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The Marissa
I name this scrote in the middle “The Marissa” for personifying a cheap carbon copy of the douched out husband of Marissa Miller, himself a cheap carbon copy of a cactus plant.
Gentlemen. You are spawns of suburbia.
Put down the hair gel.
You are not “punk rock.” You look like a rooster.
Juan on the right looks like he’d rather be tangoing with Smithers to Barry Manilow, so I’ll leave him out of this. And the Long Island twins aren’t Deathtongue Hott, but nothing to sneeze a ferret at.
Friday Thoughts and Links
So what do we make of the Pincushion Twins?
Working for the Weekend. Tackling Long Island Tramphotts on the beach for a picture.
As I reflect on our culture on this Friday afternoon, my thoughts drift to human sexuality.
So often we deny the influences of our culture, our media, our peers, our music, all plays on telling us who we should want to boink with our winkydinks.
We believe we make choices free of influence, while billions generate on our desire to transform ourselves into the one everyone wants to hiney sniff. We flatter ourselves. While the structure profits off our blinders.
But then I remind myself that God didn’t have to invent alcohol. So I got that going for me. Hey Llama, how about a little something for the effort?
Here’s your Friday Links:
What an asshat!
Celebrity HCwDB of the Week: Micky Rourke and Anonymous Hott Model
Douche Pants? $10,000. Moral bankruptcy of the soul? Priceless.
The original John Hughes short story, Vacation ’58, that became the movie. Genius.
I can think of one blog that definitely should not become a TV show. It’s like reading the castrated carcass of the nutsack of satire.
Burning Man. Creative and liberating artistic expression? Or douches by another name?
Temporary Knuckle Tatts offend on so many levels, the Baby Jesus just punched the Baby Buddha in the nuts.
And of course, because I care, HCwDB Celeb hott Marissa Miller Ass Pear.
Go forth, friends. Go forth and liberate the mind. And get some.
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year: Criss Angel and Assorted Hotts
Barely beating out Marissa Miller and her human Ass-Pimple husband, it was the homeless scrote, Criss Angel, and assorted Hotts, for the solid victory and the 2008 Douchie. As Levon puts it:
I vote Criss Angel. He trumps these other mega-tools because he has a uber-shitty cirque du soleil show in Las Vegas. He didn’t even get one star from any of the critics. NOT EVEN HALF A STAR. Both he and his show blow goats and eat cow patties.
And Anonymous:
Criss Angel…easily. Watching the muppets being raped would be more pleasant than staring at this jackass. The fact that he has a veritable army of Hotts is even more infuriating.
And SkyPork:
There is no contest here. Chrisss Angel has created, from the ether, an entirely new dimension of Douche. The scrotosity we see is only a multi-dimensional shadow cast by Crisss’s true form, from a higher plane of doucheal wankism we can’t even detect. Nor would we want to.
And Chris in ‘Baghdad:
“Criss” Angel of course. He is no angel and does not know how to spell Chris. His whole weird go out is demonically creepy, his bling sucks, but he does nail D list sleazy celebrity hotts with regularity.
Woe is the state of the once classy area of performance magic. From Robert-Houdin to Maskelyne to Chung Ling Soo to this.
Here’s your 2008 Douchie for Celebrity HC(s)wDB of the year, Crisss and assorted Hotts. Now saw yourself in half.
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year
Voting is now open for the 2008 Douchie Award for Celebrity HCwDB of the Year:
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year Finalist #1: Marissa Miller and Ass Pimple
The fact that sports illustrated swimsuit model and all-around teeth melting cutie Marissa Miller has chosen not just to cohabitate, but to marry a human ass pimple, has been a plague on our culture all year.
Witness the progression, here, here, here, here and here.
The fact that rectus-hair here actually tattooed Marissa Miller’s face on his arm makes him even more the douchey hangers-on type that Hollywood has crawling all over it.
I want to spray Raid in his face.
Then lick her upper thigh area like a hyper-stimulated orangutan in an illegal experiment involving radiation that Matthrew Broderick is desperately trying to stop.
