Sunday Musings
As I sit on my floor and scratch myself, I contemplate the collective hangover. The alcoholic fueled stomach churn that defines Sunday in ways the Puritans would weep over.
As I ruminate, one image returns to my musings.
The douche-face.
The punch-worthy ode to a culture gone wrong. The mask of courage displayed with false macho bravura while hiding the greasy underbelly. The performative smirk covering the insecurities that accompany any temporary possession of the hott.
But isn’t the douche-face also a metaphor for the universal struggle? The desire for a guy to rise above the herd and conquer the boobie prize by acting like a tool? Perhaps.
Because the douche-face embodies the eternal struggle within male-female pursuit. It speaks to the chaos that has fueled all of the great art, literature, and Skinemax soft-glo porn of historical record. Competitive, aggressive and insecure horny young wanks desperately grabbing at suckle worthy thighs. Confused hotties struggling to make sense of the entire world coming at them in a burst of collective mount.
Sure the cultural dress-up may change the forms and variations of expression. But every culture has their hott prizes, and annoying douches flip flopping like grease fires trying to catch those prizes. Like Napoleon. Total douchebag. Or Caesar. What a punk.
And yet today’s douche/hott combos are also unique. We face a plague unprecedented in their smack worthy grease faces.
So what does all of this mean?
I find no conclusions at the bottom of my bowl of Lucky Charms this morning. Only pink milk.
Choking the Goose
Let’s see. Vodka as phallus.
I know I’ve read about this somewhere before. Let me consult my “Freud for Dummies” book for where exactly to locate this pathological douche condition.
Oh yes. According to Freud, this young man was traumatized at an early age by too many Full House reruns. He subsequently attempts to replicate the “Jesse” look by way of 2006 white boy guido douche culture. Once “Douche Jesse” has been achieved, his fractured psyche then seeks out Olsen Twin types as part of the perpetual cycle of traumatic recreation.
Or he’s just a heaping toad.
The tri-hott sandwich with three chew-worthy shoulders merits a second look. And by look, I mean coitus.
Not that Goose Phallus would notice. He’s too busy adding his own two olives to that douche martini.
Where's Waldouche: Utah Edition
Somewhere in this gaggle of Mormon tabernacles, I’ve carefully hidden a steaming pile of wigga choad.
Look carefully.
Can you smell him?
Don't be a Gator Hater
With crimson pecs and Mark of the ‘Bag schlong-n-balls once again upon his forehead, do not hate the Gator. For he is what he is.
And he can only be that which he is when he is what he must be because it is what he is.
Which is a heaping uberdouche.
Now I’m off to buy some kidney pie and a pint for the Brit bar wenches, while talking in a bad Cockney accent and complaining about the rainy weather and the dole.
Mmm… Brit Chicks. Shakespearean Hotts. So repressed. So awkward. So Delectable.
The Prize
Yayyy!! Hottie wins the prize!!
She gets to take home the fraternity dude. Yes, that guy.
There’s always one.
The dude that some school like the University of Wisconsin just secreted onto that old guy’s lawn at 2am out the back of a van. With his head half shaved, and a desperate gutteral cry of “Woo!” escaping from his beer stained stubble.
That guy. The Fratdouche. Enjoy the prize, sweetie.
The Jackhammer
Behold the rarest of rare ‘bag hand gestures, the Double Blumpkin (‘Bag Hand Gesture #288).
It is the Madame Butterfly of operatic douche moves. James Joyceian prose rendered in abstract non-linguistic scrotal hand gesture.
Note the swirling soccer moms, caught up in a fascinated undertow by the uberdouchosity on display with that one single hand move. Impressive.
Jackhammer would’ve qualified for the site even if he had non-ambulatory tiny vestigal arms hanging by his sides. The mandana the size of Omaha. The douche everything.
But once we add in the Double Blumpkin, it’s a kick right to God’s groin.
Friday Haiku
Hair like frozen poo,
Douche-Face in need of bitch slap,
Hott lost forever.
Did Tom Robbins write
even douchebags get the blues?
Or was it still life?
— d. baggins
he’s in Special Ops.
he has paratrooper hair.
she’s a Navy Seal.
— pfah
Her hand holds the pin
Douche grenade is set to blow
A Suicide Pact
— clementine of cappadoucha
judge reinhold works hard
all-american burger
left hat on too long
— bcs
Both have hair issues
His oddity, her rats’ nest
Go to Supercuts
— ed
Douchey Boomers
As douche modernity enters its 17th Year After Grieco (17AG), we are beginning to see the first signs of early scrotes developing the paunch of middle age. Still hanging onto their ‘baggy youth and refusing to admit they’re no longer macking with the power of pure Tag Bodyshot youthified pureness.
I speak, of course, of the generation known as The Douchey Boomers.
With narcissistic flair, these aging ‘bags refuse to make way for next-generation douchebaggery. They hold desperately to the shiny forehead, facial pubes and douche-face of their youth. A period now bathed in the nostalgic glow of forehead grease.
Now being repurposed in Chevy ads and T.D. Waterhouse campaigns. Repackaged retro-douchitude, the once ur-greasy idealisms of a bygone era they refuse to admit has passed them by. I speak, of course, about the late 1990s.
Hang up the t-shirts, shave the lip-brow and buy that Chevy Suburban, D.B. It’s ovah. Pump out some kids, join a softball league, and tell tales to your fellow Douchey Boomers about how “crazy” you were in your twenties while you nurse a Miller Lite and flex your fading pecs.
And ladies? Love the Pokey Boobie look. Ditch Boomer before he tells you about the rad Nine Inch Nails show he was at in 1994 that was, like, totally off the hook.
Where's Waldouche?
Somewhere, packed tightly into this boobie sarcophagi, I’ve carefully hidden a Sweatin’ To The Oldies ‘Bag.
Look carefully.
Can you find him?
