Ned Wilson Likes the Boobies
Ned Wilson, the lost Wilson brother of the once famous but rapidly descending into pimping cell phones acting family, really, really likes the boobies.
And while Ned Wilson’s really not all that douchey, and probably deserves a nottadouche, Belinda’s perfect Holy Cleavite and yet douchey expression offers such a prime example of the Douchadox, I had to run the pic.
That and I’m already sugar highed out on pixie sticks and pop rocks. Stupid half price sale at Jack’s.
Razorpud
Razorpud may represent all that is aging, castrated and market coopted about the last vestiges of 80s punk aesthetic.
But, more due to happenstance than plan, Razorpud’s embrace of Melanie does offer us a hallowed glimpse of The Holy Hottie Back Arch.
And we must appreciate. For it is firm, flexible, supple arch and gummy gnaw slappy pinch.
Stackhouse The Poet Is Not Impressed
2010 Douchebag of the Year, Stackhouse The Poet, laughs at the aspiring douchery of Pukey Bowie.
Only the chosen few can mack on Tiny Sally by a trash pile while shirtless and busting D&G douche belt.
Because only the chosen few can rise (fall) to the lofty pudwankery and gradual descent into semi-employed bloat by the mid 30s that is The Stack.
EDIT: Stackhouse free associates.
HCwDB of the Week: Pukey Bowie and Hott Jenn
There were Bropecs and Scarf Fail. Strapperface and Ziggy the Sneery Mug Guy. There was even Granpa Chin.
But none of the past two weeks of Hottie/Douchey cohabit quite made me spit on a nun and bitch slap a penguin quite like Pukey Bowie, he of the rocker douche genus, and Hott Jenn’s giggley giggles.
Not even the closest runners up (and likely 2011 Douche Award nominee in something), the rank Captain Lubing and perfect Tracey Gnaw.
With a two week backlog to go through, as last week was the Monthly, it came down to which douche was most punchworthy in presence of tasty hott.
And Pukey Bowie, with his rockerbag assrankery, his everything that pisses you off in the post college years, combining with tasty curvy Hott Jenn, was just too much piddle out the rear of a poodle.
So while it’s an early Monday morn, and your humble narrator is stumbling around his living room trying to remember how to make coffee, even with a sweet new Keurig machine, this is an award well deserved.
Mark the Puker Bowie and Hott Jenn as the first and well deserved entrant in the next HCwDB of the Month.
And the DB1 for Cocoa Puffs.
Chee Wants to Teach You “Ball Change”
Watch closely, kids. Douche dancin’ ain’t for beginners.
Comment of the Week: Hermit on Hipsterbags
As there is so much genius in the comments threads, I’m gonna start highlighting a Comment of the Week.
This week, the award goes to Hermit for the following in yesterdays Burningbags thread:
—–
Phish may suck, and hipster bags come and go, but give them their small ounce of credit for leaving the safety of their suburban prisons where, like their mothers and fathers before them, they circle their neighborhood cages in a pointless dance of redundancy. The electrical impulses course through the deadened synapses of their broken nervous systems. It drives them onward to inevitability. They flood the highways and interstate loops like lemmings in a high speed funeral procession.
High fences and corrugated metal attempt to hide the ugliness of the machine with grease and blood oozing from corroded mechanized biceps. Motor homes with moldy mattresses, plastic wood and dried semen on the frayed and faded curtains. They turn their heads away pretending not to see. They dazzle their eyes, staring blankly into lighted monitors and screens of plasma while their own corpuscles, blood and plasma become corrupted, eating them as the virus spreads.
A single blackbird tugs at a shredded fabric softener sheet, oblivious to the conformity of the sculpted golf course. A place where emasculated semi-men hide from their domineering wives in a failed attempt to preserve what’s left of their testosterone, which is slowly being extracted from their pores by their women, talking heads on TV sets, and the machine, as it grinds and churns.
