Thursday, December 19, 2013
A Whole Lotta Boing
With a little Faulkner thrown in for good measure.
Hot Chicks With Douche Bags
PICTURES OF HOT CHICKS WITH TOTAL AND COMPLETE DOUCHEBAGS. WITH COMMENTARY.
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Hall of Mock
- Pfah
- DarkSock
- Baron Von Goolo
- Troy Tempest
- Steve L
- Wheezer
- Medusa Oblongata
- creature
- Crucial Head
- Mr. White
- Archidoucheis
- Mr. Biggs
- Vin Douchal
- Sergeant Scrote Stain
- boatbutter
- Captain Bringdown
- Whoop-di-douche
- Jacques Doucheteau
- massengill
- Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche
- Mr. Scrotato Head
- Deltus
- The Reverend Chad Kroeger
- mr.reeve
- Wedgie
- Et Tu Douche?
- Eliza Douchcoo
- dbBen
- soy bomb
- DoucheyWallnuts
- I R A Darth Aggie
- jonezy
- Hermit
- Chris in ‘Baghdad
- Douchble Helix
- the douche is alright
- Choad the Douche Sprocket
- Stephanie
- The Dude
- Dude McCrudeshoes
- Sir David Douchenborough
- Il Douché
- Bag A
- douche equis
- Capt. James T. Douche
- Charles Nelson Douchely
- THEONETRUEDOUCHE
- Merle Baggard
- ehcuodouche
- Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifelt
- Charles Douchewin
- FredN.
- Ol' Dirty Douchebag
- In memoriam: bcs
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Hall of Hott. And by Hall of Hott, I mean I just ejaculated.
The fires of Hell lap at these scuzzbuckets.
.
P.S. Another mentally challenged pic?
DW is probably right.
.
But I’mmmmm, not sure. I think we’ll need to see MOAR pics before any votes are cast.
.
.
.
UnrenoBeliveable.
Hall of H( . )( . )ters! With a ‘tard.
Boobies.
.
That is all.
Whodafuq is calling for HOH? She’s got a mustache, zeppelin titties, and a spastic wrist and nose (respec-tard)
My vote?
Hall of Not.
Massive set of jugs, though.
That bad douchebag just stuffed an inflated inner tube inside her shirt, right?
Tits turned to missiles
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
I’d do her if she had a vestigial penis, who cares if she has a moustache. Son.
I know we need better pictures, but this is mysterious enough to give me wood. And by wood, I mean wood.
I totally recall seeing her before.
Deadly Missile Breasts
Motorboating Homicides
Found Her Next Victim
Her Massive Gaboons
Like to Vacation Year ’round
Spend time in Arm Pits
“Pound me by the sea”?
How did they get to that location? Motorboat.
For FT&L, this had gotta be a book recommendation by Douchy Wallnuts: http://www.amazon.com/Johnny-Carson-Henry-Bushkin-ebook/dp/B00CICPU4O/ref=dp_kinw_strp_1
.
Here is an excerpt synopsis:
Johnny Carson! I just read the new book about him by his lawyer and confidant Henry Bushkin. It’s really about what it means to have been a celebrity in the 1960s and 1970s, and reads like something from another century. So Bushkin tells the following story: Carson used to hang out at a bar run called Jilly’s, on 52nd Street and Eighth Avenue in Manhattan, which was a big mob hangout. One night, Carson got very drunk and hit on an attractive woman at the bar who turns out, unfortunately, to be the girlfriend of a major Mafia guy.
Carson gets thrown down the stairs and escapes more serious injury only because “Jilly,” who is everything the name “Jilly” would suggest, steps in. The mobster then puts a contract on Carson’s life, who — terrified — holes up in his apartment and misses three consecutive shows. Desperate, NBC gets in touch with an agent at William Morris known to have an in with the mob, who brokers a deal with Joseph Colombo, the head of the Five Families, in which the contract is lifted in exchange for NBC agreeing to cover the Italian American unity rally on Columbus Day.
And he looks like a homosexual.
Dayum! Hott is defying the Law of Gravity!
And she met me by my semen.
The fight over who gets the most mirror time before they go out must be epic.
They might not be real but they are spectacular. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
As a published literary scholar, I applaud the author’s perspicacity in his identification of the Faulknerian dimensions of this otherwise unassuming photograph. The tragicomic douchebag (pictured right), takes sanctuary: a moment away from the sound and the fury of the scrote-spackled town. Ironically bejeweled and gaudily bedecked in his rural Mississippi, hamlet-of-Absalom Sunday best, he grasps desperately at his last pre-diabetes cup of bathtub applejack and what is likely his first cousin or youngest sister, while the last light of August burns red over a post-confederate landscape bereft of either joy or possibility. This unlikely antihero clings to an unlikelier scaffold supporting two of the finest examples of southern gothic majesty yet recorded by historian or poet.
Man’s folly is his destiny; death his only calling–but as the ‘bag lies dying, he may reflect upon the moment of the full meridian of his glory and that night when he, gone down like Moses, exceeded his genetic potential and achieved the transubstantiation of the douche: the desecration of the Bleeth.
–QED.