E Pluribus Scrotum
So I’m sitting on my carpet, only minimally hung over, when it occurs to me. She is rural Boston gum snapping sexy/trashy cute. And this guy sucks.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “DB1, why is that an epiphany? That should’ve been obvious from the moment their pixelated visages first reached and registered on your synapses.” And yes, that’s true.
But there’s another point that emerges from his suckage.
We’ve covered many of the douchier scrotewankeries locked in perpetual yin-yang dialectic with the hottie boobie. But sometimes we catch douche aura in action. The emergence of a spectral scrotosity. Ethereal, like a ghost. Yet quantifiable, like a titmouse.
Because if anything is quantifiable, it’s titmeese.
This is a perfect example of douche aura. Yes he sucks for the unworthiness of the Plissken t-shirt and the mug of punchable muguousness. But the primal gut reaction of this coupling is greater than the physical factors at play.
It is douche aura rendered corporeal. And as such, he, uhm, sucks alpaca balls.
2 x 2
Two happy soccer mom blondes.
Two orange clowns competing with the dancing chicken for coin at the traveling fair in Tallahassee.
One “that guy” dude in the background whom no one ever notices and lives in the periphery of the collective unconscious.
I’d add ’em up but I’m so damaged by that aqua blue collar pop that I’m about to head into room 101 and loudly proclaim that 2+2=5.
1994 Mugs an Alba
I love you, blonde, perfectly formed Alba carbon copy genetic reproduction.
I would learn to chant rhythmically in Spanish just so I could charm the housekeeper into letting me come in and hump your teddy bear while you’re out buying groceries at Mayfair Market.
I would spend years slavishly painting great works of art using only acrylic paint, small lumps of coal and pieces of broken glass, just so you would ignore my paintings as you strolled through a museum whilst texting on your iphone.
You inspire me to take showers thrice daily in the hopes that one particle of the shower water might someday reach the ocean while you’re bodysurfing with your personal trainer, Karl, and find its way under your taught, yet oh so firm, spandex bikini. At which point my particle of shower water would shout “Booya!!”
Which is very odd. Because shower water doesn’t usually talk.
Oh, and 1994 is a douche. Because… uhm… because he just is.
HCwDB of the Week
Here it is, fellow ‘bag hunters. The final HCwDB of the Week to select the fourth slot for next week’s HCwDB of the Month Scrote-Off.
This week’s cuts of hott/choad have a strange sort of symmetry. Each coupling seems to be in nearly the same position as the others. As if the gods are saying, See the patterns… mock the scrotewanks… for we are all one…
I talk to the gods a lot. Especially Poseidon. That dude cracks me up.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Predatorbag
For bringing back nostalgic memories of jungle-hiding aliens who can take out Bill Duke and Action Jackson with a single blast, Predatorbag has to get a nom.
And besides. I never get tired of screaming get to the choppah!!
Screamed it once during a safari at an elephant in my pajamas. How an elephant got into my pajamas, I’ll never know.
The blonde is girl-next-door cute. Not model-hott overwhelming, but sexy enough that you’d sneak out during your parents pool party during spring break just to catch a glimpse of her in a bikini. At which point you’d soil yourself.
Which is embarrassing. Who soils themselves in their 20s?
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Pimpit
There’s much to be said for the colliding wrong of the hott/choad in this pic.
Pimpit brings the brand-name douchal infection to new heights, while blondie invokes the power of the Douchadox — the moment when ‘bag hunter is simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by the Bleethed out hott.
Her curves are fine.
His lip-ring harkons the ethos of herp sore metaphor.
Together, they make a douchal peanut butter cup.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Ice Man
As with Pimpit, Ice Man didn’t immediately jump out at me as a Weekly Finalist.
But then the truth and beauty of Ice Man’s Ass Woman sunk in. As Chowda So Good You’ll Lick Your Bowls put it:
I bet when sweet Jenny’s delicious salad shooter produces a dainty little movement, it comes out in a cute little jewelry box wrapped in gold foil complete with a bow right before an angel gently glides by to whisk it away from her magnificent bottom.
Jenny’s ass does not poop. It creates harmonic symphonies that vibrate across the universe and inspire imperfections in expanding universes that create planets who can only dream of cooling enough in billions of years to produce organic matter with as curvy an ass as Jenny’s ass.
And Ice Man is the everybag. Douchey enough to inspire rage, even without the bling and hand gestures. But enough to take the Weekly?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Honorable mention to The Boobie Epiphany and The Weatherhead, both of whom just missed the cut.
Them’s your three. Which coupling combines the best/worst of the thighs/scrote to merit a win? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
He Just Kisses Bitches and Drinks
Facebook poet and visionary He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks has an important warning for the ladiez on this Sunday:
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If you suck at kissing..it’ll end right there…I’m not desperate and I’m not that kind of guy
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You’ve been warned.