Wrap-around uni-shades is already balding and running out of time. Large-breasted, braless and sunburned Earth Mother‘s boobs are maturing into the matronly flesh hammocks Grandma warned her about.
Time is running out.
So drop your acid, endure the dust and hordes of copy-cat, drunken non-conformists, and have Daddy’s Winnebago back by Monday.
——
Wanna nominate a future comment for Comment of the Week? Drop me an email with the comment and thread name.
EDIT: Due to 300+ spam posts overnight, comments have been temporarily disabled for this thread until the Spam Hose is turned onto some other lucky WordPress blog.
Friday Thoughts and Links
Your humble narrator is trying to get healthy on this lazy California Friday as he stares at Bropec douche and absolutely perfectly taut and full of firmness and female win, Mira the Tasty Ambiguously Asian Hott, as Vegas brings them together in unholy tandem.
No more HoHos. I’m on a Hostess-less Fast.
For at least a week. Or maybe just three or four days.
I gotta go at least 48 hours.
Ah screw it.
Mmmm… HoHos.
Here’s your links:
RIP to the late, great actress Elisabeth Sladen, “Sarah Jane Smith” from the old Doctor Who. I felt the first pull of the Hott at the age of four while watching Doctor Who on PBS.
The Grieco finds work. Corman style.
Fake intellectual and guy who isn’t as interesting as he thinks he is, NBC’s Brian Williams disses hipsters. Occasional forays into pop culture riffing can’t save the soul of a clown who makes a living offering up false equivalencies with a furrowed brow and a fancy tie.
U.S. Lacrosse now selling douchecessories. Et tu, Lacrosse? Very depressing.
The Faces of Cochella. Kind of like “Faces of Death,” only with less monkey skull and more patchouli.
Stiller and Meara remain comedy legends. Even their stools pwn Carrot Top.
Speaking of comedy, Patton Oswalt rules. “Well here’s Jon Voight’s ballsack!” for the epic win.
Crazy eyed hot chick brings the psycho sexy, goes to Lil’ Wayne Concert, runs into HCwDB legend The Spiker (at 3:20). The Spiker lurks.
But you are not here to watch crazed eyed psycho hotts run around Lil’ Wayne concerts videoing themselves. You are here for pear. Here you go, you’ve been good:
Mmm… like the Battle of Bunker Hill, only with firmer glutes than Martha Washington had.
No idea what I’m saying. Another week has passed. Enjoy its end with spirits and crackers.
Graham Wears Some Jesus Bling, Finds Wax Fruit Boob
Graham don’t get out much.
Pushing 40 and living in Jersey City, Queens, just don’t bring the party like Graham thought it would.
But every so often, Graham busts the Jesus Bling.
Okay, why’d I really run this pic?
Barbie Side Boob.
Firm. Plasticy. Pretty and bitable like wax fruit.
It deserved to be observed.
Friday Haiku
Homie Ralph watches,
As strippers enact story,
Of America.
Here we see rendered
The heart-rending narrative
Of Poke-n-Hump-Ass
— DarkSock
Red feather squeals, no!
As “walks for doughnuts” watches
Please scalp me quickly
— Master Pee
Ralph strokes his short cue
Eight ball in corner pocket
Indians mess with his game
— THEONETRUEDOUCHE
VInce Neil, on the left,
proves that it’s better to burn
out than fade away
— Mr. White
Many moons ago,
A tax-free casino rose
Sasquatch bought a shirt
— saulgoode42
First our land. Now our
hotts. Get lousy casino
as reparations?
— Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche
Ralph looks like he stole
a samurai’s bamboo breast-
plate…no, he’s just fat.
— idfma
Burningbags
Hey Hippiebags! Phish sucks!
EDIT: As a number of ‘bag hunters in the comments thread pointed out, these are not, in fact, hipsterbags. They are hippiebags. I’ve amended the post to more accurately reflect the tag. Good work, and good point, fellow hunters.