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year Finalist #2: Spencer and Heidi from MTV’s “The Hills”
I haven’t featured a lot of pics of these two on the site because calling them a classic ‘Bag/’Baguette hottie/douchey coupling would be like observing that ebola is a virus.
Spencer has that classically generic, ethereal ‘bagdom.
Not really sporting annoying tatts, no bling nor outrageous hair (although definite douche-scruff), Spencer’s poo comes from within like a shining E.T. heartlight.
Where’s Neil Diamond to sing when you need him?
Heidi’s got fake boobs and fake everything, but I’d still crawl through a pile of angry fire ants just for the chance to shake the finger of the plastic hand that broke off her childhood Barbie.
Hmm. That fantasy is kinda creepy.
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year Finalist #3: Criss “Poo Face” Angel and Assorted Hotts
Not since the great amateur magician Dr. Hooker fooled Houdini with his “Rising Cards” has a magician bedazzled a viewing audience with his ability to do the impossible.
And by impossible, I mean date anyone other than a lobotized farm animal.
This means you, Criss “Poo Face” Angel.
Witness the magical run of squatitude that began in January and continued here, here, here, here, here and here.
I’m not sure when prestidigitation got this pooey. Just saw the lady in half and link the rings, Crissy.
No need to turn yourself into a homeless half-crazed glue sniffing crack addict with rickets.
Celebrity HCwDB of the Year Finalist #4: The Portman and the Yeti
Because anyone who wears ironic “Cats” t-shirts in foreign languages needs to be gang-raped by a prison gang from Catmandu.
Natalie’s Semitic pixie hottness has long revved my motor like a clean burning Mr. Fusion installed by Doc Brown.
Portman smells like lilacs and we’d lie in bed playing with a feather duster and lightly discuss the genius of Tom Baker’s Doctor Who while sleeping in on a Sunday.
Since broken up, the Portman and the Yeti still haunt my subconscious like a Lacan mirror stage schism between self and Otherness.
Beginning in April and continuing all summer here and here, even the subsequent breakup does not console me.
For Portman must don librarian glasses and yell at me for returning my books late. And I’d pay the fine.
So them’s your four. (Dis)honorable mention to Elisha Cuthbert and the newly unemployed Sean Avery, and also to Mayerbag and Aniston, whom I left off because while Mayerbag is my arch enemy, Aniston just isn’t that hot these days. Hate to say it, but you know I’m right.
Which coupling deserves to win the 2008 Douchie?
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
The Ills
Pointing. At. His. Modified Shocker.
Looks like celebu-couple “Heidi” and “Spencer” (if that is your real names) are making a late push to take the 2008 Douchie for Celebrity Couple.
Tough competition, what with Mayer/Aniston, Criss Angel/Holly Something, Marissa Miller / Ass Pimple, and the Natalie Portman/Yeti disaster from last summer. And possibly Cuthbert/Avery.
But with this pic, they’ve just about locked it up.
Now if I can just figure out who they are…
Friday Thoughts
As I gaze at Marissa Miller, Sports Illustrated model and wife of a cactus douche, party with a Hippie Scrote, I reflect on the week.
The hott. The choads. The collective Jungian unconscious that shrieks in primal horror at tight Armani-Exchanges of our souls.
I gaze out my window at the hazy airplanes cutting through the Los Angeles smog in the distance. I find my slightly befuddled thoughts drifting back. High school. Yael.
Dark hair, exotic, tiny, with perky boobies and glasses. She was the female Clark Kent of sexy bouncy boobie hott. Nerdy by day. Sex kitten superhero by night.
In a red cape, boots and lace garters with superpowers. Or at least that’s how I imagined it, sitting behind her in math class.
Then on Senior Skip Day, I finally approached her at my friend Kevin’s beer party. She flirted back. We made small talk. I stared at her boobs while she was refilling the ubiquitous red cup at the keg.
And then she left with Sean. Greased up fifth year senior Sean, who was suspended for hitting another kid in the head with a hockey stick. Uberdouche Sean, who spit when he talked, and smelled like onions.
This PBR is for you, Sean.
Somewhere out there, you’re still a douche. And someday I’ll find your picture. And mock you in pixelated form on this site.
But until then, I’ll dream of Yael. And stare at Marissa Miller’s boobs.
