Ted the Bouncer's Day Off
I can’t call ‘bag for the angular features. Nor for the leather jacket in and of itself. Not even for the retro Rocky Balboa porkpie hat.
But Ted the Bouncer, you tweeze your eyebrows. And you’re making the Shocker, whereas true uberscrotes now make the Dirty South Fish Hook.
For that, you fail even at scrotewankery.
I can only imagine the Miami Beach twang on Tracy, but I would still chase a sherpa through the underbrush during monsoon season just for the chance to meditate at the base of the railing where she once rested her tatines after a long and sweaty workout.
Squidward II
Did Janice buff off that “New Scrote” sheen from Squidward since the last pic?
2-Live Carl
Because nothing says “pimp” like cocktails in your uncle’s faux-wood paneled basement in Charlotte, North Carolina, busting the bro-ist Volcom hat since since the last UNC pep rally.
Give it up, Carl. The ladiez really don’t want to see your “gatt.”
Scrote Quiz
This creepy tool in the presence of bottom powdering Waspy Hott can best be described as:
A. An eye makeup applying playdoh golum of uberscrotery
B. A local DJ named “Scooter” whose daily wacky banter on the morning drive compliments the droll sensibilities of the host, “Dr. Dave”
C. The drummer of an early 1990s thrash band who once charted at #72 between the rising Ace of Bace hit, All That She Wants, and the rapidly falling Whoot, There It Is.
D. Robert England’s unemployed younger brother, Douchey England.
E. All of the Above now Put On a Shirt
Squidward
Natural Resources expert Janice finds an innovative solution to the oil crisis.
EDIT: Changed the name to the far more accurate “Squidward” as suggested by Douchey Smirf in the comments thread.
Wednesday Limerick
At the kegger, young Sarah felt a bump,
It came from behind like a lump,
A crimson oldbag,
Who smelled like wet shag,
And thought “how do you do?” meant a groin pump.
Yeah, got nothin’ for the limerick today.
Flush This
Is that a heart pattern shaved into your greased up hair, or are you just glad to see her?
I got nothin’.
Someone flush this away.
HCwDB in NYC — Monday August 11th
Fellow ‘bag hunters, after a number of venue changes I’m finally able to announce the date and location of the New York City HCwDB book signing.
Yes, your humble narrator on all things scrotey/suckle-thigh will be appearing Monday, August 11th, at The Cutting Room starting at 6:30pm.
Yours truly will read select excerpts from the book and then sign anything and everything offered within reach of my pen. I will have books for sale, or bring your own if you’ve already bought one at your local Borders Bookstire, as one reader did after snapping this juxtapositional pic.
No cover charge, and drinks and boobies will be for sale at the bar.
Represent, NYC/NJ HCwDB fans. I’d hate to sip my ‘Train and munch on my HoHos all by lonesome.
HCwDB of the Week: Mooby Dick
At first I’d hoped to forget the trauma of the Mooby Dick experience as fast as possible. But then I remembered our collective mission quest.
We must face scrote/hott commingling in all its innovations. Like tracking a mutating virus, we must highlight douchal innovation and expose to the sanitizing light of the collective mock.
The scrotal power of Mooby Dick’s innovation in next-level douchebaggery, all with fondling hott along for the ride, was too much to ignore. And in a week when the hotts were all secondary, the power of pec-douche was simply too rank.
doucheous nero explains:
The smoking deflators have been done before. Earwig is merely archetype scrota. The dick, on the other hand, is pushing the envelope; a next step in the evolution of ‘bagrine manamals. The shirt is a wholly new douchal artifact. And the acid washed bell bottoms? My disgust turns to anger. This, good sirs, is an abomination. Such expansion of the douche arsenal, while not well deployed here, must be mocked at least with level of mocking accorded in the weekly, and thus stamped out. If we fail to act now the puffery we see here could become common scrotal conduct.
We should pile upon the dick’s white shirt the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by this whole ‘bag-hunting race; if my chest was a mortar, I would burst my hot heart’s shell upon such exposed moobies.
