Vegas
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Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Phlippy Does the “White Man’s Overbite”
But if you ever want to impale a sparrow, mid flight, just toss Phlippy in a field and have him nod.
Carly may not be A List stomach pooch hottness, but any girl willing to wear frilly stuff at the pool gets points via the beer goggle method.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011Gretchen’s Mole
Mole.
Perhaps unfair? Okay, lets mock the hat. Although Gretchen’s Baguette status is equally unfortunate.
Mole.
Monday, June 20, 2011Vegas Jake Approves of Roastbeef
Vegas Jake, so generically a standard issue Vegas rocker pud he blends in with the drapes, approves of the ‘Beefer and Nikita Twins winning the weekly.
Vegas Jake believes his chin fung differentiates him from the rest of the Vegas douchescrote. Vegas Jake is wrong.
Oh, Rebecca. How the beginnings of your soft pooch belly hint at porcupine dreams of sunlight clown slappy slap bacon bacchanal. I would ice cream your slather bobs with tempura tapas, and then glide softly betwixt your heaving bosoms with only a melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup for sustenance.
Even if there is Douchey Jesus bling atop your toppy top. I will forgive. Because the Douchadox contradiction means I am fallible.
Thursday, June 16, 2011The Hardy Boi and the Case of the Disembodied Legs
I’m just not sure trying to update old childrens books series by adding the hip-hop grunge tip is really going to work, publishing world.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011Vancouver Jake Goes to Vegas
And finds some ‘Nilla/Mocha love.
Vancouver Jake demonstrates the rare “shirt over head” move. Rank enough to cause his belly button to puke up a hairball.
The ladies may not be top shelf premium Glengarry Scotch, but they do offer a steadfast refusal to become soccer moms. Even as the winds of fate swirl with gimpses of future SUVs and trips to Chuck-e-Cheese. In the meantime, boobies.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011Martin, The Douchiest Slacker This Side of the Mississippi
Somewhere, a far way away in Mississippi, a trailer is missing its douchebag.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011Bird Poo on a T-Shirt
There’s a significant amount of critical discourse and cultural detritus we could unpack from this image.
Instead, I’ll simply point out: Bird Poo on a T-Shirt.
And boobies.
Phenomenal, phenomenal boobies.
Like ripe melons in the garden of Gesthemane. I would pluck and nuzzle and sacrifice a goat to Ganesh in thanks.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011Prince Meatwad Gives Orders
“Fetch my servant wenches, Squire! Bathe them! Shave them! And bring them to me!”
“Uhm, Prince Meatwad? Things like that aren’t really done in this country. Individual autonomy, human rights and all that.”
“No? Well then scratch my “Pacas” belly tatt.”
“Uhm. Okay.”
Tuesday, May 3, 2011Tuesday Evening on HCwDB
I sit at my ‘puter and contemplate the faux.
It points.
In space and time.
It points.
In abstract crisis, it points to a netherword of flushy turds and chin fung and stupid-ass skulls that make 22 year olds feel powerful even through it’s Granma Clara’s checks that pay the rent on the studio off the strip while they go to bartending school and dream of someday dealing ‘Jack at the Palms.
So it’s Tuesday ‘eve.
Your humble narrator cracks a Mr. Pibb. Which pwns the Pepper.
A scratch and whiff.
And my gaze drifts to taut belly pooch suckle slap on Marissa and her naughty brunette friend, Cecilia.
They pillow fight at night while giggling and then they do each other’s toenails.
And so the fight against Faux must continue. Mr. Pibb or no Mr. Pibb.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011Signs of the Douchepocalypse #44
“And lo, when the douche clouds of bodyspray have gathered over the Vegas of Las, and the pud named Joey makes a peace sign, The Gatekeeper will massage the Keymaster with oils, and Gozer the Douchestroyer will rise again…”
— The Book of the ‘Bag, Hardrockius Douchebagus subsection
