Bridge and Tunnel Saturday
This is way too greasy a lineup for a Saturday morning.
I can’t tell whether this is a group of Jerseyboys trying to look “arty” for their night out in lower Manhattan, or if a giant blender attacked the sale rack down at The Limited.
Poor, sweet Nicole in the middle. Catholic Girls start much too late.
And I see you too, sweet little overbite Winona Ryder Veronica hott. Come to papa.
Tighty Armani Friday
It’s almost Friday evening, and you know what that means.
Somewhere, in a moldy smelling suburban Long Island basement, Tighty Armani’s ready to throw some doucheballs at “the ladiezzz”.
He might even snap their necks through the sheer scrotal pull of his hat tilt.
What are you gonna do about it? Just sit there?
Well, yeah. Probably.
But there’s lots else you can do. Get out there. If you’re a guy, offer to buy blondie a neck-brace and a beer. If you’re a girl, trip up T.A. by sticking out your foot when he heads to the bathroom to make sure his hairspike is still perky.
And so I ruminate on cute girls with neck problems. I contemplate another smoggy afternoon in smoggy-ass Los Angeles. I sip my cheap bum wine and I ponder our collective presentational displays of name-brand merit. Armani’s social construction embedded within our notions of “self.” Cultural capital in our market-based competitive mating pools of urban wanderlust.
And I realize the douchescrotes still haven’t learned. Collars still pop. And hotts are still confused.
But then there’s the flip. The reassurance whispered in my ear, tinged by alcohol and sugar rush. This too shall pass.
Or, at least, the power of cheap wine and boobie staring to soothe another week’s sand grains slipping past.
Ken
I like sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette. She’s got the arching back posture of a 19th Century aristocratic British housewife by way of trampy Jazz Age 1920s bootlegger parties.
And then there’s Ken. Currently performing nightly as “Dancer #2” and “The Tiki Love God” in the Don Ho Dinner Theater Tribute Extravaganza at the Ribs n’ Dibs Buffet off Kokoa Avenue.
Where's Waldouche?
Somewhere in this pic of a sno-cone cupcake candy corn melted twix bar of almond joy, I’ve carefully hidden a…
Oh who cares about that Waldouche.
I love you, blonde eros of blank stare and vague sense of confusion. I would tie crickets to a paper airplane and toss it over Macho Grande just for the chance to jump after it without a parachute and plummet to my likely death while pausing in mid-air to breathe a whiff of your perfume drifting on the breeze.
I would compose sonnets of free verse in Farsi if it meant I could Salman your Rushdies for a fortnight while fighting off Fezzik by sword, left-handed, near the pit of despair.
You are my snowflake, no one could ever stain. Come to me. Nuzzle me. Then yell at me when I inquire, innocently, if your best friend Shelly might just happen to be bi.
Friday Haiku
Pierced tool annoys, while
Three Parisian basement hotts,
Check tongues for choad germs
freddy will never
be the same after his ex
stapled tongue to lip
— johnny scrotten
a rose is a rose,
but it could be a penis
in this photograph.
— pfah
A Clockwork Douchebag
an isolated Yazik
pleased fuzzy Yarbels
— the ‘bag apple
sideways peace sign, brah
electric douche cap stylin’!
hotts fellate flower
— ‘bag lanta
HCwDB Changes Lives
Lea writes in:
—-
he’s in the WHITE HORSE pic, the guy in the middle with the white shirt.
I can’t explain ………….how i feel. but this has given me an immense …sense of closure. Closure i never got. And BTW this is the first time in 3 years i have seen his face. (burning and deleting pictures was part of the break up ritual…as well as removing myself from all kinds of social interwebs like facebook and myspace etc etc so REALLY i have been isolated).
can i say thank you? would it be appropriate?
p.s: i would send a pic to be a candidate as your future ex wife but: 🙁 my fiancee is a loyal reader and he wouldn’t appreciate either the story or pics!
—-
Oh Lea, my Lea, it’s my pleasure to mock and expose the douchescrotery of your ex.
I like to think of myself as a benevolent humanitarian. Doing my part for the larger good, all while mocking the scrote and lusting after the boobie hotts. It’s like a win/win for all. All except for John Mayer. That guy sucks.
Ross at 40
PIC DELETED
Boy, life hasn’t been kind to David Schwimmer since Friends went off the air. Then again, judging by the quality of the high class hott, maybe it has.
And, in a related story following his continuing journey to the douche-side, uberscrotal faux-emo John Mayerbag has now apparently gotten sleeve tatts. Someone needs to shove the Staff of Ra six kadems up Mayerbag’s guitar hero exhaust pipe.
White Horse
This looks like one of those mythical 1980s Bret Easton Ellis scripted coke parties on the upper west side.
Some “live fast, die young” parable about Stockbroker Teddy (played by Robert Downey Jr.) out of control in the clubs, bringing in a bunch of Manhattan hotts to tantalize an Arabian billionaire who just arrived in New York to “finance movies.”
Speaking of 80s drug culture, the greatest cult song of the 1980s, by far, was Laid Back’s White Horse. That genius was about fifteen years ahead of it’s time.
No Laid Back, no Fatboy Slim.
The Slutt/Hott Duality
It’s important to note that blondie here is demonstrating what noted German philosopher Jurgen Habermas describes as the “slutt/hott duality.”
The S/H Duality, emerging in the late 1980s within post-Derridean deconstruction, simply states that one can simultaneously be repelled by the trashiness while also desiring to grab onto and possess the boobie.
It is a form of double consciousness rooted in gender performance, the sex drive and witnessing really fantastic ta-tas.
She is desirable, yet the pink pokey bra thing is all that is bar trashy. This state of double-think emerges from fragmentation, as culture and subculture collide around the boobie.
He, of course, remains indisputably and singularly poo. A pure ubermensch of poo.
Fan Mail
Anonymous writes in:
—-
I think your a f@#king idiot. If we saw you in a pic with some chicks you’d probably find yourself on your own site. who the f@#k are you to hide behind a laptop and some pics you got from some haterz? I need to create a site called haterzthatdrinkfromdouchebags.com ……………. did you not get enough attention in highschool? did all the other guys get all the cute boys you liked? oops. i mean girls. its so funny what people try to make a living off of. now we have f@#king idiots like you talking s@#t about other guys because you have no talent and nothing better to do. You f@#kn clown. hope your site and CPU crash.
truly yours,
—–
Mom? Is that you?
