Mister Zebracrotch
Interesting footnote to history, Pablo Picasso was originally nicknamed “Mister Zebracrotch.” But Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole.
The Orangenesss is strong in Granddaughter Karnie. She must resist the genetic impulse, or rampant boatbaggery will soon ensue.
Maceo Discovers His Thumb
Maceo like thumb.
It help him pee.
Kendra has crazy eyes. But don’t pretend it wouldn’t stop you from buying her a fourteen dollar Mai Tai. Because it wouldn’t. And you know it.
Dialing It Back with Minor Hipster Pudliness and Healthy Female Ubergnaw
Yikes, those last two posts were pretty revoltingly high for sheer wrongess of potentially real coital coupling.
And that just makes your humble narrator scratch himself furtively and engage in primal alcoholism.
And you don’t wanna see me engage in primal alcoholism. It’s what psychoanalytic theorist Lacan would describe as “The Self/Other Fortified Wine Stage.”
So we’ll dial it back with some quality hottness and only minor hipster pudness violations on the part of Trent and Kenny.
But if you want to keep up the karmic pain of uberdouche going, there’s always Douchebag Eyeball Lick. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The White Shadow
You know who doesn’t approve of The White Shadow’s greased up Miami Beach macking on part time model, Tatanja?
Bobby and Frankie. Who just wanted a beer.
And Snoop Dog. Who just wants to act on your TV in peace.
The Tuxedobag
About time we ran another one of the prime categories of choad running free on our streets like so many Brazilian street urchins.
No sub-category needed for The Tuxedobag.
He is Tuxedo. And he is ‘Bag.
Gillian is that cute girl you met in human resources on your first day of your first job after college, and thought to yourself, “I can’t believe I’m working a real job! And I totally have a chance with her!” Six months later you were fired. And no you didn’t.
Wimpy The Cinch Sack
Oh sure, you’d like to pretend Wimpy The Cinch Sack’s shameless mugging of Genevieve is pure Halloween something or other.
It can’t be real, you tell yourself.
No one looks like 80s rocker vomit in their own A.D.T. secured faux foyer.
No one gets E.T./Jesus heartlight tatts across their chests and still scores tiny taut brunette suckle thigh.
It just can’t happen.
Breaking: Some Hot Australian Actress Is Dating Some Rocker Turd Colon
In “Celebrities You’ve Never Heard Of” news, some Aussie hottie actress named Nicki Whelan showed up at some event thingy on some day or another, and turned out to be dating some heaping serving of rockerchoad.
Thought I’d “break” this “breaking” story because I know how much you care about the goings-on of people who aren’t interesting, have northing to say, but help to sell colory pictury magazines to rolly polly housewives at supermarket checkout lines in flyover states.
And because I like to stay plugged in to the latest Hollywood news. Me and Billy Bush are, like, sympatico.
Speaking of Billy Bush, there’s a turd who just won’t flush.
Okay, enough Hollywood shoescrape. No one cares. Back to real people.
But man oh chewtoy, this Nicki chick is a tasty Aussie Peach. I’d crack spunk a garglety kracken just to gnaw suckle fondle thigh.
Tapless in Seattle
I sense a wacky rom-com written by an Ephron and with a score by Harry Connick Jr. At some point Rosie O’Donnell will show up and make wisecracks.
And then I will commit seppuku.
Justin Timberfake
He’s bringing douchey back.
Pumped up Heidi will smack my bare bottom with a ruler. Because I didn’t finish my porridge.
HCwDB of the Week: Minnesota Marnie and Dieter
While last week saw a number of potential Weekly Winning hottie/douchey cohabit, and while Marnie isn’t our traditional hott munch, the combo of Orange Dieter and sweet girl-next-door innocent was all this site was set up to combat.
And while it was a busy and productive week of mock in which we met the European Jan Lärggmän, and also enjoyed some quality Golden Globes, I probably should’ve given the award to Androgyne Satan and Hott.
But I just can’t get around Dieter’s smug punchworthy Orangeness and Marnie’s midwestern innocence.
So chalk up the Weekly to the creepy pairing of utter and infathomable wrongness.
And your humble narrator stumbles into the kitchen over the ferret breeding cage to enjoy a tasty bowl of Count Chocula. Fortified with 9 essential vitamins and minerals. So it’s good for me.
