Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB Sails Onward….

From the peaks of fame and fortune, celebrity worship, and Hollywood a’callin’, to the ignominy of internet passe status, HCwDB moves through inter-life as a she-beast of nostalgic oasis.

For we are, after all, the oldest internet picture-mocking blog of them all.

Almost seven years old.

Which is 145 on the interwebs.

Like a pixeled dog-ratio.

Sure I could pull the plug on this site. Say “that’s all folks!” Mark it done.

But, I tells ya, I’m not going out proudly.

I’mma limp and whimper onward, ever onward, into fading irrelevancy.

Because that’s how I roll.

And because pear.

Friday Thoughts and Links

— Insert standard hookah/hooker joke here —

Nice hair, Vazquez. May all your tacos be taint.

So, yeah.

HCwDB’s rocky journey into the future continues. Bumps and crashes. Bumps and crashes.

Kinda like when I snuck into the Limelight as a teenager in NYC in the early 1990s and unsuccessfully hit on a sexy Long Island princess while “Groove is in the Heart” was spun by the DJ. Nothing worked right after that. I blame the bubble room.

Who the hell knows where the site goes in 2013. I sure don’t know.

Is it fun anymore? Is it funny?

Do actual blogs even have relevancy in a customized scrolling world of feeds and lists?

Sheeeiiiittt..

Wells, I can always drown my sorrows in some wood grain.

Here’s your links:

Your HCwDB Depressive DVD Pick of the Week: “Mommy? Why is Steve Guttenberg in this? I thought it was a drama?”

In Ole’ Miss, the URC races alone.

The Greatest Cotton Candy in the World.

Bagimi. No I don’t really get it either.

In groin-shaving news, Bikini Waxing Decreases Pubic Lice. So I got that going for me.

The Mayerbag is still trying to redeem himself. Still eternally damned to douche mock.

Okay. I got nothin’. So lets get to the goods:

Doughy Panda Pear

Doughy but in all the right ways. Or perhaps Poppin’ Fresh?

Friday Haiku

Site was down again,

Because GoDaddy sucks ball,

Blue Lance Armstrong ball.

********

Vin wants a RealDoll™

Then he thought, “Hey! It’s cheaper

To rent than to own!”

mutant ethnic smurfs/em>

perform in caged parking lot

nobody watches

— creature

Getting banged by Douche

Is a real eye opener

Brown eye opener

— DoucheyWallnuts

Nickelodeon

test markets new Blue’s Clues show

Dora gets explored

— Magnum Douche P.I.

She has to wear blue

Since the gyroscope was put

In her Monkey Hole.

— The Reverend Chad Kroeger

I don’t know if you’ve

ever heard of blue waffles.

This is how it starts.

— Bag Margera

The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau

Today I got full on blindsided by the flu, WHAM! And it seems to be centered around my colon. Yes, I have the usual eye splitting headache like a nasally ex-girlfriend who’s way into cosmetics and Real Housewives, feverish chills, crawling skin, and body aches coupled with the general grossness of feeling like I just got compacted in the back of a garbage truck…but the evil, evil things it’s creating in my ass is unequivocally other-worldly in its appearance, sound, and stench.

It started off innocently enough this morning with some gas and a normal-consistency poo that was so grand in its stature and voluminousness, that I had to raise my chair a notch after sitting back down at my desk afterwards. I was even forced to give the sucker a preventative breaking apart with the plunger to make sure it flushed all down without issue. The farting continued however, becoming increasingly noxious and violent, until it reached a fevered pitch and crescendo when I s#!t my pants. Before I could waddle back to the restroom, the fever set in, and I excused myself from work to go home and take a shower.

That shower has done me a whole hell of a lot of NO GOOD AT ALL, as I’ve been blowing chunky brown urine out my puckered starfish every fifteen minutes for the past five or six hours. Personal hygiene will have to take a backseat so that proper hydration can keep me from dying.

And so I hunched over my laptop with a cup of peppermint tea and a fist full of Imodium, and perused the interwebs in search of a picture with which to appropriately convey my sad, desperate physical state. This silly little Heineken-fueled suaré in the Lagoon of Caustic Ships seems appropriate enough, though it’s hard to tell through my blurred vision and the wrenching gut pain. Judging by the trees in the background, this floating get-together is taking place in a subtropical climate, no doubt on some swampy pollutant and microbe infested lake, half of which was spewed out my ass early this afternoon. Though bouncy-boobled gigging Tammy’s concave tummy is definitely worthy of some light paddling and a spackle rub-down, I have not the energy nor gastrointestinal stability to dedicate towards a well focused lusting.

I also can’t find it in me to initiate a sound mocking of Big-Shouldered Dave and his pancake nipples as they slowly engulf his persistently sagging moobs. Even Crawdad Dan there just isn’t inspiring me with enough disgust and scorn to make proper fun of his Sarah Palin sunglasses, complete lack of nipples, untanned belly crease and oh my GOD IN HEAVEN WHAT THE F@%K IS HE WEARING FOR SHORTS!?!?!?!?!?!

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy that he would wear $5 board shorts sold at the airbrush booth in the mall? If given no other alternative, I would rather wear the boxers I completely destroyed this morning on the outside of my pants while on a date with Julie Banderas than let anyone I know ever wear shorts like that.

