Monday, January 28, 2013

    Gynochin Slurps at the Teat of Nihilism

    gynochin7

    Vegas Dreamland of blurry illusion.

    The fraudulence of fake-joy.

    The reality of taint.

    There. Is. No. Hope.

    Sexy Paid-to-Do-Things Wynona offers quality boobie suckle that nonetheless cannot peak through the bleak abyss cast by the crisis of Gynochin’s essence.

    All is lost.

    Puppies get slapped.

    Crocodile tears turn to rivers of existential rain among even the most jaded of realists facing a Gyno-future-chin.

    EDIT: Whoops, prematurely published this on Saturday. It is, however, a Monday morning post to welcome y’all back.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Sunday, January 27, 2013

    Sunday Movie: Jac Mac & Rad Boy

    Grab an ice-cold brew-ha-ha and enjoy this 80’s blast of pre-Beavis-and-Butthead protoplasm.

    WAH-HOOOOO!

    ***EDIT*** Bloody Hell, WordPress…Looks like that’s two thwarted Sunday Movies this morning. Well…Here’s the link to Jac Mac and Rad Boy. You will be dumber for having watched.

    And because you’ve been tolerant of my spastic postings…How ’bout I round out my week at the helm with some brand new Fenny from Argentina (aka AssPear LaPlante) featuring her Super Tanga:

    Sweet

    Mother

    Of

    Pear

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Saturday, January 26, 2013

    Paula roofies Lurch

    ass peril

    “Sorry, son, but MY roofie is kicking in on YOU. And by the way, my name’s Paul, not Paula. Shall we go for a van ride now?”

    While Lurch McRoofie is carried away into the night, and a waiting cornfield, let us reflect. With Pear.

    Camo Pear

    White Pear

    Lacie J. Underall Pear

    Pool Pear

    Surf Pear

    And my favorite – Perfect Pear

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Saturday, January 26, 2013

    Gynochin Haunts Our Collective Souls…

    Gynochin1

    (from a hospital bead somewhere outside Peoria, Illinois, your humble narrator awakens from his diabetic coma…)

    DB1: Wha?-…. What’s that?… What rouses me from this slumber?…

    DB1’s Subconscious: Waaakkkkeee up…. the internet still needs your relic of a blog…

    DB1: But… but why?

    DB1’s Subconscious: Gyyyyyyynnnoooooooooochiiiiiiinnnnnnnnn… is still out there…

    DB1: Gynochin? 2011 Douchebag of the Year Gynochin?

    DB1’s Subconscious: Srsly, do you know any other Gynochins?

    DB1: I suppose not.

    DB1’s Subconscious: The worrrrllllddd… neeeeedssss your help…. The ‘Chin is still making insanely douchey kisssssssssey faces near hottiesssssss… whoooooo will mock this sorry piece of lemon pie shite?

    DB1: I dunno. Who?

    DB1’s Subconscious: You, ya dumbass!

    DB1: Oh right! (::jumping out of bed, throwing off hospital gown revealing doughy ass::) I’m back!! I cannot rest!! Let… let me out of there!!.. The mock must return!!

    And… the Mock continues on Monday.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Friday, January 25, 2013

    Head Shop: The Dye that Binds

    Over the past few years the commonality that is douche has fractured, diversified, and multiplied.  Like a true virus, the Grieco strain has mutated from simple Jersey Bag to Muscle bag, Eurobag, White trash bag, and the more recent hypsterbag.  And while each sack of genetic poo strives to maintain its own distinct identity, common elements remain that tie them unapologetically back to their ancestral progenitor.  I speak of ink and orange.  While some may rock the v-neck tee, and others the lip of duck and hair of gel, while others will have cones of sila, or biceps of ‘roid, every one of them will have skin of carrot adorned with stars, skulls, and Asian script.

