that already.”

“Slutty schoolteacher?”

“Get serious, f@#cko. What else? Look around the room. The answer’s gotta be right in front of us.”

“Sure, okay. Slutty dry erase marker.”

“Too much like slutty crayon. RICK! Wake the f@#k up! Waddyoo got?”

“uuuuh, I dunno, fuccen slutty Chinese take out box?”

“Thanks for nothing, assho………………..wait a second…”

THE INNSMOUTHBREATHER

Nancy never signed up for this.

It had been just over a year since she turned a blind eye to exactly how tight and attractive Carl’s new rock climbing instructor was, and just over nine months since Carl moved out so that he could rappel into the little whore’s crevasse with relative impunity and annoying frequency. Now, with two divorces notched in her belt, the only men in her life were Ben, Jerry, and the pimply checkout boy at Pavilion’s who rang up her Triple Caramel Chunk. Also with annoying frequency. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight she had acquiesced to Ellen’s constant coaxing and agreed – just this once – to join her on her weekly pilgrimage to the Happy Hour at Joe’s Crab Shack. Nancy’s makeup was worn from 10 hours of eye-rubbing and face-palms, and she had actually planned to wash her hair later that evening but still, she went anyway. Not because she was a good sport, but because she hadn’t given two shits about this sort of thing since Valentine’s Day and now lacked the necessary energy to blow her friend off any longer. Whee.

Within 15 minutes of arriving, Ellen was off. That made sense, thought Nancy. Of all the gals at the office, Ellen was the least encumbered by current relationships and the least frayed and shopworn by past ones. She also had the best tits and made sure everyone knew it. When the waiter brought Ellen’s order of buffalo wings to her empty barstool, Nancy helped herself. Wings for the winggirl. She allowed herself one acquiescent chuckle at the symmetry of it. There was no reason to be alone and hungry.

But what Nancy didn’t realize was that she was not alone.

“Izzzh thizh  zhtool taken?”

Nancy politely covered her mouth to prevent spewing chewed chicken from flying out of her mouth. There was something fishy about the mannish creature that half walked, half hopped up to her table. And not “fishy” in the metaphorical sense, either. Her admirer had a moist translucence to him that one rarely witnessed outside of a dim sum cart, and with each breath his lips visibly parted, as if he were a koi waiting to be fed.

“It zheemzh a crime that a lovely lady like yourzhelf zzzzhould be zhitting alone. May I?”

“F@#k no, Kermit!” was what her brain told her but her lips had gone dry, as she realized with mounting horror that the smell of crab shack dumpster that she had assumed was an errant breeze from the kitchen was in fact emanating from her new boyfriend. God damn you, Ellen.

Kermit waved to the waiter and Nancy forced herself to blink. Were his fingers webbed? “Another Zzzzzzzhima for the lady, por favor.” and with that entitlement, the creature pulled itself onto Ellen’s woefully vacant stool. “I haven’t zheen you around here before. My name izzzh Howard. But my friends call me Kermit.” Sweet Jesus, seriously? Nancy felt reality losing its grasp on her. Had some deep, genetic memory told her its name was Kermit. Had some unearthly…wait, it has friends? Nancy’s head pulsed with the math of it all. Two Zimas were not enough to make her feel like this. The wings, maybe? She drowsily scanned the room for Ellen, but she was doubtlessly hip-deep in a personal trainer somewhere. Awesome.

Suddenly, the author realized that he had to pick up his buddy at the airport in 20 minutes and he hadn’t even showered yet. So Nancy ended up in a bathroom stall with Kermit, started talking in italics and was never heard from again. The End.

CECI N’EST PAS DARKSOCK

You ungrateful bastards.

I give and I give and I give and what do thanks do I get?

“Where’s the gratuitous pear? We want some peh-errrr. Mleh meh meh-ehhhhhhhh.”

Oh, I’ll give you your pear.

Oh yes.

But you know all those stories where you make a deal with a devil, and you ask for immortal life but then a piano falls off a roof and crushes your spine to powder? Or you ask for a billion dollars, but he puts it on the moon? Or you ask for Scarlett Johansson to fall madly in love with you, but then a poodle eats your dick?

Well… here’s your pear.

Or maybe it’s here.

Or here

Naw, I’m just messing with you. It’s here.

I mean here.

Seriously, though. Here.

Here.

…… Here.

There. Are we full now?

I’m glad we had this talk.

CAPTION THIS PIC

Joel Schumacher really needs to stop making movies.