Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Earwigs

Still out there.

Still attaching themselves to hottie ear like Wrath of Khan brain bug.

Reader Mail: Medicine 'Bags

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Hey DB1

CJTD

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I could write a whole response to this using only 80s film references:

You using the whole fist there, doc?

Now I know why tigers eat their young.

Ah, the 80s. Good filmic times.

Vinnie Spaghetti is a Fluffer

Of his hair. What?

Mmmm… Monique… how I softly massage your grandmother’s discarded soup apron with only a cannister of melted fruit roll-ups and an egg beater to ward off angry ferret spirits. Your cleavite is the holy beacon siren call of a better universe denied the persecuted Odysseus. And so I pooch tickle your bottom with an ostrich feather, and retire to the veranda to meditate on the teachings of Rashi.

Reader Mail: Blunderbus in the Ukraine

Reader Purple Punguine writes in with a tale of trolling for Ukranian Hotts on the internet:

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db1,

— Purple Punguine

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This email raises far more questions than it answers. Especially the “I was talking to a girl” part of it. Please do not end up in a bathtub filled with ice and missing a kidney, PP.

As to Ukranian douchebaggery in presence of Ukhottians, hey, they work with whats they got. Sad Christmas trees and an Alien Welcome Matt.

But oh how I lurve the Ukhotts. Especially their polymorphously perverse kneecaps.

HCwDB After Dark: The Smell of Alpaca Poo

Perfect doe-eyed Quartasian Corrie and her three Besties (Ashley, Kelly and Ananda) smell something in presence of D.J. Fargin Icehole.

It’s either bologna. Or flies.

The Voguegina and Furry Amanda Strike a Pose

Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it, Vag!

Thank Tebus for Furry Amanda swollen mamm. An army of CGI rendered infants await suckle.

As to the Voguegina, I haven’t seen doucheface that angularly pudly since Max Headroom was painted by Georges Braque.

Yeah, whaddaya want, Petrarchian love sonnet creativity? It’s a Tuesday.

Joey Brolin Bemoans His Lack of Career with Boobies

Joey Brolin, less famous brother of Josh Brolin, and son of James Brolin, has found one way to bury the depression.

Surgical body parts soothe the pain of existential angst at a premium drink fee rate.

Muscles McEuro Says "Grüüüüü…."

Now is the time when they dance.

Herr Lipptatt takes the uberdouchey neck liptatt from Mister Liptatt to the international stage.

Inge wants to shpank my Semitic bottom with deeply repressed Teutonic rage.

Rick's Head is On Fire

No, the other head. Rick curses antibiotic-resistant mutation.

Laurie aced her finals. Now all she’s gotta do is pretend she likes Rick long enough to keep her bartending job through June. Even though Rick prob doesn’t go for women. No one can really tell. Shaved chest is no longer a determining signifier.

Somewhere in Las Vegas on a Monday…

Kevin forlornly orders a Mai Tai and sighs.

Ashley dances without joy, a vague and disquieting sense of unease about the future pushed into the back of her mind through a hazy mix of alcohol, cigarettes, and regret about last night. She makes a mental note to check with her gyno when getting back home to Phoenix on Wednesday.

A listless D.J. sits on a milk crate and plays Fun’s “We Are Young” for the fifteenth time that afternoon on tinny speakers.

Manuel cleans up the used towels by the jacuzzi and thinks about moving to San Diego to live with his brother.

It’s 2:34pm.