Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Lurch McRoofie makes plans for the evening

Look at his eyes, Claudia.

Seriously, dear Readers…cover the bottom of Lurch’s face with your hand and look at it.  LOOK AT IT.

*sigh* Look at his face, not your hand. Work with me here, dammit.

Damn, Girl, you betta make like Chris Christie/Hillary Clinton and make plans to start running…

Pregnant Mandouche Says, "Where's The 'Sock?"

(notes from a post-coma hospital bed)

Gach…. HoHos!! Wherefore art thou HoHos?…

Alack! I have a vision!! Black Bikini Alyson offers the hope while Pregnant Mandouche offers the abyss… I must heal myself… with the power of prayer pear!!

Hermit's Scrapbook: The Truth About Bathsalts

Bath salts gained a bad reputation after last summer’s report of a deranged man shot by Miami police while making a meal out of some homeless dude’s face. Now I’m not opposed to consensual cannibalism but I was always taught better than to misuse a cleaning product.

What many don’t realize is that bath salts have been around for over a century and have many legitimate uses.

Take for example dear departed Grandmother Hermit. She was a strict Baptist and a member of the Steamfitter’s Union Local 353. Grandmother was righteous and upright, a woman of impeccable virtue. She would bristle at the telling of lies and tremble with rage at the utterance of profanity. Woe be to the child who dared use vulgarity in her presence.

I can still recall the horror of being bent roughly over the Kitchen Sink Altar as a sacrificial offering to the God who abhors filthy language.

The bitter taste of dirty hand soap forcibly shoved past my unclean lips in order to cleanse the palate of my iniquity.

The gagging and coughing as I gasped for breath between sharp rebukes and numbing blows to the side of my head from Grandmother’s swift and terrible hand of righteousness. Make no mistake, Grandma was the last person to use a product in any way other than how the Lord had intended.

Despite her charm, virtue and rock-solid strength, Grandmother had an Achilles heel along with bunions and Plantar fasciitis. To ease her aching feet she would spend her evenings sitting in the living room listening to The Lone Ranger on the radio with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a copy of Popular Mechanics across her lap, soaking her sore feet in a tub of warm water laced with Epsom Salts. The salts would soothe her aching bunions and cause pleasurable electrical sensations in her ankles and nipples.

– hermit

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Tragically Herp infects Velma and Blondie

Oh Bookish Velma and Blondie…your clue to avoid The Tragically Herp should have been his restraining odor…

Too Cool To Shower.

Andrew Douche Clay Hugs the Curves

Hickory Dickory Dock,

But her boots I’d love to knock.

The gauntlet has been thrown.  I declare this to be Limerick Tuesday.  If you think you can lower the bar more than me then click on the comments link and have at.  Son.  

Perhaps there is a douche / nottadouche subtext here as well?  I must admit…With this PompaDouche here, I can’t decide whether I want to mock him or drink beer with him.

Or both.  

And kudos to his brazen fondle of Kim Stackley’s perfect pelvic pooch, for she is verily stacked like a brick shithouse**.

**That’s high praise for a nice figure down here in the South. Don’t know how they say it in Canada.  Hosers.

Triplets

Three of these things are similar. Can you match them?

Put forth your hypotheses in the comments section. 2 points to Gryffindor to the best answer.

The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau: Ep. 3 The Sound of Dolphins Dying

You think you had some weirdos on your bus ride? Try my daily sojourn to the CNC shop, bitch.

I worked just up the street from a pallet manufacturer that was able to get tax exempt status by hiring nothing but ‘tards – sorry, “mentally handicapped ” ‘tards – and had to ride the same bus to work as them.

Forty minutes to and from downtown everyday having to listen to a mess of gimpy bike helmet-wearing half-wits yell children’s songs out of key at the top of their lungs while spitting their Cheerio peanut butter breath all over the side of my neck.

I swear if I ever hear anyone start belting out “The Wheels of the Bus Go ‘Round and ‘Round”, including my own kid, I will tear out their toenails with vise grips and staple their genitals to their gawdamn forehead.

Meanwhile, Ed Hardy bikini sportin’ Shoshana displays her wares for Chinstrap Jason, who exudes a deep spiritualism born of his own brand of disingenuous Catholicism. Shoshana has not been keeping up with current events, and knows nothing of Netanyau’s weakened position as the centrist Yesh Atid Party picked up 19 seats in the parliamentary elections over the weekend. She’s just digging this new concealer that makes her nose look more “petite” like her Caucasian friend Sandy’s.

No it doesn’t.

Off in the distance, oohs and ahs can be heard as Smallman John demonstrates his invisible “skills.” You wanna see some funny sheit? Go to Google images and search “people coughing”. It looks like a bunch of people giving BJs to invisible snausages.

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Two-Button Biff is…The ClubRubber

Yeah, we’ve all seen this guy out on the town. Two-Button Biff chicken-necking to whatever’s blasting through the house system, wending his way through the fleshy pit trolling for skank around the 1 am mark, after the first barrage of free drinks has softened up the moistened beachheads of Southern Pants.

Then…he spots his prey…moves in for the chill…after floating out a string of increasingly crass come-on lines without rebuff, it happens: The Suggestive Forearm Caress. Don’t do it, Amber!

Fast forward to the next morning…the drafty walk of shame after Amber abandons the futile search for her panties, which he had the presence of mind to stuff behind the head of the mattress on the floor of the spare room of a brah’s pad he’s crashing at until that kiosk job at the mall comes through again. He will, after being ejected by said brah for not pitching in on, well, anything, take the several soiled trophies he’s stuffed between the grimy wall and lumpy mattress and tack them up on the wall of his old room at Ma’s house.

Then T.B.B. will shellac himself with axe, button them two buttons…and steer the Hyundai towards The Club once more.

Monday Crisis. And AbaCrab.

DarkSock here at the helm again, with ominous news.

Our hairless leader, DB1, aka Jay Louis, lies in a coma.

He was found late last night surrounded by a halo of empty Night Train bottles and what appeared to be an empty footlocker once filled with hoarded Hostess™ treats such as Ho-Hos and Twinkies. His shiftless mass was buried under a translucent shroud of shucked snack food wrappers.

He now lies in state in a Los Angeles hospital in a diabetic coma. It is not clear if this was a drunken binge or an attempt to end the crushing despair following the collapse of the corn syrup giant that until recently spewed forth such tasty treats. Given that he posted the news of the downfall of Hostess as “The End Of Joy”, he is now on suicide watch.

Until we know more, we must carry on, wayward sons. With Mock.

Take for example the dongle in the adjacent photograph, whom I’ve named “AbaCrab”.

Six pound watch, gratuitous display of his torso, which has been shorn more hairless than a fetal pig’s belly, and of course the dangerously over-siliconed girlfriend exacting endless revenge on Daddy, who cared more for SportsCenter™ than her.

What say you, faithful readers?  Dissect this crass display, as always, in the comments section.  In the meantime I shall endeavor to tirelessly comb DB1’s filthy apartment in the hopes for some sort of sign, some tiny clue, as to where he has stashed his Vicodin™.

Oh…almost forgot…Gratuitous Pear.

Hot Russian Chicks with Too Much Time on Their Hands Make a Video

Das Uncle Vanya.