Friday Thoughts and Links
I just drove by three mules by the side of the road on a dusty Los Angeles street.
On one of the mules was the following link written in gaffer’s tape.
I have read that link.
And I feel enlightened.
At least enough to ignore oily eurodouche hitting on barely legal Swedish Fish.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB DVD Pick of the Week: “A putz? What’s a putz? It’s somethin’ bad, isn’t it? You better take that back or I’m gonna kick your fuzzy butt!”
World’s oldest douchebag corpse discovered! The battle has been long and complex.
Ripped abs or gay porn? Hard to tell anymore.
Bro-ing it up with URC this weekend? Use this handy kegulator.
Twenty-something Brooklyn Herpster tries to defend herpsterism on the merits. Use of “Beer Garden” as a concept = autodouche.
Fun with photoshop: Trekdouche. “Damn it Jim! I’m a scrotebag, not a choadlick!” Or something.
For the lady who has everything: Vibra-finger.
Here’s a fairly amusing parody of an Instagram Hipster Artist.
Sophia Vergara has a’spicey meatballs.
For the philosophers among us: How to explain Heidegger to Douchebags. Screw it, lets open up a restaurant in Santa Fe.
Okay, you’ve been good. Have some.
Real World Adjustment Pearo.
Not enough? Okay, one more. Because I like you:
Like choral harmonies from 17th Century European Indentured Servants. If 17th Century European Indentured Servants were glute chompy chomps.
Friday Haiku
After seeing Jill
Todd was unable to get
Her ass off his mind.
Wearing an Ass Hat
Is better than being one
This douche managed both
— DoucheyWallnuts
Jills prolapsed colon
looks eerily similar
to my mechanic.
— Not Safe For Rest (NSFR)
Jill’s pear needs a rest
Todd is mistaken for stool
happens all the time
— Douche Springsteen
The Porn Convention
Was going well until Sue
Pooped a Latino
— saulgoode42
Those Hollywood Nights
Hollywoodland.
Where a no-talent ass clown not named Michael Bolton Christian Audiger can make millions by dressing people like clowns.
And by selling this.
Even Mickey’s in on the disgrace.
But still Hollywood sells its dream. The land where the boobies beckon.
But so does the craziness.
Alissa Takes the Pepsi Challenge
It involves garish taste in clothes, excessive hair gel, words pronounced without the “r” sound, and a frightening rash on the inner thigh.
Herpsters Ruin Pabst Blue Ribbon
There was once a time when Pabst Blue Ribbon was the beer of choice for coolness.
That time is no longer.
Atoning for Alpacas
Your humb narras will be spending the day atoning for a whole host of personal deconstructions, not the least of which involves my unhealthy obsession with sexy, sexy alpacas.
I imagine them in the sweetest of knee socks and skirts.
Making sexy falsetto mews and brays.
And I am shamed in the eyes of Adonai.
An even greater sin because the great Hebraic prophet, Moab, explicitly condemns alpaca fetishization in “Psalm Like it Hot.”
And then there’s my unhealthy obsession with treyf Pear. Perhaps more understandable, since Maimonides himself was a huge Pear fanatic.
But still.
All will resume tomorrow.
Shofar so good.
I blame that last pun on your moms.
Potato-Chip Hitler Does Not Approve
Potato-Chip Hitler does not approve of Ciggy McGoebbels hitting on Aryan Anna.
This post brought to you on Yom Kippur Eve by a Jew who now has one more thing to repent for tonight.
Mack the Nozzle's Sad Decline Continues
Next up: Selling water bottles by the vending machines at the Super-8 Motel out by I-95.
Such is the declining life of the party douche with face tatts. You made that choice long ago, Mack. Francine is long gone. She married an Asian Design Major and bought a house in Decatur.
Reader Mail: The Twenty-Five Pound Watch
Morbo sends in this pic along with an astute commentary:
———-
DB_1,
Saw this over on the thereifixedit.com blog and felt it could stand for a little internet cross-pollination.
It’s the concept of the 10-pound watch taken to its illogical extreme.
Adding to the douchebaggery is the look on the wearer’s face. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He didn’t pull this stunt because he desperately needed to know what time it was and his actual wristwatch was broken, and his cellphone died. This asshole is craving attention, desperately wanting someone to ask, “Hey man. What’s up with the clock on your wrist?”
He would then play it off as if it weren’t much at all, when deep down he was giving himself a high-five for being so cutting-edge and cool. In fact, I bet this is the third time this week he’s worn this thing. Hell, the poor bastard sitting in front of him probably has a Grade 2 concussion from getting conked in the head every time the bus goes over a bump.
I feel like the fate of our long-running battle with douchebaggery hinges on the guy in the seat.
He is The Chosen One, though he knows it not.
If he looks up and asks about the clock, we all lose. Flava Fred here gets his moment of glory and he will lead an army of numbnuts across the Earth for the next millenium. Even a snarky comment means victory for Flava Fred.
If Seat Guy continues to look at his phone, quietly gets up at his stop and shuffles off to work, we win.
Stay strong, dude. Stay strong. We’re all counting on you.
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