Scrotology
Every so often, I sense something deep within my scrotae.
A vibration. A vision. A deep premonition.
Somewhere between Mistress Cleo, Kreskin and wut JoeyPorsche’s dic did, I sense a future event before it happens.
Some call it a sixth sense. Others call it a rash on my sack that needs medical attention. I call it Spiritual Scrotology, the mystical art of predicting the future based on scrotal sensation.
Gazing at this Starbucks latte drinking punk Starpunk and his rather sexy if slightly plump senorita, my vibrating scrotum speaks to me. It tells me that her daddy wasn’t quite as threatened by Starpunk as she’d hoped. My scrotum vibrates some more. I see her mind wandering. Wondering if Lanny, the class whippit-head, would perhaps piss daddy off more than Starpunk.
And the answer comes to me by way of scrotal oscillation. Starpunk and senorita hung out another ten minutes, In awkward silence. Before she told him, “You smell like pee, Starpunk. I, uh, gotta go.”
And hark. Scrotology sees the future once again.
Disco Stu
Disco Stu says, Don’t be a fool, stay in school.
No wait, that was Mr. T. Dammit, I keep making that mistake.
'Bag Choadwich
I’m pretty sure I’ve posted this Miami Hott hotness a few times last year. I’m sad to see her descent into The Bleeth State continues.
Note the skull and crossbones necklace.
Or, to go for the obvious signifiers, simply note the two-ton ‘Bag Sandwich crushing her in a sea of greasy choadstain. Toss in Red Tongue with the tribal tat, and the DB1 is ready to hit the sauce.
Fan Mail
a reader writes in:
————–
at first I thought your site/blog was funny. i’ve viewed it a couple more times the past 2 weeks and have realized you are a real F@#$ing faggot. seriously get a life and quit talking s@#$@ about people you wish you were. hatred comes from pure jealousy. i seriously hope someone finds you on the street and f#@$s you up. look at you. you’re such a pansy. maybe if your daddy would have played catch with you more as a child you wouldn;t be such a little girl. get f#$@ed, p#@$y.
——————-
Dammit. I knew it was the lack of catch games.
You can listen to your humble narrator, The DB1, genuflect on all things sexy/greasy as well as his lack of familial love on a Calgary radio station by clicking here.
No HCwDB Weekly this week, next week we’ll do a dual week ‘Bag-Off, but be sure to get your votes in for the Monthly by scrolling down. Voting ends tonight.
Mega Man II
Yup, the bizarre razor accident known as Mega Man is making his second appearance on the site.
This pic makes me as uncomfortable as when Lewis Sculnick took advantage of Betty Childs dressed as Darth Vader in the moon ride at the homecoming carnival. Which was either a scene in Revenge of the Nerds, or the most incomprehensible series of non-sequitors I’ve written since March.
HipsterBag 101
We haven’t featured pure Hipsterbags on the site in awhile, which is a shame as they’re one of the classic sub-branches of the UrbanBag genus within the douchebag species. Nothing sets the blood afire like Trustafarian hipsterbags pounding the Rolling Rocks and wearing the bowling t-shirt that has some ironic name like “Al” or “Tony” on it when their real name is Zach.
Enough, HipsterBags.
We don’t want to hear about the band you’re starting without a bass player but featuring your musically untrained Parsons classmate playing a 1982 Casio keyboard into a microphone.
We don’t want to read your ‘Zine.
We’re not going to invest in your web design company.
We don’t want to hear about the David Eggers reading at Barnes and Noble when you hooked up with “Teal,” smoked from a hookah at an outdoor cafe before retiring to her loft apartment to have unsatisfying sex to her Belle and Sebastian records. On vinyl.
Begone, HipsterBags. You are JoeyPorsche in a gas station t-shirt. Jersey scroad by way of premium Soho vintage shops.
Orange-utan
Jumpin’ Man Tan! The Prompa Virus spreads. I haven’t seen that much spray-on product since the silly-string craze of the early 1990s.
Megods Orange-utan, think of the dolphins.
I have no idea how, why, or what the causality is, but dolphins are definitely dying as a result of that skin product. Either dolphins or bunnies.
As to the hotties, I would bake chocolate truffles and feed them one by one while playing yoga meditation music on the pan flute. Then I would rub their middle toes with talcum powder until they got bored and asked for my credit card to hit Loehmans. Which I would gladly give up. Because Loehmans is having a sale.