    To the tune of “People Who Died” by Jim Carroll [RIP]

    Teddy smearing poo, he was 12 years old

    Spread the tone from his own behind

    Arty was 11 when he caught the drug

    His tangerine sheen didn’t have no tan lines

    Bobby hit the tanning booth, 14 years old

    He looked like pumpkin pie when he dyed

    He was a bro’ of mine

    Those are douchebags who dyed, dyed

    They were all my bros, and they dyed

    Mickey and Paulie let their six-packs all soften

    So they inked them up with nonsense words as a distraction

    Sly in Wildwood, “THUG LIFF” on his head

    Bobby leaves a full-sized smear of cocoa in his bed

    They were three more bros of mine

    Three more bros that dyed

    Those are douchebags who dyed, dyed

    They were all my bros, and they dyed

    Karly shows her back tatts in the Boom Boom Room

    Britney inked herself from her head to her womb

    Judy’s skin color was hard to explain

    Eddie matched hers to a cheddar cheese stain

    And Eddie, you’re orangier than all the others

    And I salute you mother

    Those are hot chicks who dyed, dyed

    They were all my hos, and they dyed

    Herbie inked Tony on the high school roof

    Tony thought that a skull would show the truth

    ‘So Herbie serve up Tony some, some bitchin’ proof

    “Hey,” Herbie said, “Tony, are you fly?”

    But Tony wasn’t fly, Tony dyed

    Those are douchebags who dyed, dyed

    They were all my bros, and they dyed

    Bennie inked his guns with a Poly wrap

    He flashed the tatt while raging at some bikers

    He said, “Hey, I know it’s obvious, I’m a steel cage fighter”

    But the next day he got raped by those very same bikers

    Those are douchebags who dyed, dyed

    They were all my bros, and they dyed

    # posted by JeanClaudeVanDouche
    Friday, January 25, 2013

    Friday Socks and Links

    I think it's starting to kick in

    As Lurch McRoofie waits for it to kick in, so shall we kick in our Friday Thoughts and Links.

    I must admit I was not quite prepared to take the helm as DB1 succumbed to corn syrup coma; that’s why this week’s been a little shaky. One can only imagine DB1, burnt out and zombielike, stuffing Twinkie after Twinkie into his mouth, like a hellish Pez dispenser in reverse… What was he thinking? What could have possibly triggered his actions?

    Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffin’ glue.

    Having the site land in my lap really wrecked my plans; I was going to have my lovely girlfriend over, serenade her with my six-string, and then enjoy some quality time with her. Maybe catch a musical. Or a horror flick. Or both.

    No matter; I’ll handle it because I am a professional. And when he returns I’ll hand the staff of power back to him. Because there can be only one.

    Well, those are my links. It seems like I’m forgetting something though…

    Oh, yeah…Pictures of Pear!

    Firm Stool Pear

    Schwantz/Drapes Pear

    And, of course, A Street Pear Named Desire.

    Hmmmm…still so many surplus pears. I may have to disburse them tonight for a very special HCwDB After Dark.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Friday, January 25, 2013

    Friday Bonus Haiku (ultra-rare missing one-half of site's mission statement edition)

    id wipe my schwantz on her drapes son

    Check out this dame’s stems…

    Her legs go up to her neck;

    Wrap around you twice…

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Friday, January 25, 2013

    Friday Haiku

    CAW  CAW  CAW

    Morticia Adams:

    Teen years…Bruno Mars-San crush;

    Ice water douches

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Friday, January 25, 2013

    Denim The Menace Brings the GILF

    Leathery Goodness

    Denim The Menace may be an Olde Bag, but dammit he’s got good tastes in experienced ladies.

    Some women age like fine wines. Sure, there are some that say certain ladies age like milk. Or bananas. But not these sultry cougars.

    During Year One of my Post-Divorce era, the ‘Sock has hooked up with several wonderful females. In particular, one was 15 years his junior and a total candidate for Victoria Secret’s catalogs. Okay, maybe Frederick’s of Hollywood. But still, young, taut, blonde and down for whatever. And while that fling was fun/stressful…the follow-up palate cleanser with a sultry cougar two decades older than my young playmate blew girly-girl out of the water. And by “water” I mean my lumpy king-size. And by “my lumpy king-size”…well, in this case I am actually talking ’bout my shite mattress that needs replacing.

