The Primitive Tool
I remember in 5th grade world history we learned all about how early nomadic cavemen and Neanderthals were the first to use primitive tools to build huts and cut down trees.
But my question is this. How exactly does one use a Primitive Tool like the one pictured here to do anything? I can’t even see lifting him in the air for any length of time, let alone using him to cut down a tree.
'Bag / Gangsta
Performative douchewank? Or gatt busting homie who will hunt me down, pop a cap in my ass, then eat all my cheerios and leave the fridge door open?
Depending on which way you vote, I’ve provided two alternative commentaries:
A. (performative douchewank) Nice mandana the size of a Buick, tighty-whitey muscle t and douche-bracelet there, Tex. Did the razor get repo’d in mid shave because you forgot to make the payments?
B. (actual gangsta) You are a scholar a gentleman, a benevolent and magnanimous contributor to humanity, kind sir. Thank you for coming to the Pomona fairgrounds, and here’s a free Orange Julius. Please do not pop a cap in my proverbial ass.
Well, douchewank or gangsta, I do know this.
I would love the silver belt buckle and the meaty arm I’d nibble tiny tooth crop circles into that would direct traffic for the alien landings.
Slapdance
Fish Slap wanted to come by and remind us that even if we have a ‘bag free and hottie filled weekend, he’s out there. Which should be enough to fire you up and send you out for the weekend with extra motivation.
Just knowing this guy is out there greasing on the hotties should be enough to tinge tonight’s alcohol binge with the slightest hint of melancholy.
He’s a choad. But that’s why I’m here. To mock his ass. And so it’s Friday Night. The ‘bags have been mocked. The hotties lusted after.
Good night moon. Good night douche by the light of the moon.
Hello boobies.
Puka Shell Paulie
I gotta give it up to Puka Shell Paulie.
Not only does he feature a chin of cartoonish surrealism, a vague aura of gender ambiguity, and the best peach fuzz mustache this side of a class of 7th graders in Osaka, but he’s completely oblivious to the Loopy Hotts to his left.
Don’t look now, Puka Shell, but the show is behind you.
The Quadrapadouchic
Aw, isn’t that sweet.
Taking care of her “special” friend so infested with douche virus that he’s dribbling little Griecos onto his chin.
You’re doing your part for humanity, sweetie. The world thanks you.
Class
See? He loves you, sweetie.
Twin Kravitz
I want to get away… I want to smack these douchebags… away… yeah… yeah… yeah…
The ladies may not overwhelm like yesterday’s Yellow (although Saki Hottie’s got a great smile), but there was no way I was passing up on posting the Twin Kravitz ‘Bags.
They’re like a McDonalds double cheeseburger of cheese. The pink shirt that keeps on scroting. But it’s the matching ‘bag hand gestures that put the Twin Kravitzs over the top.
And thanks for that glimpse of upper groin there, Kravitzes #1 and #2. I needed that like a flyswatter to the face.
The Bloodhound Gang
I’ve got a headache this big!
And it’s got four club-soda choadbags written all over it.
This is like one of those wacky gangs of friends who solve crimes. No, not Scooby Doo. Different.
I’m talking The Bloodhound Gang. If you replaced clever kids who solve crimes using their smarts with douched up rayon wearing puddles of club grease who solve nothing but smell like Axe.
But, oh, the things you and I could do together, Purple.
We’d drive across the Kalahari on a stolen Vespa with only a flat bottle of Mr. Pibb and fourteen Fig Newtons to sustain us. At night we’d lie under canopy, swat the tse-tse flies and I’d rub your thighs with Crisco and a large rolling pin until their tender flesh revitalized my spirits.
Because that’s how I roll.
Friday Haiku
T-Pubes on the chin,
Flaming head bleach, cactus face.
Bullock Likes? I weep.
When he bedded her
It’s the day the music died
Only sports-talk now
— k-federbag
Crisp hair of sponge cake
plus flasher girl with man hands
equals puckered ass
— Duck Duck Douche
Sandra, oh Sandra.
Step away from neon hair.
Gamma rays harmful.
-Amerigo Vesdouchey
His blank stare tells all.
The slight twinkle in her eye
Will soon turn to tears.
— tricky dick
Jesus Tags
I’m not sure if we’ve officially categorized this trend yet, but one of the more disturbing douche accoutrement developments of the past six months has been the merging of Jesus Bling and the Douche Dog-Tags into what can only be described as “Jesus Tags.”
Note their prominent display on the groin shoving douchewank on the left.
I suppose one could dub these adouchrements “God-Tags,” but I’m not opening that whole can of theological douche-worms.
Instead I will simply sing Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes at these two balls of scrotal decay until they disappear in a flash of Broadway spectacle.
At which point I would suckle and fondle the libretto for Ballet Hott’s audition tape until she emoted Stanislavsky style and let me hump her leg like a shreiking rhesus monkey during the rainy season.
