Douchebag Beach
It’s the next best thing to being on the Dirty Jerz shores this weekend. And by best thing, I mean the lip herp.
Jerzey Blue
Thoughts drift through my mind as we collectively spin our global journey into another Friday evening, with Rare-Ass Light Blue Cup shining on in the Dirty Jerz.
What is it with boats and scrotery?
Can stage-3 Bleeths be saved from Wily Mo Playah on the right?
Why is Robert Sean Leonard from Dead poets Society in this pic?
Does soda-water get grease stains out of a frat carpet?
So many thoughts. So little body spray.
Wait. Strike that. Reverse it.
We are the music makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams.
Boatmeal
More boatdouchery.
It’s like when you’re scrolling though cable channels and see Dawn of the Dead is on, and you think to yourself, “Nice! A little George Romero social commentary on late 1970s consumerism!”, only to discover it’s the Dawn of the Dead Remake from 2004, Zack Snyder’s socio-political commentary on quick cuts and yellow lens filters.
What happens when the copy is not only inferior to the original, but supercedes it as the default titular representation?
At that point, there’s only one thing to do. Put on some Skinimax.
Hells yeah, I’m rambling.
That’s what happens when I post from the Boston airport.
Underoos Joe
Lessie…
Complete removal of body hair.
Poppy cactus head.
Greased forehead.
Tighty underoos.
No other clothes of any kind.
Posing for camera “making call”
Bizarre sawed in half tatt.
Bethany may not be the smokingest divet in the woodshed, but I’d still pretend to like her cats just for the opportunity to awkwardly fondle her lower back while she’s novocained during a root canal.
The Nipper
And you thought I’d go easy on you because it’s Friday? Notta chance.
Nice tatt map of Middle Earth, Nipper.
Thankfully, the Iron Cross belt buckle adds that extra touch of class to the ensemble that it needed. Like a snip of parsley on a steak. A really douchey-ass steak.
At first you think wide eyed Swedish Princess is all sorts of take-home-to-meet-mom class. Then you see the pants drop and realize the sheer scrotal power of The Nipster’s presence has forced lower half Bleething to occur.
And yes, she may be preggers. But he’s too hilarious, and it’s Friday, so I’m going with it.
Friday Haiku
Punch-drunk 8-Pak woots.
Ubiquitous Red Cup knows,
blonde wants orange-tee.
Outwardly, douche thinks
Yo! My shirt’s off the hizzle
Inside, yearns for mom.
— crucial head
Local man wants sex
Blonde hot writes home to mother
“The Greek Islands Suck.”
— james
..need smokes now dammit
Uh…uh…crack pipe…uh
Things live in my hair
— amy whinehouse
Blonde hott tentative.
Eyes betray true thoughts tonight:
phone home for a ride?
— anonymous
Up the shirt is raised.
Mechanical abs start the action
Blonde hotty caught in magnetic force
— jfw
How can I haiku?
Emotional scars remain
After Mooby Dick
— sinfonian
The Scrotal Spitsacks
On many occasions we’ve charted the correlation between the purchase/riding of a boat and extreme scrotal spitsackery.
Many a philosopher, from Thales and Anaximander through Gerardo and Color Me Badd, have waxed hypothetic if boatdouchery comes before the boat, or if the boat brings out the boatdouchery.
In Fast Times in Fresh Ink, pictured here, one need only count the plethora of silly tatts, hat tilt, hand gestures, douche-faces and implied viruses to realize the power of the boatdouche.
Then factor in two slutty hotts playing with each other and Ubiquitous Red Cup nervously monitoring the situation, and the picture becomes complete.
The boatdouche thinks, therefore it is.
The Glare of the Emo II
Sultry Suzanne is even hotter.
Emo is still glaring.
A Waldouche shouts “hey!” and then “ho!” in the distance.
And Suzanne’s friend Rachel likes pearls.
Flabio
Here’s the thing about Russian Mail Order Brides, Flabio.
They’re not impressed by your chin pubes.
They realize your sunglasses are glorified “Blu Blockers” with a designer label.
They think greasy hair is just plain gross.
So put down the Mojito, wash off the forehead grease and, fer god’s sake man, lose the tiny runaway chin-strap for good. By shaving it with a dull razor found on the Coney Island Pier. Which will give you the lip herp.
As to Nadja? Yes, please, with a side order of Borscht.
Puma Joe
Puma Joe discovered that nothing quite charmed the ladies like coffee stains in the hair.