    Should I be mocking silly-ass Denim, his sad soul-patch, and his male osteoporosis? Sure. But I am drawn instead to praise older lovers such as his fine two companions. They know who they are, and they know what they want. Go forth, Denim; pop your Viagra and do your best. And call a doctor if it lasts for more than four hours. Then call your buddies.

    And stay tuned after Friday Socks & Links for Pear.  All Weekend.

    Man your ‘bation stations!

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Thursday, January 24, 2013

    Ask The Reverend

    556016_492243860791030_1867567271_nHey brothers. Reverend Chad here, the resident stoned, drunk pastor to answer a few remarkable questions with insight and spirituality. And by spirituality I mean, stoned. Son.

    Q. Dear Reverend Chad, I was fighting with my wife about the time I spend on the internet. Are you really a Reverend and where is your church? Thanks in advance. Tara MacGotchys

    A. Thanks for the question Tara and what kind of name is that for a dude, man. And you didn’t expand on your wife problems so I can’t help you there. If she comes at ya with a knife pop her one right in the beak. Am I really a Reverend. Yes. I am a Reverend of the Divine Universal Light Church. The church is based in Walla-Walla Washington to counter the ill effects of a strong Seventh Day Adventist Church and University there. My congregation is based in Ontario, near the Quebec border. I am just outside the city limits of a city called Cornwall, where I grew up on the means streets man. Smoking doobies, drinking and banging broads since I was in grade 6. Hell of a life before I found the great divine one. Then again I party all day now so I’m still a pig. So I moved my church from outside Toronto so as to get away from the metrosexuals and show my pampered kids a little bit of hards knocks, ya know? And I sent them to the worst public elementary school in the city with the lowest average family income in the area. We get this corn farm of which I lease a bunch of the land to a farmer. I still have a few landscaped acres and we attend services in the Grove. The Grove is also where the magic medicine of my followers comes from. The farm is home to our branch of the church and it is called The Plantation. There is a druid-like circle of Mighty Canadian Pine and Maples and it’s a great place to get you’re groove on. Cornwall used to have this huge paper mills that stunk to no end. Yas rode a bicycle by it and the acid rain would pock your lenses man. So everybody is unemployed now and ya can get a 15 year old hooker for a blowie for a slice of the world’s best assortment of pizza and a gram of Grove weed. Good times man. So to finish off with your question. The church is in my backyard. Thanks for the query. Son. Good luck with the wife. One time at The Plantation, which has distant dock privileges,  Joel Osteen came to visit on his Sea-Doo with Shania Twain and Alannis Morrisette naked on the back. Tammy-Fae was supposed to be there but her p*ss got stuck to the car seat. Wow! That was a freakshow party.

    Q Reverend Chad,a few of us at work were guessing you are probably a fan of Maroon 5. Thanks for taking the time to answer our question. Clint Damyacine

    A. That’s a good question Clint. But let me ask you a question. Does a dove know how beautiful it is as it’s released at the end of a wedding or Obama speech. It might be beautiful at an Obama speech after Springsteen has finished playing The Rising, but at the wedding it is the end for the groom and an ugly image of drudgery and Groundhog Day Syndrome, from which I suffer, and better atoned with a more fitting poem from the Bruuuce. If a grizzly bear gets stoned in the forest, can he be arrested by honkie. I think not. Therefore I will put forth a motion that at all weddings Maroon 5 music must be played every fifth song. 5, the number of destiny. Two parents, two children, one hooker. Playing such festering pus would prevent many men from getting married and perhaps a few, just a few may be saved from a life of slavery and boredom which is the institution (torture) of being married with children. I understand now Ed Bundy(grrrr. young Christina) what Peg put you through. F**k Maroon 5 . Don’t get married son. Go for ex-strippers. Get it. Thanks for the question Son.

    That’s all for this week. I’m depressed now so I have to take my SNRI’s. Keep the questions coming and I’ll try to answer your scintillating qeusstionez. Son.

    # posted by douchebag1
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