Sonnet for Pumpy
An ode to Pumpy, from reader D. Baggins.
—–
Ripped and shredded was this giant man
massive chest, legs, arms and even his paws
that could grip three boobs with one single hand
a feat that did inspire shock and awe.
A man whose myth is most Herculean
descended from Zeus, this modern he-man.
He belonged in the Colosseum
crushing mere mortals like tiny tin cans.
Sad, the day we learned of his passing
the sorrow lay heavily on our minds
gloomy condolences were amassing
death took him so young, life is most unkind.
Ending on a note that is light and loose
rest in peace Pumpy, I tip you my goose.
Sincerely,
D. Baggins
——
Ice-Man
Listen up, Ice-Man From Homoerotic Volleyball Scene in Top Gun.
Your attempts to do the Peaches point contain the awkward muscle spasms of the untrained amateur. There is no douchological grace to your douchebaggery. Your left hand clutches with spasmic Keyser Soze gimpery rather than true ‘bag hand gesture.
Even your underarm sweat stains bespeak the awkwardness of amateur ‘bagling status.
Keep practicing. And take That 70’s ‘Bag with you.
I’ll corral future O.C. Soccer Mom in the back room where we will play Parcheesi with chocolate dice while I softly nuzzle her bunny slippers.
Grover?
We gotta get an E! True Hollywood story crew on this developing situation. Grover just hasn’t been taking the post-Henson years well.
Intentionally misspelling words even when the letters come together right in front of him. Refusing to identify which one of these things is different than the others.
Wearing a mini Harry Potter scarf by way of Doctor Who, The Tom Baker years.
Hitting on Simone, the tough talking Brooklyn best friend of the lead character who gets all the good lines in the script but is still cute in her own right.
Come on, Grover. Get it together. Maybe Scooter can get you some new bookings. I hear he’s at William Morris now, repping Steve Martin.
Gangsta Blue
There’s the Crips. The Bloods. The T-Birds. The Lost Boys.
And then there’s Gangsta Blue. Straight up douchin’, yo. With his mind on his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap, and his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap on his mind. Slippin’ on gin and Goose.
I would pull those drawstrings until your aqua blue parka closed on your face like an iris in bright sunlight. Like a puckering butthole on a ferret in the presence of an alligator.
And then there’s Sally, you Chicken McHottget with five different dipping sauces. You fast food french fry of dee-light. Your groove is in my heart.
You are paid to pose with Gangsta Blue, and yet the pain of a thousand sunsets lost to the ether courses through my psyche like an arthritic synapse.
So It Goes
No irony here. No halloween dress-up. People really dress like this.
I tell myself that. Then I deny it. No, it can’t be.
It isn’t possible anyone would think to themselves, “You know, my spikey hair and muscle-t look would go so much better with a rolled up bandana tube right through the middle of my forehead.”
But it explains it all. Just like Buckaroo Banzai says: wherever you go, there you are. It is a tautological truism.
Or, at least, it explains why I drink. And why smiles on army blondes keep me going.
Selena and the Zombie
Something about this pic just strikes me as unsanitary.
Not annoying. Not infurating. Not confusing. Not even cannibal zombie musical inspiring.
Just unsanitary.
I want to lysol my eyeballs. I want to scrub my corneas with bleach until all conceptual bacteria is washed from spiritual summon. I want to detoxify the visual codes of existential plague embedded in the meaning structures of the semiotic significations of, well, douche.
In short, gross.
Ask DB1: Kissy Lips
stevex writes in:
—–
Dear DB1:
Could you explain why douchebags always make kissy lips when being photographed? Are they tasting their own sourness? Is there a collective unconscious douche bank in their brains that tells them all how to behave?
—–
Being a ‘bag is hard, stevex. So much pressure to gel up the chest hair. Turn yourself orange. Appear “Gangsta” tough at all times.
Sometimes the ‘bag just wants to display affection. Love. Sincerity.
Since impressing the hott gives him little opportunity for such outward displays of affection (outside of the arm-lock and dual hand gestures maneuver), the Kissy Lips become one way the douche can say, “Hey, I might be wearing a mandana and muscle-t shirt displaying my ginormous tribal tatt. But I love you.” And I mean that in the abstract, not about 60s Swingerbag and his generibuddy, pictured here sandwiching a Malaysian Paprika.
So the Kissy Lips is that moment when a scroteface can let his guard down. When they’re telling you they love you. Is that so wrong?
Why yes. I suppose it is.
Wednesday Limerick
There once was a nanny, Bridgitte.
So Swedish, with boobies petite.
But douche-face soon pounced,
With hand gestures pronounced,
And Bridgitte soon smelled like lunch meat.
HCwDB of the Week: Douche or Dali
This week’s Weekly came down to an erudite and gentlemanly duel between Queen Bee and the Power Chord and the team behind Douche or Dali.
Polite, class system based slaps with a white glove. Aristocratic high culture conflict of interest. And a hella lot of grease and surgery.
Pulling out the win in a blaze of shirtless grease, surgical boobies and the sliced eyeball in Un Chien Andalou was the sheer scrotal power of the Douche or Dali posse. Notadouche sums up the appeal of this surreal masterpiece. And by masterpiece, I mean monstrosity:
It’s hands down douche or dali. These two pukewads make me want to gouge out my eyes with a rusty pair of nail clippers. At the same time hottie’s magnificent rack of the future (with tiniest hint of nipple) forces all of the air out of my lungs in one manic blast, cartoon style.
Or as squatch puts in:
Douche or Dali hands down. Any pictuar that can bring out the Aqua Douche Hunger Force into the comments section in full screaming Mimi mode gets my vote.
This was an interesting win in that the sheer scrotal force of The Dali Douche-Melt overpowered the transformative hottness of both Queen Bee and Tony With the Car Dealership’s Princess. And Tony and Power Chord were no slouches in the skeeze department either.
LiteraryAlchemist makes the strong case for the sheer wrongness of All American beauty Queen Bee, and 1980s Power Chordbag:
Queen Bee and Power Chord have it all. From her disarmingly charming smile, lovely eye(s) and Veronica Lake effect, to his bagtastic 1980’s pr0n-star-frollet.
This asswipe, given the three from which to choose, most earnestly believes his appearance, douche-inspiring expression, and tea-bagging goggles makes him special. He guy stinks of post-frat-midlife crisis. He is “Aqua Velvaman” (apologies to Skunk Weed).
Should Queen Bee succumb to his “charms” she will likely be sorely disappointed to find that he stuffs his crotch, drives a calico and wrecked IROC and lives not in his mother’s basement but in his younger, cute sister’s former bedroom in all its pink and pony decorated glory.
Power Chord FTW. And please. PLEASE. Someone slap that choad smoking grin off his face with a chainsaw.
Very nicely put, L.A. I may add Queen Bee to the list of future ex-Mrs. DB1s at some point. She is everything I desire in a counterpart who I will spend lots of money on while she gradually grows to have contempt for me.
But Tony With the Car Dealership’s sleaze also found support. As Charles Nelson Douchely puts it:
But, Tony. Cripes. For all I know, this could have been the next night at the same bar as Power Chord. Stumbling drunkly over to the hottie, giving a slurred “whats your sign” to her and an offer to let her massage his chest hair. She finally agrees to let Tony take a picture with her in return for him not kidnapping her cat.
But Mr. Potassiumhead makes the case for the cartoonish spectacle of Douche or Dali to rise to a state of privileged meaning structure in our Derrida inspired simulacrum:
Douche or Dali! The piercing blue eyes with nothing behind them, the shaved chests, bling that is noticeable yet doesn’t-overshadow-pectoral-development, and the lips, the pursed lips.
Combined with their facial expressions, you can hear the “mmm” emanating from the depths of their shallow souls, probably only overpowered by the Axe that is no doubt also emanating from their shaved chests. The man pubes are a added bonus.
And iutodd agrees, summing up the vote thusly:
It’s hard not to pick Queen Bee… everyone knows of a girl as hot as she is. And everyone hates whoever she is with. Usually they look like Power Chord… visions like that cause men to break down and cry in public. But I have to pick Douche or Dali. It’s classic hcwdb. Pictures that don’t seem real are the hallmark of this site. And pics like that should never, ever, ever happen.
No. No they shouldn’t.
So raise the Dali Twins shirtless skin jerseys to the rafters, and let Jessika’s inflated boobs distract from any questions about her potential to “surprise” you down there. They are this week’s Winner. And we’ll see their painted brushstrokes with melting clocks and ants coming out of hands in the Monthly.
Willy Wonka and the Orange Factory
I only violate the hottie/douchey combo requirement for a pic on this site on rare and special occasions.
This is one of those occasions.
We celebrate the Prompas because we care. And by care, I mean orange.
And by orange, I mean orange.
Orange.
