The 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.
Brad Has Hand Palsy
I don’t mean to make fun of people with hand palsy.
Only that, for our societal sake, and to preserve what good crotchal feelings I have towards Nice Girl Mona right now, I’m going to assume Waspy Brad from the Hamptons has an incurable form of hand palsy.
It’s the only explanation for this oily, privileged drama major shoescrape’s seriously uberdouchal hand configuration.
The only explanation. Until I’ve had some tasty Kona coffee. Then I’ll reconsider.
Nobody Eats Cheeseburgers Anymore
I don’t know what to make of this pic, except that everyone’s abs look like the brownie mix used to make the alien landscape in the Alien poster.
I suppose in today’s increasingly obese world we should find some merit in overly worked out and semi-starving bodies. And I do. I find merit in Sophie Suckle Thigh. For her tautness, 10 pounds below the pooch suckle I normally approve of, is still quite quarter bouncy.
And by quarter bouncy, I mean playing quarters at Delta Tao Kai the night before a Chemistry final.
The Tim Brothers are douches. Because they are.
Arnie The Hipster Load is Disinterested and Moody Around Giggle Hannah
Because his band Coldplaydoh, like, totally should have hit by now and, like, wtf, man.
Arnie the Hipster Load is the reason why when I lived in New York I wouldn’t go to Williamsburg even if Bernie Goetz was giving out free George Foremans
I have no idea what that means.
But I do know that Arnie the Hipsterload’s undeserving success in any sort of proximity to Giggle Hannah is enough to gob smack a crotch with a pimento loaf.
More evidence: Arnie The Hipster Load Makes the Doucheface.
When Giggle Hannah giggles, it’s like a xylophone under a pool full of jello. Her body jiggles and gyrates like so much firm pudding pop suckle thigh it causes northern mocking birds to quit singing car alarm melodies at 2am and go beat up a ferret.
Reader Mail: The Miami Heatrash
The Thin White Douche checks in:
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After watching the NBA finals I was inspired to do some Miami douche hunting. I’ve come to the conclusion that bag-tagging in Miami is the equivalent of fishing with dynamite, it’s just not fair.
There was just so much choad that at one point I wanted to stab my eyes out and I had to stop for my own well being.
I think Miami has really pulled through and put itself far ahead of LA and Las Vegas as the new douche Mecca of America, even the producers of Jersey Shore realized this fact. Had the Heat won the title there would be thousands of over-tanned, roided-out ,brand-name wearing, Grey-Goose swilling dipshits acting even more douchey than they already are.
What I’m saying is that we might have very well just avoided the douchepocalypse.
——
Interesting theory, TTWD. Miami is one of the three corners of the Unholy Grieco Spirit. Scottsdale and New Jersey form the other two corners.
That being said, Mark Cuban is a huge douche as well.
So no matter what happened in the NBA finals, we’re all a little dirty.
Vancouver 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.
Furby Gets a Nottadouche
Good for you, hirsute red one.
Long may you party with Freshman.
Long may you run with the generic brand Vodka from Rite Aid.
Until the crap job market harshes your mellow.
Where’s Waldouche?: Hott Soup Edition
Sam writes in:
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Twenty-two college freshman hotts accompanied by one bag-a-tron in upper-left. He goes to my university. His grades are terrible. His grandfather invented the magnetic strips that go on credit cards.
Thus this doucher is far from run-of-the-mill sun-glass in the pool douche and in fact, is descendent of douche royalty. One can only guess what hand sign he’s raising, middle finger, peace sign, hang ten, redundant point?
But enough worrying about him and back to the twenty-two fine ladies.
—–
I would rub only the finest of imported Grecian mint jellies upon each of their bellies whilst humming the theme to Night Court in an off-key baritone. Then I would repose quietly to the barn with only a candlestick and a book of poems by Emo Phillips to comfort me through the night.
Long Island Bob and Layla
I’d almost be inclined to give Long Island Bob a rockerbag nottadouche and goinpeace. Even with the Elvis sideburns, the stupid tatts, the silly shirt, and the wriststrap thingy. For Long Island Bob seems relatively benign. Happy to be there.
Just a semi-employed rockerbag who means well and is generally harmless to society.
But then there’s the chin pubes.
And this must not pass.
Douche.
Mmmm…. Slinky Layla. You have legs of purest organic farm raised chicken bone slather chomp. Two taut and tan morsels of munch suckle. I would leech like a hungry Pleco atop an algae wafer for six consecutive sundays, and then return to the Mikveh for ritual penance.