CrackerBags
I haven’t seen this much whiteness since my Amtrak stopover in Greenwich, Connecticut. But that’s not why I named this bunch CrackerBags.
It’s due to the fact they all smoke crack.
Okay, they don’t really smoke crack. But they should. Might de-choad this Frat Stew before it boils over.
Speaking of theme-park douchebaggery, reader Bilbo Baggins offers up what, in a perfect HCwDB world, our National Monuments would really look like.
And while we’re having fun with photoshop, reader pfah wants to know if anyone’s up for a tasty boiled Ab Lobster?
Toe Jam
PIC DELETED
Something smells like toe jam.
What is it?
Oh yeah. The douche-face.
Barbie may be far gone down the path of douchebaguette, but I’d revive her with papaya juice while reading her the Sunday comics and licking her forearm with the drool of a thousand Popsicle sticks.
HCwDB of the Month
In a month of hottie/choad abundance in which we’ve sailed the douchey winds to such unexplored heights as The Joey Porsche Experience and the Oompa Prompa, the following four pics may not be auto “Hall of Scrote,” but they have fought the battles and worn the scars to make it to the finals.
Each is a worthy selection of the rotting fetid doucheyness caught in mid-grease, as well as the gorgeous cottonballs of Hott that fell into their scrotey orbit. Four can enter. But only one can win the Monthly.
So sure, I could keep rambling here about my long weekend of drunken debauchery, my endless run-ins with Bleethed out Hollywood Hotties who asked me what car I drove until my posse left because, “this place is dead anyways.” But you don’t want to hear about my sorry-ass life. You want the finalists. So here they is:
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Creeper
The Tongue of Wrongness. The leaping alien slug that turns us into zombies and lays eggs in our brains.
We see a lot of sleazy/sexy combo permutations here at HCwDB, but something about the unique wrongness struck a nerve with Hot/’Bag-Nation.
Maybe it’s the tongue stud + puka shell combo on a pudgy middle aged clown who refuses to go gently into that good night.
Maybe it’s that perfectly sexy drink of Swedish Nordic Hitlerian master race fantasy.
I would attack her ankles with the inspired energy of a Jack Russell terrier on sixteen pills of No-Doze.
So what do we look for in a special HCwDB pic? That perfect swirling mix of utterly skeezy wrongness, douched out clothes, a mini mustache that makes you want to spew burrito chunks like Heather #1, and a perfect ball of hot that couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t actually be in that presence. But is.
This pic’s got it in spades.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: ChandlerBag and the Bumper
Have you ever seen a bumper that perfect?
No, not since breakfast.
Yeah, I might be rehashing overused Fletch dialogue, but when under the gravitational pull of Perfectus Assicus there can be no other reaction.
She is perfect pouty lipped Nobel Sexy Prize winning uberperfection.
And then there’s Chandlerchoad. With the ancient “mark of the ‘bag” on his greasy forehead. What they used to call the Cockinballs. The signifier of true scrotebaggitude.
Beware the Cockinballs, perfect bumpered hottie. For he has the mark of the ‘bag.
Not to mention, an expression of punch-worthy douchitude.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: The Mack
Classic Jersey Scroad, served up on a greasy fryer and garnished with two spicy chiquita bananas, The Mack is true HCwDB spew.
This is an interesting pic, as the rage factor on the Mack is more than the sum of any parts. It is inspirational HCwDB ethereal impulse.
Like a flash of inspiration, a moment of spiritual clarity, or a baseball bat to the genitals.
I would love perky Zebra Hottie in enough permutations to require an extra chapter in the 2008 Kama Sutra. Or at least I like to tell myself that. Actually I’d give her 20 seconds of awkward bra fumbling before she called her Sorority sisters to complain that I’m a “perv.” Which, of course, I am.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Twin ‘Bags
Ah, you’d forgotten about the Twin ‘Bags.
Silly you.
While you’d moved on to other servings of douchey choadbags hitting on rosarie beaded hotties, The Twin ‘Bags lay in wait to surprise you once again.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Meh. I’m over it. But I give you two key points to make you reconsider this pic.
One: Mandana that is literally so big, the New York skyline is on it. And two: Twins.
So, like a JoeyPorsche trip to “Acapulo,” four bag/hottie couples enter. Only one can triumph. What say you? Should the Monthly Crown go to the Twin ‘Bags? Chandlerbag’s Cockinballs? The Mack? Or the Creeper?
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
