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When Franklyn told Rebecca he had the perfect place to show her his “electric eel,” she thought he meant something else entirely.
Jango Fetthardt
It’s like Jango Fett mated with Django Reinhardt somewhere between Alderaan and a flamenco solo.
And yes, that’s my greatest pop-culture cross-pollination of the month.
Friday Haiku
Crotch first, Glenn triumphs,
Two Russian Cougars from Queens,
And the Hair Point. Dude.
Pointy headed douche
rocks a white belt with mad pride.
It’s right by his junk.
— Maximus Douchemus Meridius
Hair tapered to point
reminiscent of a turd
that I just pinched off.
— Frodouche Baggins
Inga: real estate
Olga: low-rent “socialite”
Glenn: sanitation
— Mr. White
So full from dinner,
Pointy reclines and begs you
To sniff his blue jeans
— Anonymous
Looks like all three shop
at H&M, buy one girl’s
black shirt get two free
— Ronald McDouchenald
Meditations on the Punch-Face
Once, when I was meditating on the boobie hottie suckle thigh in a daisy field in Uttar Pradesh, a young ‘Bag Hunter approached me.
DB1, he asked cautiously, How will I know when the douche-face becomes the punch-face?
Aha, young beetle bug. I responded, laughing lightly and crumbling some pinched snuff in my hands as I squinted in the harsh Punjabi light.
You will know the punch-worthy doucheface by involuntary primal muscle spasm. And only then. Not before. And not after.
He looked confused.
So I reached into my satchel I’d been given on a Maori walkabout in ’02, and handed him this pic.
The young ‘bag hunter glanced down at the picture. Upon registering this tool’s muggy visage, the young one sprang to his feet, twitched forward about twenty paces, then sucker-punched a nearby goat-herder named Umbete in the nads.
He had learned his lesson.
Waffle House Willy
Nothing says “masculine domination” like headlocking your girl and flipping off the camera over pancakes at the Waffle House.
The Beastly Boys
Three Tool Tables and a Hottrophone.
The Hypothetical Gun
You know how you know when you’re a badass?
When you’re so badass, you don’t even need use to an actual gun to make you look tough in the presence of a hott.
You just imply the gun. Because you’re that badass.
And by badass, I mean a clown.
And… boobies.
Crack Kills
Just Say No to Douchecrack.
(EDIT: Fixed pics for those who can’t handle direct douchecrack)
The Hall of Hott
As some of you may have noticed, 2009 brings HCwDB it’s long delayed Hall of Hott, which is now located directly below the Hall of Scrote in the left-hand column.
I inducted an initial class of lovely ladies who have left an impression on us these past few years, but the list surely is incomplete.
As such, I’m convening a random panel of regulars from the comments threads to fluff the roster, so to speak.
Each commenter will get one selection to gain entrance to the Hallowed Hall of Hott, to be submitted one week from today. Culled randomly and incoherently from last month’s call for volunteers, and to spread the contributions around a bit, your Hall of Hott Hunters are:
Ashfish, Mr. White, Douche Vader, bcs, creature, Troy Tempest, Crucial Head, d. baggins v2.0, Don’t wheeze the douche! and Buffy the Scrotebag Slayer.
Talk amongst yourselves. Bribe each other. Coordinate. But find me 10 additional candidates. 10 might be too many more to admit all at once, but the top 5 will definitely gain boobie hottie suckle thigh immortality.
Also, my future ex-wife, Purg Hottie, will always have her own section of loveliness.
No More Choose Your Own Adventure GlowBag
—-
Hello,
Please remove my picture from your website immediately: choose-your-own-adventure-glowbag.html. I am the female on the left hand side under your January 6th post.
I have not consented to its use. As such, I would appreciate its immediate removal. If the picture is not removed, the matter will be forwarded to my attorney. Conduct yourself accordingly.
Thank you,
(CYOABH)
—-
I don’t remember Choose Your Own Adventure books like this back in the day.