————-

Where's Oily Groinshave Bohunk?

Somewhere in the gaggle of party bros and suburban slutty hotts, I’ve carefully hidden an Oily Groinshave Bohunk.

Look closely…

Can you smell the glove?

Fwippy McJohnson Goes Full Herpster, Scores Kelly

Looks like Sears had a sale on wrinkled herpster ties. Two for $9.99.

Kelly has the smirking attitude of suburban New England mixed with delightful boobie suckle leg chomp potential. For lo and hark!, Kelly is that rarest of New England woodland creatures: A hottie from rural Massachusetts.

Ask DB1: Are “Nice Guys” the new Douchebag?

————–

DB1 –

I’m assuming that you’ve seen this Tumblr.

Yes, I enjoy the mocking on a superficial level, but upon deeper reflection this phenomenon poses serious questions for ‘Bag Hunters/tresses – Can you be so anti-douche that you become autodouche?

I feel this is the fate that befell the Herpsters – they wanted to be so non-Grieco they succeeded in transcending Greico. Then they bought “portable” turntables (sorry just spent some time in Brooklyn and I still feel unclean). Same with Goth’bags – they wanted to distance themselves so far from jock assholes, they became their own subset of asshole.

Nearly every one of the guys pictured in the blog makes some anti-douchebag reference, and how they (enlightened as they are) are SO NOT douchebags. Yet the evidence doesn’t lie – douches, one and all. I propose a new “nice guy” class of Bag – the Fedorabag. Possibly the Sadsack’bag (I leave that to your editorial discretion). Just like your garden variety Vegas pool’bag, they try so hard not to suck but wind up sucking because of it. Instead of bling and tatts, they sport an “aw shucks” smile and affected self deprecation. And fedoras, apparently.

Are these guys in douche denial? Or have they run so far down the Douche ladder, they wound up at the top in some cosmic Moebius Strip of asshattery? Much like the shrinking middle class, are honest-to-god-non-douches becoming extinct?

Douche Wayne

——–

Remember Grasshopper, in one model of the universe, the shortest distance between two points is a line in the opposite direction.

EDIT: Link to “Nice Guys of OK Cupid” fixed as tumblr was taken down.

Bags n' Alpacas

‘Bags.

Alpacas.

Pear.

Thesis + Anthesis = Synthesis.

Discuss.

Wallnuts After Dark

You know, as Sinatra used to say, “A good tune is a good tune no matter who does it.” He was right about that.  It don’t matter who sings a song, if it’s a good song, with a good band and a good arrangement, it sounds good.

The Beatles was a good example a this, too. Frank used to say, “People think they are bunch a long hairs, but they write great tunes.” Sure, not every tune is gold, but even DiMaggio made an out now and then. Na mean?

Take this Paul Anka fella. He wrote some great songs, and he wrote “My Way,” a song that Frank sung the shit out a and kinda made an anthem out of. A theme song, so to speak. Anka’s still workin’ and makin’ music, and not just the old stuff. He appreciates a good tune whether it be rock or a standard from the old days.

Some of this crap today like Muldoon 5 or that broad with the black hair and big knockers that sang that song about kissin’ another broad and likin’ it who was married to that half-a-Finnoch Brit, or Brandy Spears, and most a the songs you hear on the radio that sounds like a computer sung it, you can all just flush it down the John. It’s worse than disposable. Sure there was crap music in the old days, but the crap is worse now a days.

One thing I always have appreciated – whether I liked ’em or not – is the singer or band that goes out there and plays their stuff and sings and don’t hide behind gimmicks and the nonsense. There’s that bald, sunglasses wearin’ guy who looks like this guy Pep Zazarra who was one a Frank’s old Hoboken goons and he does the Bud Light commercials, some kinda dog name I forget. Come on, what is that nonsense? So anyways…

Funny about this “Smells Like Teen Spirit” tune, but I never could figure out what that Nirvana character was singin’. I remember sayin’ to Jilly Rizzo, “Jilly, I dig this tune but I don’t know what the f@#k this kid is sayin. You know what I’m sayin’?” Jilly wasn’t much into rock so he’d just lean over and change the station or shove a Sinatra tape into the 8-track player. I had the last 8-track player GM ever installed in a Coup de Ville. I can still get any album on 8-track tape. It pays to have Union ties. Ya mean?

Anyways, it was a good tune, I just needed to hear it better and Anka laid it down – for me – in a way I could unnnerstand. Kinda like when a skell owed the Scarfos the Vig on top a the loss and Skinny D’Amato had to explain to ’em that if they didn’t pay up they’d get punched in the ass. Especially the line about the Mulatto. Am I right when I say that, Reverend Chad?

So I guess you can say that Paul Anka helped me “get” “Teen Spirit” like it was the threat a gettin’ an Ass Punch.

Ask DB1: NBAbags?

——————–

Hey,

Michael

—————-

It all began in the 1990s with these two, and it got far worse in the 00s, but it’s recently gotten a lot better. The NBA is still filled with sportsdouchery, but humility and passion seems to be replacing preening and spectacle, so I’d argue that there is hope.