Politics Got You Down? Shmegma McWankpuddle and Clarissa Might Have Your Cure
Depressed?
Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives?
You are not alone.
Take solace, my friends.
For this strange odyssey we call 2016 can at least be ameliorated by the shared experience. The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not?
And so here it is. My humble offering of digital solace.
A moment that bridges the divide. An experience writ communal through the bonds of empathy, communication, and tasty snack cake products made by underpaid and unamused assembly line workers.
Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality.
And so I give you Shmegma McWankpuddle commingling holistically with Pert Clarissa. For within this toxic cohabit, each of us can experience a communal revulsion. Her soft talcum booty sullied by tatted up upchuckery. Together, it becomes a collective illogic beyond comprehension. But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. For if you and I can both comprehend this neon titty twister of inanity then surely there is shared experience in this dark journey of life.
Let that collective revulsion be your soothing balm in a hottie/douchey world gone increasingly cray cray. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis. But at least it’s something.
Shemga McSaxomophone’s Jazz Hands Violate Sophia
If toxic hottie/doucheybaggery were jazz, this would be Billie Holliday’s first performance of “Strange Fruit” crossed with Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” and finished off by a Django Reinhardt flamenco riff.
Which is to say a unique amalgam of improvisational choadnuttery.
From Shemga’s chumptastic head tilt to Sophia’s doe eyed vaguely 80s-era Laura San Giacomo luscious Mayan Eye of Coitus, the dialectics of choadal dissonance innovate tonal patterns beyond the everyday fungorgia. For the stench of hair spike semi-employed wank-tool pawing pooch suckle thigh innocence rends the power chords, riffs into dissonance, and transcends into the sublime.
And by sublime, I mean Billy from St. Elmo’s fire sublime.
Which is to say, not.
Little Manbun FuFu
Little Manbun FuFu, hoppin’ through the party, scooping up the field hotts and roofyin’ them in the head…
This is our world.
Furry mustachio twipples wander our post-‘bag landscape like so many brain eating culture zombies. As if millions of Coachella Snapchats cried out at once and were suddenly silenced. This skeezy hairstrosity must not stand. And by stand, I mean allowed to carry an iPhone and almond milk in the same hand.
“Hark!“, you cry. “Who arst thou to criticize? Why hast thou forsaken the mock?”
‘Tis true. I have forsaken the mock to pursue other pursuits. After years of Hottie/Douchey deconstruction I have headed out on other vision quests. Like obsessively complaining that brilliant b-movie thespian Debra Blee, star of “Malibu Bikini Shop” and “The Beach Girls” does not automatically appear in polls of hottest 1980s actresses. This is a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a Travis Barker. It cannot abide. Debra Blee’s luscious lasciviousness must be worshiped by a new generation. Or John McCain died in vain.
But that does not mean that someone still does not need to put their foot down about hottie/douchey conflation in our post-hipster manbunned landscape. Nor that that foot is not me. Because two negatives make a positive. And too many positives means you’re Chris Hardwick.
Wait, what was I saying?
Oh, right. Johnny?
DJ Hand Palzee Rocks Au Pair Krista
Don’t judge.
Sometimes Sammy Markowitz needs a break from his middle management job at Glen Cove Key Foods.
So he takes that volunteer DJ job at the Westchester YMCA on Tuesdays from 8-10. He calls himself ‘DJ Hand PAlzee.’ Because his hands. They have the palsy. And because, hey, free hot wings.
Besides. Sammy never knows. Maybe he’ll get lucky and meet one of those wayward European au pairs being exploited by upper middle class Port Washington two income families under the guise of ‘education internships.’
And so, on this Tuesday, Sammy gets lucky. He meets Krista.
It’s her one day off after another 80 hour week providing childcare for ‘Brynn,’ ‘Kaelynn,’ and ‘Dylan-Hunterr.’ She’s entitled to a drink.
Sammy’s just finished spinning a song by the Weeknd. It turns out the Weeknd can’t feel his face. It’s about cocaine. So it’s edgy.
The song ends and Sammy pays for Krista’s Bud Light Lime.
“Danke!” she says.
He says “What’sup, Bae? You lookin’ fine!”
She doesn’t speak much English and so ignores his awkward, quasi-racist appropriation of hip hop culture. But Krista smiles politely anyway. Like Homer Simpson when he met the Smashing Pumpkins.
And all is copacetic in the echo chambers of suburban youth confusion.
Footbag A.J. McCarron and his Wife Confirm The Existential Vortex of a Soulless Universe
Proving the old Knute Rockne adage that the harder you play the game the more your douchey-ass tatts make nearby ferrets upchuck their partially digested acorn seed, Footbag A.J. McCarron is currently married to this delightful slice of Key Lime Hottpie.
Bro Ted in the background does not deserve to be caught in the photographic crossfire of this missmatched coupling atrocity.
Throw the flag! Ten yard holding penalty! And various other sundry football euphemisms involving tight ends and penetration draw plays that should be readily apparent to even the most novice ‘bag hunter or huntress.
But your humble narrator will not resort to such lazy verbiage. For ours is a classy website replete with only original humor.
So let me merely say that this A.J. is the douchiest A.J. since O.J. D.J’d for Jay-Z by playing the Beatles’ Blue Jay Way.
Yeah.
Okay then.
Now you know why I update HCwDB less frequently than a Hugh Hefner bowel movement.
Uhm.
Yeah.
Wanna play cards?
In Russia, Douchebag Stop You…
It was the bro-est of times. It was the woo-est of times.
Phineas Squarechinneus Shows Model Melanie His Finger Point Game
Lest one think the days of HCwDB are a thing of the past, I give you…
Toxic Groin Shave Reveal, 2016 Style.
Let’s hope ritualistic shorn testes isn’t a foreboding sign for the new year.
Gym Wildlife
Can’t help but feel the HCwDB community’s years of mock somehow influenced the production of this video. Regardless, I was mildly entertained, even if the joke got old by the third minute. Because I’m impatient like that.
Happy New Year!
Hans Klaussenn Vants You To Party Mit Greta on ze New Years
I can’t tell if it’s the furry leg boots, the weird water bottle utility belt, or the stench of post-Reich fascist mandated dance fun enveloping this lost, wayward collection of Nordic generibots that rankles the pits of my punditry the most.
Alls I know is watching these two shards of electroglide fall into a photo-lens distorted morass of dark ambiguity and bodyspray ennui is enough to throttle all of our gizzards like some lost Herman Hesse novel on the religious profundity of scrotal fungae.
Or maybe it’s just that elbowdanna. –
Regardless, Gretaboobs say Meine Kleine Happy New Yearzenspelche!!
And really, doesn’t that just say it all?
Happy 2016.
From all of us at HCwDB.
Which is still just me.
And my ‘Train. And my brand new renovated kitchen.
The 12 Days of Douchemas
Happy Ramadan!
EDIT: Sadly the video of “The Twelve Days of Douchemas” that posted (via LiveLeak) wasn’t playing right and the great Mr. Scrotato Head appears to have removed the clip from YouTube. Which means it is gone down the memory hole. Alas, alack, it must live on only in our collective memories as the greatest tribute video ever produced.
So instead here’s a pic of two Yuletoads macking on Jenny.
And a few more Christmas HCwDB for your pleasure/pain:
