Meaty Meat Santa Pud and The Paid-to-Pose Elven Hotts Wish You and Yours a Jolly Douchey Christmas!!
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my true blave gave to me… Meaty Meat Santa Pud and the Paid-to-Pose Elven Hotts peeing in the egg noggggg…
Well hello there. Yes. DB1 here. Your humble narrator still wanders the barren landscape of pop culture vibrato.
Still occasionally tripping the riff linguistic with emotive gusto and a packet of HoHos for sustenance.
I may not post all that often these days. But I will do my best to post here and there, or at least every blue moon, in the new year. And then there’s always your noblest of crusaders, DarkSock, leading the regs and bringing the mock via time-travel to 2005.
Christmas may not be my holiday. But it’s most people’s holiday. So on behalf of HC1, BC1, and myself (DB1), here’s hoping you have a Merry Christmas, a Happy post-Hannukah, a Festivus grievance or a Spaghetti Monster’s noodley appendage. Just make sure you never run into this toxic de-coupling, and that the new year will finally see satan’s douche army of Criss Angels macking on tasty brunette cocktail hotts smoted once and for all.
Smited?
Smate?
There is no denying it. The scragglewanks still walk amonst us. Our work is not yet done.
I may no longer lead the daily charge. But I tip my cup of ‘Train to all that carry on this noblest of noblest Tikkun Olam. Fight onward. Mock harder. And repose with an enjoyable, tasty sandwich once in awhile. For that is what the great Warren Zevon recommended before he passed onward to that great kitchen in the sky.
Truer words were never spoken.
Kim Jun Huge says that Rev Chad would even fuck the chink dude in the back.
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Good Mitzvahs to all and to all some good whiskey and hetero anal.
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Son.
Those are the same chicks from Dark Sock’s last Haiku 9-10 years ago.
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Stoooooooooned.
Rev Chad, Great Canadian or the Greatest Canadian? Please discuss.
May your better halfs Ham Dangle™ be glazed, May your Yule Log be firm, May your Egg Nog be spiked and May your Xanax be of a strong does as you head into the gauntlet that is traveling, last minute shopping and the inevitable familial bonding with those annoying cousins you never really liked.
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Carolers
“I’m Dreaming of a Bitch Tits Christmas.”
“All I Want For a Christmas Are My Two Skanky Bleeths.”
“Ave, Maria and Juan”
AFTER “the Crunch”—the total collapse of the global economy—trade seized up, the power grid shut down and paper money became worthless. Riots gutted city centres. Looters picked them clean. Americans went back to growing their own food and bartering with their neighbours. Those who had failed to stockpile beans and bullets were soon hungry and defenceless. The “Great Die-Off” hit Florida especially hard. Millions of suntanned retirees died of starvation or chronic diseases after the government stopped paying for their pensions and pills.
As the godless, fatherless President lobbies to cause the end of the world by supporting riots and sucking Bill Di Blasio’s cock; the police have been armed to the teeth but shackled until the time comes for the illegal executive powers to be used against the people. Enslaved and held down by the repatriated serviceman, National Guard, and Job Corp brainwashed Ritalin focused millenial zombies, a Nation falters at the core of social justice. The blacks and hipsters protest against the Bogeyman who does not exist. The end is nigh as ISIS prepared to execute a pilot.
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The band played on.
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Preppers unite with Hermit against the Machine.
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Jake and Janelle Altmiller survived. They were practical people, who knew how to clean a rifle and install solar panels on the roof. But even for them, life was stressful. Janelle’s sister Rhiannon was working as a missionary in the Philippines, which was being invaded by Islamist radicals from Indonesia. Neither telephones nor the internet worked properly any more. How could Janelle find out whether her sister was alive? And how would any of them survive in a world that was falling apart?
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Start buying ammo, Son. Merry last Christmas.
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15
“Jingle Bell Douche”
The Rev just brought me down…
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Doomsday Cultists
That guy’s arm is so big he should be in the army.
If the end a the world is nigh, as prophesied by the Right Rev Chad, I will choose to live in the past and remember things like the time me and Bobby Goulet was banging 6 a the June Taylor Dancers back stage at a Jackie Gleason Christmas Special down there in Miami Beach, whilst Gig Young and Mitzi Gaynor watched and played nude Pinocle with Count Basie and Lena Horne.
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Or the night in Rome when me, Red Buttons, Yitzak Perlman, Cantiflas, Mario Lanza and Gina Lolobrigida shared a bottle a absinthe and then masturbated at the top a the Spanish Steps, and had to get bailed out a trouble by the Archbishop of Rome.
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Never again will I have a night like the time me, Bill Shatner, Bobby Culp, Twiggy, Barbara Feldon, and the black chick who played the black chick on Star Trek ate a tray a Thai Stick Brownies and drank the Brown Punch whilst reading Beat Poems written by Nuns on Acid in Frisco back in the 60s.
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Life, as The Rev predicts, will be like living in a Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw show and not like being alone with the Lennon Sisters, on a peyote bender in Vegas, driving a convertible Caddie down the strip whist getting head from three different dames, simultaneously. At the same time, I says.
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I’m afraid that New Year’s Eve won’t include pitchers of Martinis, with a never ending cold antipasta spread, fine cigars and top shelf twat, accompanied by a Sinatra Soundtrack. Instead, we’ll have the government cheese, Miller Lite and look to score some Black Market, European smokes that contain actual tobacco instead a that vapor or mist or whatever the fuck those electro cigarettes have in them, while listening to Bruno Marsh, Kathy Perry, or Jordan Timberland. Or some shit.
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Merry Christmas. I need a drink…
This reminds me of the time that DoucheyWalnuts reminded us of the swinging Christmas parties of yore with Skinny D’Amato, Old Blue Eyes and the rest of his crew. Boy I sure could go for one of those right about now.
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^ Damn! DW, you must of been reading my mind
That Lena Horne was one classy Mullattoo dame. Druuuunk.
Santa Pud is like the grease congealed at the bottom of our collective pizza box.
I see Santa Pud put on his best festive footwear for the gig.
[…..driving a convertible Caddie down the strip whist getting head from three different dames, simultaneously. At the same time, I says.]
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While youse wuz driving, DW? Fuccen damn, man, we need cars wit’ dem bench seats ta make a comeback, ya know?
I thought those electro cigarettes were so you could smoke crack on an airplane and shit.
Merry Xricksmas ya filthy animals.
Nothing kills a boner faster than half-naked midgets……
With all this remembernising over the past few days and thinking about the good old days, some other great times came to mind. Like the time me and Scoey Mitchell ate Figgy Pudding out a some duchesses dame’s royal quim over there in Londontown back in th early 70s on New Year’s Eve. That was my first two on one with a colored fella. Oofa.
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Now I know everyone thinks them black guys has bigger joints that the rest a us, but that ain’t so. Well, except for them Asians that got them tiny little mushroom caps down below. But anyways, Scoey had what I would figure to be an average sized bird. Bird, I says.
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The thing that freaked me out was his pubes. I ain’t never seen a black guy’s Gabiles before this little tet a tet with the duchess so, combined with her oversized pubic thatch, I was a little taken aback by the preponderance a private part hair involved in this here particular operation. Taken aback, I says. And by operation I mean we banged that duchess broad good an proper.
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So this duchess had a Duke husband that she said had a massive cock, but he was a full on Finocch and so he had no interest in her lady bits and such. And he was bangin the local Vicar. For years I thought she meant a guy named Victor, but then I got clued in that a Vicar was nothin other than a priest with an English accent. In this case, the Vicar liked to suck dick, to boot.
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Now these duchesses don’t wear no crown like princesses and queens and shit, and I think they’s under the radar as far as all a that royalty family shit goes, and this particular one we tag-teamed was very discreet. And by discreet I mean she gave us head in the backseat a her limo.
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She picked us up at our hotel and we rode to her house for this New Year’s Eve gig in the limo whilst she gave us Royal Skull in an alternating fashion. Royal Skull, I says.
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The Duke was at the shindig with his boyfriend the Vicar, who had a fondness for peyote and buggery, and seemed not to mind at all that the duchess dame was all over Scoey an me. The Vicar also had a younger Finocch with him that he and the Duke was tossin salad with. The duchess said this was a commonplace occurance. Fuckin Brits.
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Anyways, after drinkin plenty a Tanqueray Martinis the duchess grabbed me and Scoey and we headed back to her private chambers with a tray of the aforementioned Figgy Pudding, which we proceeded to rub all over and in her before eating it off a her, and then banged her silly. Silly, I says.
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So when I hears that song about bringin in the Figgy Pudding, I think about that dame.
Here y’go; the last Friday Haiku of 2014, err I mean 2005:
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http://hotchickswithdouchebags.com/blog/2005/03/fraiku-4/
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Unless…there’s a bonus Haiku…
Ha! Well Happy Holidays to DB1!