Or as Scrotiserie Chicken puts it:
Mooby dick has to take it, simply because that shirt is reserved for two types of people: the first is BREASTFEEDING MOTHERS IN THE COMFORT OF THEIR OWN HOME, and the second is the people that will spend eternity in the 7th circle of hell. Mooby ftw
Well said, S.C. The pain of the Moobs are deep and lasting, and lost in his pectoral scrotitude is the very delightful hott that’s fondling them. snoop douchey douche explains why SDB voted for The Earwig:
Look, I … um … vote for Earwig for two reasons. 1, I am in awe that the Sleestack from “Land of the Lost” can pull tail.
But the other reason — the sadly, deeper reason — is that I am genuinely wounded by Mooby. I can’t deal with that photo. It’s like “where were you when Reagan was shot? when the shuttle …? when the towers …?” it sorta never fails to put me in a foul mood. prime ministers fly flags at half-staff at the thought of that bag.
I simply can’t vote for Mooby. I am going for the quantity and irritability of Earwig over that pec tsunami that torments my soul. I … just … f-ing … can’t … vote … for … him.
The pain is very real, SDD. However Michael Douchekakis makes an important point about the Smog Magog Experience:
Smog Magogs. Any place that appears to have a security camera attached to a palm tree must be fool of douches and bleeths.
Indeed it does, M.D. The always present anonymous agrees:
I’ve seen a lot of douche’s on this site but The Smog Magogs are the first to make me want to give them a smack of biblical proportions.
And douchey howser m.d. also casts in with the Magogs:
Smog Magogs…this is also a tip the armani fedora towards them for a vote in the Hall of Scrote. Take a closer look at these chaod up waste cases…30+ still hanging on to their rockin 20s, nasty greasy chesty stretch marks, white trash hott who they probably tag teamed that night (and im kinda jealous), nipple rings hanging off of pecs like a drunken sherpa guide on the side of Everest that resemble my grandad’s ballsack. And don’t ask how I know what my grandad’s ballsack looks like.
Well argued, DHMD. The Magogs will likely get a 2008 Douchie nom in December, so we will have another chance to mock their deflated balloonery. Earwig also found fervent mock, as batou throws down:
Earwig FTW. Smog Magogs are truly vomit inducing, and no words will ever fully describe the horror that is Mooby. Like combat vets, all who saw this monstrosity will share a bond that no one else who wasn’t there will never fully understand.
Earwig alone, however, inspires an overwhelming impulse to kill: I want to grab him by the ankles and swing his greasy face repeatedly into a building. That his hott is apparently not beyond redemption and lingering in a fully recovery-capable
But reader whoop-d-douche takes it home for the innovation of the Moobster:
Mooby Dick: There is NO way to even describe his total-scrotal douchiness, his clownface tongue and the obsession with cut-outs: removed piece of shirt to expose Moobs, sewn-in piece of something to expand jeans into bell-bottoms, pointy-toed shoes, YIKES. No matter which way he leans, he is still MALE and the FEMALE grabbing his Moob is a laughing, giggling Hott, although not steaming-Hott.
It’s Mooby Dick, hands down, as in how he grabs the hottie’s thigh while dipping the dance move, no less. And she just laughs and laughs. While the rest of us puke.
Or, as the everpresent anonymous explains:
it must be mooby, even a douche would stop and have a second look
Very true, EA. Very true. And finally, grumpy llama posits a hypothetical:
If Mooby fell in the woods and no one was there to see it, would he still be a douche?
You’re damn right he would.
Mooby, FTW.
Mooby’s scrotal pecs have earned their place in the next Monthly, and he’s bringing along Scrunchy Hott for the ride. We can’t avoid this reality, much as we might try.
So we witness. And punch those pecs a slot in the Monthly.
Velcro Flabulous
There’s a number of factors that should cause our collective psyches to melt down upon witnessing this doucheflab mugging the most exciting Danish plaything since the Lego Rocket Launcher.
The Dolce underwear.
The smackworthy douche-face.
The bling, hang gesture, fauxhawk and stupid-ass reflection sunglasses.
The fact she is a melting-pot of fondue brie cheese hott.
But it’s the velcro sneakers that task me. That, and the fact that I’d suffer the slings and agonies of outrageous fortune and take arms against a sea of tribbles, just for the chance to ham her lets.
Yeah, I made a Hamlet double entendre mixed with a nod to Tribbles. Oh, like you’ve never used the classic Hamlet/Star Trek combo for sexual euphemisms before.
Man, I need a drink. I think those boobies just caused a verbal meltdown.
