The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass
Lo! Hark!
Across the hinterlands, there rides a single figure. ‘Ere, he rides!
He is The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass.
The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass does not need companionship. For The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass is a single, solitary figure. A loner, Dottie. A rebel.
When The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass needs Club Hotts, he need only done his trademark Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass Sunglasses. And his special custom made Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass Lei.
And the Hotts will come. To admire his pink pants.
Oh yes. They will come.
For he is The Man Who Eats Sweaty Ass.
And next time, he might come… FOR YOU.
Ping Pong Kong
On a far off island that no map records, there lies the one beast that can only be tamed by a college blonde with sexy librarian glasses.
I speak, of course, of Ping Pong Kong. Scrotey Beast from the Lost Civilization of Clown Island.
Who knows what havoc will be unleased if Pong ever gets loose in the discount liquor aisle of the local convenience store?
We’re talking mass chaos. Dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria.
And by mass hysteria, I mean mild intoxication followed by impotent sarcasm directed vaguely towards the clerk working the midnight shift.
Then returning back to the frat to play GTA IV until 5am. Because the econ test on Tuesday is like totally stupid.
Belmar, NJ Gives the Finger
Were it only satire:
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NJ party town relaxes rules on kegs, rude gestures
By WAYNE PARRY, A.P. Sat Jul 5
BELMAR, N.J. – After battling rowdy renters and out-of-control keggers for decades, this Jersey shore party town has finally decided to lighten up a little.
Belmar, sometimes called “Fort Lauderdale North” for its reputation as a raucous party enclave, has scrapped laws against giving the finger and requiring beer kegs to be registered. The town’s mayor said the rules were difficult to enforce.
-snip-
“I’m giving people the finger if it’s legal, absolutely,” laughed Carlos Padilla, a 23-year-old from Dumont wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and gold chain. He’s renting a house for the season with a bunch of pals — all of whom were drinking beer from red plastic cups and listening to rap music on the front porch one night this week.
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HCwDB of the Week
The weekend is over. The beer has been Red Cupped. The dogs eaten. The greasechoads, Oranged, and the boobie-hotties tainted by mandana juice.
This week’s sampling of hott/choad are each worthy in their own right. But unlike last week’s champion, Droopy, there is no obvious winner. And by winner, I mean grease-mack upchuck uber-scrotal infectuous wrongness.
I’m so tingly I’m shaking like Katharine Hepburn on Red Bull. Here’s your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Lawnmower Man
It’s not just because I live near a Jamba Juice that I’m nominating this tasty Grasshead for the Finals.
It’s also Pouty Blonde, who needs me to lightly talc her lower thigh area with confectioner’s sugar, then sign over 10% of all my future earnings in exchange for the chance to argue with her Aunt’s former personal trainer.
She is delightful.
And he is that new crop of Punkbag that makes my nethers itch. The merging of late 70s DIY Punk Aesthetic with chest-shaving greased up Metro Club grease. It is all that is wrong.
For that, they get a well deserved place in the Weekly.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Mullets
The ancient Hindi sect The Ubersquatos believed that the Mullet was a holy sign.
That it conveyed sexual stamina, relief from crop drought, and a scorching case of herps.
Did they know something from their ancient shamanic ways that our modern science has yet to figure out?
I’d argue yes.
Then I’d argue with Brunette.
Politely but firmly.
Because I’d want to touch her bottom with an ice-cream scooper dipped in whipped cream and play-doh.
And she’d say no. And I’d say okay. And go back to the bar to buy her another drink.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Ass Pear
This is one of those pics where ‘bag side isn’t overly ‘baggy. As I mentioned when it first appeared, Inflatey McHulk is more weight training superhero than douche on any level.
But he’s got the chest shave. And the goofy glasses. So he’s at least a Stage-1 Scroter.
Far more importantly, she is a peach. And by peach I mean ass pear. For the hott side hott, this pic squeaks into the finals.
More importantly, I turn it over to you.
Which of these three pics deserves a slot in the Monthly? Which combination of toolshed and cake most earns our collective mock?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
He Just Bangs Bitches and Reflects on the 4th
HCwDB Poet Emeritus, He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks spent his July 4th weekend in quiet meditative contemplation.
At first, HJBBAD considered the Hegel/Kant debate, whether consciousness comes from the senses or can be deduced purely through the mind. Then HJBBAD considered what role ethics plays in the philosophical formation of the self.
Then, after reading some Proust to clear the mind, HJBBAD ruminated on whether dollar signs on one’s shirt adequately convey the economic ambitions of the wearer.
And whether bitches who overcook his steak should be given the hand.
How was your 4th?
Guessing Hott
Little debate need be held as to the douchal status of the Jerzbag on display here. Giants tatts + A/X + douche-face = cultural violation.
But the hott?
I pose the following question, which also came up last week: Can hottness be determined purely from a 10 degree or less frontal view? What are the chances of an October Surprise after peripheral revelation?
Like predicting the weather, the determination of hottness from behind involves a number of complex situational reads and subjective determinations.
And even then, there is no certainty you’re correct.
What say you? Does Jerz have himself a hott? Or is there a Crying Game in our future?
Ass Pear
Your humble narrator on all things bulgey/curvey, The DB1, had a relaxing and celebratory 4th. Hot dogs were consumed, and the Los Angeles hotts were in fine form. URCs were held by all.
I’m not sure Inflatey McHulk here is a douche on any real level, but of all the little certainty I’ve gleaned on my short time on this earth struggling to find meaning in a confusing and amorphous universe, I do know the following:
Ass pear.
No More Clay
Not Clay writes in:
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Please remove the pictures “Clay” and “Clay II.” Those pictures are of me and my name is Matt, not Clay.
Thanks.
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I’m always a little disappointed when, after a douche-mocking, I get an email with no spelling mistakes and proper punctuation.
So to clear my mind, I decided to post a replacement pic and… mein gotts, it’s the lumpy cheesecloth doucheclowns again!!
Yeeeargh. Gurgle.
The eye gouger and memory erasure device, they do nothing.
Happy July 4th!!
From all the spikey haired speedo wearing scrotes with hotts, to you. Happy July 4th!!
As you sit on the beach with your Ubiquitous Red Cup reflecting on that complex history that makes up the United States of America remember the famous words of General George Washington as he stared down at the Red Coats from Bunker Hill:
‘Ere betwixt the dawning of a new nation and the end of a colony, if in ten score and thirty years greased up chest shaving blowout wearing douchescrotes are macking on the honeys, it will all be for naught.
Heed the words of General Washington, fellow ‘bag hunters.
Save a hott today. Knee a douchepoo in the nads. Intervene. Seperate the hott/douche couples with a fire-hose if necessary.
It’s your patriotic duty.
'Bag / Not a 'Bag
We’ve got the blowout, the silly jeans and some trinket bling. We’ve even got the shlong-n-balls mark of the ‘bag on the forehead.
But is he ‘bag? Lack of douche-face helps. Lack of stupid hand gesture helps more.
Since it’s a holiday, should we be magnanimous and give a nottadouche pass?
I’m leaning towards a solid no, he’s still a scrote, but as I’ve already begun my July 4th drinking, I figured I’d open it to the floor.
What say you?
‘Bag? Not a ‘bag?
She is a tasty tapioca rice pudding of dessert.