Man, that chinstrap is thinner than Miley Cyrus on Benzedrine.
The Weatherhead
Up.
The driving force of the human race. To conquest. To control. To rise above and go beyond the bounds and limits of space.
Leif Ericson. Christopher Columbus. Neil Armstrong. Each took that leap forward to a new land of discovery. When George Mallory was asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, he responded simply, “because it was there.”
The Weatherhead follows this same primal human drive. The Weatherhead knows that to wear glasses, headband and still have one’s hair spike up six inches can first occur only as a dream. To balance a Bud Light on top of a coke, while awkwardly embracing a pool hott must first be drawn up on graph paper.
It takes months, maybe years of planning. But The Weatherhead has a dream. And The Weatherhead triumphs.
Let us all learn the lessons of risk and reward that Weatherhead offers us. And by learn the lesson, I mean stare at skinny bikini girl’s firm yet soft yet firm yet soft butt bongos.
Big Douche at the Scottsdale Bars II
Here’s another viral video produced to go with that great Scottsdale song parody, very nicely done.
Or, if you need a jolt of caffeinated scroadchoadpoo (without the hott chaser, sadly, so be warned), check out The Jerz Guido Street Dance.
Trashbags
The Southwestern Trashbag can be tagged using the following factors:
1. Boat
2. Visors
3. Muscle t-s
4. Bad Credit Rating
4. Unhealthy obsessions with 1980s WWF superstar The Iron Shiek
And then there’s the happy rural girl-next-door belle with the delightful smile who smells like Prell shampoo and Taco Bell.
She knows Trashbag sucks. But hey, he has a boat.
No More Quaker Scrote
The boobs featured in Wednesday’s Quaker Scrote pic write in:
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You have a picture up of me im wearing a pink dress and a jewish symble around my neck. It is illegal to use someone elses pictures without there consent and it better be removed immediately or i will take legal action asap.
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If there’s anything I’d hate to misuse, it’s symbles without there consent.
So since we’re going with the Moses Bling theme, here’s a suitable replacement.
Misc. Friday Stuff
Miscellaneous links as I clear out the pixel-attic on a slow, smoggy L.A. Friday:
HCwDB legend The Batbag is very excited about his movie opening today, The Dark Scrote.
The Oakland A’s are using Jerz Guids to promote bobblehead sales, disturbing a number of readers up in Oakland to send in this link.
NFL coach Mike Ditka Discovers Tanning Beds.
The musical guys at Foglizard wrote a song dedicated to HCwDB. I am honored. Anyone who rhymes “tan in a can” with “Grieco’s our man” deserves major props, and the whistle solo is genius. We need more whistle solos in rock. Basically there’s The Bangles’ Walk Like an Egyptian and Paul Simon’s Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard. Need more.
Looks like Ken Pringle, the Mayor of Belmar NJ likes to make fun of guidos:
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In his weekly newsletter to summer renters, the mayor, borrowing a reference he thought was fairly commonly used in his town, and lifting an incident from “njguido.com,” described a certain type that descends on Belmar:
‘Guidos as kind of a rare bird and are “as welcome as, oh, Canada geese.”‘
Pringle switched to full damage control mode on Wednesday.
“In a very positive way, the 20-somethings who consider themselves to be ‘guidos,’ it’s not an epithet,” Pringle said. “In my own town, I will tell you that there are people who don’t like it; but it’s like a generational divide on this issue.”
Alison Lupinacci and her friends say even though their parents hate it, they are on that generational side of Italians who think the term is OK and defines it the term as:
“They mean… pump their hair, spiked hair, chains… you know, big muscles,” Lupinacci said.
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Yes. Yes they do. And more from the Daily News:
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The newsletter also tossed a few darts at “Guidos” in town.
“They’re always tanned to the color of coconut shells and easily identified by their plumage: satin shirts and short skirts on the females; Armani Exchange T-shirts and artfully distressed jeans on the males,” he wrote. “The call of the Guido is bellowing, and frequently slurred, invariably starting with the sound, ‘Yo.'”
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Ever get the feeling Mayor Pringle reads HCwDB?
Nice to see The D-Neck Tee Shirt enter the lexicon, although I’d personally call it “The Gator Neck.”
Jules is so sexy, he don’t even need no ladies.
And then there’s the simultaneous slap/pie move which I can’t tell if it’s douchey or really damn funny.
Your humble narrator is coming off a very busy week promoting the book and other good things.
I sit and ruminate. I meditate and flatulate.
And all is good as the setting sun casts its rays through the smoggy underbrush of a city on fire.
