Ball Don't Lie
In sports, when a referee makes a bad call and the subsequent play goes against the team that benefited from that bad call, fans use the simple koan, “ball don’t lie.”
This beautiful three word expression speaks to a reality beyond our subjective experience.
People, like referees, may refuse to see the world accurately.
But truth will out.
The scales will balance.
Cosmic justice will eventually be served.
One of the unifying themes of the hottie/douchey couplings we study here at HCwDB involves the abject panic of growing up. Notice I don’t describe this as a panic over growing old. Although that is certainly a part of it.
So much of peacocking spectacle is about the fear of maturity. Growing up is the figuring out of some semblance of meaning and direction that lies beyond the here and now. Of needing to get a job.
Have children. Pay bills.
Pumped up Morty and Letita here are case in point. Old enough to know better. Refusing to give up the inflated dream of enhanced spectacle.
Fight it for as long as you want, guys. In the end, ball don’t lie.
She has a decidedly masculine face. Me no likee. Morty looks like he sells used cars.
The dress pants/shirtless look could be the next trend. He needs to shave his forearms. And by shave his forearms, I mean I’d bang her, Man-Head and all.
She’s an attractive Man-Head. Especially her bolt-on jugs.
Morty is the type of guy whose flexing is very Pavlov’s dog in application. Picture the nightmare scenario … Getting changed in a locker room after some physical activity. In one walks and sees Morty. Morty stands up straight – a feat unto itself as he looks screamingly gay – and flexes. Look at his arms. He’s no stranger to striking a pose. And the Soviet-era slowness of his neural function can be read like a cheap airport novel. *I look pretty good for an old guy, yeah?* Morty you pretentious, mewling inbred cunt, selling crap on the shopping channel is your best career prospect. Y’all have a nice day now!
Dude, put a nice button down shirt on, keep you tighty-whitey’s out of site, and I’ll give you a notta-and-a-go-and-find-piece with your girl who probably can suck chrome off a trailer hitch.
Nice side boob. By the way, did anyone see American Hustle? It’s not as good as Wolf of Wall Street, but it has the most side boob in the history of cinema.
Her eyebrows have a coital cum-hither-betixt-mah-titters look that really helps tie the room together. The room being her silicon valley.
Jeez Morty, lighten up on the hair dye.
I don’t even wanna know why Morty has a gold chain stickin’ outta the back of his pants or what it’s connected to. I know Pat knows the answer and (s)he doesn’t look like (s)he’s gonna tell about it soon.
.
.
.
.
.
.
See ya later dicks!
FUCK these two. The both of ’em: Me first, cuntrag, conceited twats that have huge inflated images of themselves.
.
The fucking torture being in the same room as these two if you had to witness any sounds coming from their magpie cake holes. Shut the fuck up
These two having sex sounds like overinflated balloons rubbing together and smells like month old bologna.
She has a cock.
Tits on the other hand- they lie all the fucking time.
.
Thems some fake tits in that pic undoubtedly, but sometimes you really don’t know and can’t tell. Til you get your hands on em…
.
My traditional response when asked by the ladies about the fake tits thing, generally them saying they want to get them. I says, in theory, they are very nice- what’s not to like. But in practice, aka, playing on them like a 4 yr old on the worlds coolest playground, they are worlds apart. Those fakies just aren’t as fun in practice, in prime time, during the real test.
.
I says.
.
Did I mention fuck you all?
also, the Workaholics episode from the other night had them fish slapping each other and had me wondering if those guys are regs on here with a subverted shout out to all of us and the Legendary Fish Slap.
.
Unlikely, but still pretty fun to see literal fish slapping on tv.
i’d bang her.
.
.
.
.
see ya later dicks
Cover the lower half of her face…g’head, do it…
Bond Villain…
His fly is open or something. What a douchebag.
Did someone paint her gold?
Ultimately, it’s the fear of the irony of their lie. The cultural signifiers they appropriate in the service of spectacle are all the signifiers of maturity: dog tags, booze, heck even muscles have the ancient signifier of ability to labor. But they do not actually have the maturity to face the chaos that our society faces every day in order to survive. And so they contnue to live, the eternal children in the city in the clouds, always afraid of the horrid reality below the surface that the rest of us laughingly deal with on a daily basis.
But, you know, we don’t have the tanning salon subscriptions to go with it.
She has a textbook example of Psycho-Ex-Girlfriend Smile. I shudder every time I see it. It summons forth too many scarey memories. Trust me, my friends, having a stalker is not fun.