retro

    Wednesday, September 25, 2013

    8Bit Tux Guy

    8BitTuxGuy

    Remember the Nintendo classic Superdouchio?

    It’s like irony meets herpsterism meets 80s nostalgia and still manages to cuddle up a pic with Chiquita Maria at the Gold Nugget at 2am on a Tuesday.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Monday, July 1, 2013

    Schneider Gets Lucky

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    Give it up for Schneider finally cashing in.

    He’s paid his handyman dues.

    But before you give Schneider crap for cashing in with the cocktail waitresses working the midnight to six AM shift at the old school casino on the strip, know that Schneider also scored this.

    Wifebeater tees.

    Not just for anorexic lesbians.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, April 11, 2013

    “Are you The Gatekeeper?”

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    I don’t know about you, but this HCwDB version of the Ghostbusters scene where Zuul meets Vinz Clortho is all sorts of wrong.

    I hereby object to remaking any more classic 1980s movies in a contemporary milieu.

    Unless that film is “Just One of the Guys” and features CGI young Sherilyn Fenn.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Wednesday, April 10, 2013

    Retro Hollywood: Iron Boy and a Pony

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    Last night’s Bro Hitler pic made my Jewy ass feel guilty about pulling a Godwin. So I took it down. Because Dayenu.

    So instead, here’s a pic from the late 80s or early 90s of Iron Boy with a Pony.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, March 7, 2013

    The Night Belongs to Michelob and the 1980s

    Lately, I find my addled mind drifting to memories of those “The Night Belongs to Michelob” commercials. The mid 1980s. The powerful formative pull of hotties in MTV Duran Duran lighting.

    With enormous, puffy, hairsprayed hair. And way too much lip gloss.

    The unattainable 80s Hottie.

    I’m talking distilled period piece John Landis “Into the Night” Michelle Pfeiffer rouge-cheeked porcelain hottness mixed up in a Don Johnson Tony Scott blender.

    Sax solos.

    Lip gloss.

    Legs.

    Blue filters.

    Sports coats.

    This was Madison Avenue crack juice pumped into my pre-teen fever dreams. Intoxicating promise future-shock.

    mqdefaultUntold adventures awaited. The real adulthood that the parents at the PTA meetings never told you about. Sexual and otherwise. A shimmering, glittering nightlife that wasn’t in no childrens books. A naughty truth that had been banned from the collective memory of suburbia.

    Alls I know was that it certainly didn’t exist in Brookline, Massachusetts. But maybe, possibly, it awaited in the real big city. Once I could get the hell out of the suburban rot and dead streets of existential nothingness. As soon as I turned eighteen, I was out.

    The “Night” belongs to sexy unattainable women. Suddenly attainable. If only I drank the right beer.

    I would buy that beer.

    I would buy any beer I had to to touch hairspray hair and high rouge cheeks.

    So long as that world wasn’t the cruel coldness of high school girls and high school parties and the angst-ridden John-Hughesian miseries of teenage wasteland.

    It may just have been a shimmering music video dream meant to con and dupe the rubes with promise of the unattainable. Finally gonna face it. Addicted to love.

    But promise of the unattainable also inspires poetry and dreaming that can move mountains and motivate the core.

    And so it did for one little white suburban punk.

    Play me out, Eric.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Tuesday, January 22, 2013

    Andrew Douche Clay Hugs the Curves

    Scare-a-Douche Scare-a-Douche Fandango

    Hickory Dickory Dock,
    His hair’s the shape of a block.
    The clock struck two,
    Don’t know about you,
    But her boots I’d love to knock.

    The gauntlet has been thrown.  I declare this to be Limerick Tuesday.  If you think you can lower the bar more than me then click on the comments link and have at.  Son.  

    Perhaps there is a douche / nottadouche subtext here as well?  I must admit…With this PompaDouche here, I can’t decide whether I want to mock him or drink beer with him.

    Or both.  

    And kudos to his brazen fondle of Kim Stackley’s perfect pelvic pooch, for she is verily stacked like a brick shithouse**.

    **That’s high praise for a nice figure down here in the South. Don’t know how they say it in Canada.  Hosers.

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    # posted by DarkSock
    Sunday, January 13, 2013

    “Okay Prime, How Long is My Scarf?”

    I have seen the (retro)future.

    And it is glorious.

    EDIT: Had a premature Saturday epublication. I hate it when that happens.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, September 6, 2012

    The Lincoln Log

    I get that Spielberg really wants the Oscar this year, but this kinda promotional campaign is a bit much.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Monday, July 9, 2012

    They Would Walk 500 Miles…

    …just to buy Kelly a Mai Tai.

    …then talk awkwardly about the local sports team and the weather while a bad Katy Perry song played.

    …then clear their throats.

    …then say “it was nice to meet you” as Kelly headed for the door even though Kelly had another hour on her Corona Light bikini promotion (she quit).

    … then go home to watch midget fetish porn and hold hands.

    ‘Cause you know they’re gonna be, they’re gonna be the douches who gets drunk next to Kelly.

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    # posted by douchebag1
    Wednesday, February 22, 2012

    When Wittgenstein Coughed Up a Furball

    It was a cold November day in a classroom on the lower floor of Cambridge University.

    1923.

    Professor Ludwig Wittgenstein entered from the left.

    He hunched over. The early Fall had brought with it an intemperate chill, and Wittgenstein’s arthritis has tasked his joints unceremoniously.

    Wittgenstein paused.

    Coughed.

    Briefly picked up a piece of chalk.

    Then put it down again.

    Quietly, so soft that only a nearby graduate student could make out what he said, Wittgenstein remarked, “I smell future poo.”

    That future is now.

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    # posted by douchebag1
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