Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Choadal/Hott Summer Fest 2015

Lest you thought the hottie/douchey cohabit wasn’t still discombobulating like a hidden pustule underneath the skin of cultural coherency, let this little pile of trixie upchuck harden your arteries like Peter Scolari’s scoliosis.

Yes, your humble narrator still gets the occasional submission from the long time ‘bag hunter.

And while I realize this site has stopped it’s daily mock and exists as a tribute and a relic to an increasingly forgotten Wild Wild West internet that historians will someday struggle to account for and articulate, I still like to pop in and say hi. If you’re still coming back after all these years, I salute you fellow hunters and huntresses. You are not forgotten.

The mock will continue in new form, mayhap.

But I will still point out the choadal taint here and there. As per my prerogative.

#TBT: Bra!!

Because at some point, way back in 2008, a day by the pool was only complete with more Pepsi, Broheim.

Let Bra!!’s monosyllabic albeit joyous grunts of neologic joy as he experiences life’s simple, youthful, caffeinated pleasures be a lesson to all of us.

Tasty cola products make everything better.

#TBT: The Millennium ‘Bag

That moment back when an actual human being of biological origins and organic sinew decided to turn himself into an orange/crimson/umber robotic posthuman plastics.

That moment when a Euro weenus shavde teeny Q-Bert patterns in his head for the purposes of cuddling up with Ulle in a Scandanavian tapas bar with tasty pickle chips.

It happened.

We were witness.

And a tiny chihuahua in Albuquerque got the runs.

How could a tiny chihuahua in Albuquerque get the runs simply because a sheeny human chrome-chomp preened himself into a Christmas ornament? A little known scientific hypothesis known as ‘Charos Theory” can answer that for you.

Hot Chicks with Douchebags After Douchebags

A little over a year ago I ended this blog as a daily force for douche mock.  

After eight years of glorious dissection of the choady/cutie dialectics, I felt I had said all there is to say about hottie/douchey cohabit.

My rants had been forced to give way to little more than idle chit-chat in a post-douchebag world.

The word itself, “douchebag,” that I had so carefully and lovingly developed to mean something specific (a preening tool using spectacle to try to attract a mate), gave way to overuse and linguistic slippage. A million HCwDB-inspired ‘douchebag’ memes were started (aka stolen) by a million wannabe mockers. The word lost all importance. Enough to make Chomsky blush.

As Ed Hardy and douche face and stupid selfies faded, as cheesy facial fung and orange spray tans and ninny hair receded like Antarctic snow, the douche blended and molded into hipster wash. The obvious mock was no more.

But I still wonder what if.

I sit and pensively sip my Mr. Pibb. I perch on the veranda overlooking my alpaca sex farm. And I ruminate on the increasing importance of culture mock in a post-individual blend of Reddit/Nerdist blandness, sameness and genericism.

Where are the next generation of cultural critics and woodland creature fetishists to rage against the pop culture vortex of industrial acquiescence?

Can we find these voices any more in the age when Buzzfeed listicles substitute for thought? Where fake-nerd comic book men-in-tights CGI spectacles substitute for character, narrative, and plot? When Jimmy Fallon dances in pre-packaged viral bits set to random 1980s one hit wonders because he knows aging Xers will circulate any form of 1980s nostalgia? When all our male movie stars are 30-something Germanic Aryan Teutons named “Chris” or “Chad” and all our female movie stars refuse to let me powder their knee muffins with talcum and spittle?

I do not have the answer to these questions.

I only know that douchemockery must continue in some form. If for no other reason than to critique and overturn the assumptions that cultural dictates are inherent rather than learned.

My rumination and isolation, like Yoda by way of Siddhartha, continues.

But more to come.

Dr. Chinfungenstein Pays A House Call

Long time ‘bag hunters, hark! Pay heed.

Dr. Chinfungenstein has achieved an impressive ratio of maximum doucheface with minimal effort.

This outstanding achievement in scrote-face while lakebagging with Kelly can be appreciated as the following equation:

df*.9/e*.1=s(cr)o-te/4

Off the charts doucheosity, folks. Enough to make me break my hiatus to mock with pensive aplomb.

For rare is the punchable wankiposity so repositorially rank with so slight a visible effort. Dr. Chinfungenstein is preturnatural. Perhaps the Orson Welles of douche face.

Your Sunday Douchekiss

As Party Girl Ryan kisses His ‘roided beef-cheek with the tenderest of shallow affections, Beefer Sutherland is currently having the following thought:

A) “Unhhgghhhh.”

B) “Mmmm… grahhhhhwwwoooo.”

C) “Fwee…. fwee… fwee… fwee…”

D) “Eternal inflation, string theory and even Hugh Everett’s ‘many worlds’ interpretation of quantum mechanics all suggest a vast number of universes, and conditions have to be bolted onto each of the theories to get the number of universes down to one. Therefore Jager is the shit.”

Answer now!

Shmecky Von Dillpickle Headlocks Clementine

I often reflect on the many permutations of douchemock and hottlust that have burrowed like so many rivulets through the sediment of pop culture timeshock. When HCwDB began the mock, it was a serious time. Then it was a playful time. And the mock was enjoyed by all.

Now it is a serious time again.

Humorless.

Angrier.

Gender wars and dating battles taken from playful banter to dark resentment.

I’m not sure what to make of the ratcheting up of tension and loss of humor in today’s confused, decadent and most certainly decoherent anti-humor post-humor thunderdome.

But alls I do know is that Shmecky Von Dillpickle is a shmegtaint. And everyone should take a breath, stop getting so pissed off, and allow ourselves to unite in the principle that all of us, each and every one, can agree that Shmecky’s headlock of Clementine is the pestilent hair taint upon a mongerel’s tick bitten posterior.

For if we cannot agree to that, I put it to you Greg, what can we agree upon?

Aquatool Advocates For Peace

Despite the cacophony of vacuity in which Aquatool exhausts his credit card salad days, therein lurks a deepward hope for a lasting global peace.

Sure those thoughts only reverberate for a few seconds.

Here and there.

When the drugs wear off.

And the boobosity is not too distracting.

But they do recur. Within those few moments of repose before the DJ drops another sampled pre-recorded boom-siss-boom-siss.

Aquatool credits himself for proving, at least for a moment, that he is more than just an overpriced douchey Yankees cap wearing numbers runner for the Long Island Gambinos. He does have a soul. For does a person without a soul not occasionally think about world peace? If you prick his Dolce and Gabana, does it not fray?

And then, like Keyser Sose, they are gone.

Vacuity returns.

And joyless compulsion carries onward until dawn.

Mr. Spittoon Mackles Audrey

Because greasal pollution of the nation’s suckle taut hott supply is a toxic stench that even Bill Gates poopwater can’t revive through carbonic filtration.

HCwDB lives?…

Well, not so much these days.

But your humb narrs is carrying on as best he can into new permutations. And you’re always welcome to hop in our concptual DeLorean and join the heroic neck-fused DarkSock for more mock back in 2005.

Breaking: Tom Jones is a Tangerine

The proper caption for this image is:

A) “It’s not unusual to be bronzed by anyone…”

D) “I just want your extra time and your…. Sunkist.”

Answer now!