Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Guy Fieri
File this one under “Captain Obvious.”
Chef, TGI Friday’s spokesman and TV personality Guy Fieri is a heaping serving of fried douche sandwich served in a greasy ashtray.
And since he keeps interrupting my TiVo’d Battlestar Gallactica episodes with his ridiculous first-person date advice ads for TGI Friday’s, I’m giving him a well deserved Honorary Douche of the Month.
I know you already knew that Guy Fieri was a huge douche. But it needed to be said.
Now Rachel Ray is one extra plump but very tasty serving of steak tar-tar that I would dip in wasabe, soufflé her Napoleons, and then continue making food references that were really euphemisms for sexual deviancy. She is all sorts of Young Martha Stewart raunch.
Mullets
Mullets.
Do they ever really go out of style?
Vegas says no.
EDIT: And if you missed the genius of pickup-artist voicemail leaving Dimitri, Here’s the link again. Enjoy the audio scrotitude.
Long Island Boat Choad II
When the first pic of Sneery McBoat-tatt ran on the site as a Friday Haiku a few weeks ago, many of you thought to yourselves one of two thoughts:
1. bleeeeechhhhhhhh.
2. I wonder if this smug, flexing boat douche really does have spindly-ass legs to go with his trampy Long Island hott?
The answers to both questions have now been answered.
We also might need to consider a 2008 Douchie Nom for innovating a consistent ‘bag hand gesture in multiple pics ala Peaches in 2007.
Uncanny
un·can·ny
un·can·ni·ly, adverb
un·can·ni·ness, noun
1. having or seeming to have a supernatural or inexplicable basis; beyond the ordinary or normal; extraordinary: uncanny accuracy; an uncanny knack of foreseeing trouble.
2.mysterious; arousing superstitious fear or dread; uncomfortably strange: Uncanny sounds filled the house.
3. Two creepy-ass douchescrotes macking on Ally and Kristen.
Friday Haiku
Surrender Dorothy,
Wizard of Scrozz is lime green,
And Toto’s on his chin.
mandana fruit fly
hott pink boobie tattoo bleeth
watermelon poo
— the ‘baggernaut
Crystal Meth hottness
Douchebaggery is alive
The male purse strap screams
— el doucherino
paris on crack is
caught with green Brundle fly
screw hiaku i’m scared
— douchetoevsky
Douche, jump off a cliff
Smokin’ hott makes, how you say,
Trousal arousal?
— crucial head
Porsche and Friends
How’s about some classic Lawn Giland hott/douche to go with a Thursday evening?
Here’s a pic of 2007 HCwDB of the Year Douchie Winner Joey Porsche kickin’ it by the pool, old-school style.
And while I’m clearing out the virtual attic, take a listen to Dimitri, the scrotiest pickup artist assbag this side of Mystery.
Rare is it that we can smell uberwank through phone voicemails. This is one of those times.
Dimitri, you are a psychotic ass.
Reader Mail
Just Another Bleeth writes in with a ‘bag tag from Vegas:
—-
DB1,
My girlfriends and I were in Vegas a couple of weeks ago for my birthday and ran into these awesomely douchetastic individuals. We were so impressed that we had to take pictures for you. I was amazed at how many douches there are in that town!!
~Just Another Bleeth (hah – yes I rip on myself too)
—-
Nicely done, JAB. Vegas is the Heart of Doucheness, and you and your friends should watch out. And by watch out, I mean pillow fight.
But I can save you.
And by save you, I mean rub Hersheys syrup on your pinkie toes while dressed in a giant Wally Moose costume and humming the theme song to The Young Ones.
Until you tell me that my riff grows tiresome. Which it does. But only when I haven’t had enough Vitamin A.
Name that Scrote
Authentobaggery? Or Fakedouchery?
I honestly can’t tell if these clowns are mugging it up as a joke, or are authentic Jerz poo.
What say you? Real scrote? Or imitation crab?
However I do subscribe to the belief that even ironic-douchery is still authento-scrotewankery. Thus, they still suck.
And Brunette would munch on my clavicle with deep spiritual repose.
Crimson Tide
I quote the great Picasso, who sat at his easel one morning and asked himself this simple question: Orange?
He chose blue.
Tune In, Turn On, Douche Out
It’s like 2008 collided with 1970 to form some bizarro time-travel mix of a hippie commune, an Israeli kibbutz, a nudist colony and a giant vat of Axe body grease.
I half expect Ken Kesey and Tom Wolfe to drive up on a day-glo school bus with Richard Grieco, Brian Bosworth and the Axe Bodyspray girls doing shots of Grey Goose.
It’s socialist collectivism by way of Miami Beach chest shave. Vintage 1920s Lenin manifestos by way of vintage 1980s Donnie Wahlberg free verse.
I don’t know whether to read some Ayn Rand, bomb the Bay of Pigs, or slurp some jello shots while staring at boobies.
