Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Thoughts and Links

I realized yesterday, as The Jersey Shore enters its final season, that days go by where my mind blocks out that I am ultimately responsble for the world knowing the name “Snooki.”

I am in denial.

The mocking of ‘bags has brought me much important positive Karma for my Buddhist afterlife and rebirth. So Vishnu told me, by way of Elijah, at the last interfaith Seder.

But I must still make penance for the great cardinal sin of my ‘bag mocking leadership. The poo stain on my flag. The shaming of my ancestors.

The Snooki Baby will be stopped. By my future child. In an epic battle. With way too much CGI. And a wacky robot sidekick.

Here’s your links:

Flight of the Conchords reunites for charity. Brett? Check. Jermaine? Check.

My kingdom and a bottle of Charles Shaw wine to anyone who can explain this pic of Kisseus Vomitorious and Margaret. Regardless, they’s making a serious play for HCwDB of the Year.

Jersey Short.

It’s good to see Seinfeld keeping busy these days.

The difference between how men and women deal with breakups is pretty clear.

Bros.

HCwDB regular Mr. Biggs observes a Go Topless protest. In a related story, the DB1’s “Shaved Alpaca Pride” convention was not granted a city permit on animal cruelty grounds.

San Francisco coffee shop launches a war on herpsters. Take that, Instagram! Who uses Insta-… oh wait. D’oh.

OKCupid Enemies. I’m thinking of starting “JDateShiksas.com”.

This card is a fraud. There is only one King.

Happy Birthday to Paul Reubens, who turned 60 on Monday. He’s Sorry He Took the Money.

But you are not here to celebrate the birthday of the great Paul Reubens. You are here for pear:

Piranha Pear

Not enough? How about

Purple Lace Meaty Meat Pear

Mmm… like succulent globules of pink booble fondle suckle thigh.

Where's Douchelegs?

Somewhere in this pic of…

Oh who gives a crap where douchelegs is.

I would suckle and grope my way through a mound of uncooked raisinbread challah dough while blindfolded with an ancient Mayan dishrag while slapping my upper posterior with a gel encrusted fly swatter just for the chance to triple thigh bongo each of these pooch spackles after arranging them in chronologically descending Ms. Clairol hair dye color order. Then I would rub softly on Stripped Bikini Kayla’s belly pooch and lower back thigh with mint juleps and a faded doily. And then I would make them kick me with their legs like an S&M version of the Rockettes while whimpering and crying out for an answer to Fermat’s Last Theorem.

Friday Haiku

Willard combs his hair

By extracting his head from

Between Sue’s milk domes.

Hairspray Vs. Gel

Sven debates Inga; waits for

Roofies to kick in

— saulgoode42

Jean’s big, scary hair

is not the only thing here

overinflated.

— FoghornLeghorn

B-52 ‘do

Meets ‘A Flock of Seagulls’ hair

Run so far away

— DoucheyWallnuts

Nihilists know how to

Party, Jan practiced his stare

For several hours.

— Capt. James T. Douche

Six Boobs Sitting on Bench

One boob turns to the other and says, “I’m cold. Does it feel a bit nipple out here?”

Uhm.

Yeah.

I blame my parents.

M Dawg Gut Punches the Baby Tebus

Douche of the soul is a festering rot, and M Dawg pukes it in spades.

The Ladies of the 3pm-9pm Tuesday shift at the Platinum Club regret nothing. Except that one thing. You know what. Lets not talk about it. The bathrooms at the Ladies Foot Locker still smell like cinnamon.

Douchey and Gabana

Get it?! It’s like Dolce and Gabana but I switched the word “Dolce” to “Douchey!”

Yeah. Got nuthin’.

Watched the atrocity that was a political convention last night and was so disgusted by this country I went for a walk and beat up a pack of wild dressage horses roaming in the Hollywood Hills. Their pained whines and whinnies reminded me of the resiliency of America. So I got that going for me.

But yeah. I’m in a pretty foul mood this morning. The arrogant celebration of wilfull ignorance is a toxic strain of Americana that has always been present in this country’s DNA since the first dysfunctional Puritans used fictions and religious ghost stories to control and deny their anxieties about female libido. It is the Freudian death drive writ political. An intense dissonance born of sexual frustration and cartoonish cowboy dreams that follows a three hundred year path from witch trials to slavery to debates about “welfare”. The wealthy elites scaring the rubes to control them like so many flickering phantasms dancing in Plato’s cave. There will always be a fetishizing of the rich and a need for aristocracy. The need to return to childhood and rekindle an imagined safety that never actually existed, with apple pies on Mayberry Street, and no gays or Mexicans. When reality is scary, it’s 1950s America, Roland Reagan starring as Ronald Reagan as the Marlboro Man starring in the Great White Rewrite of Multicultural Reality. Fear becomes fictions. Stories of hero/villain comic book simplicity. Minorities become a threat. It is the selling of illusion as conceptual snake oil. How to manufacture hatred and fear by the yard? Paint the picture of unseen threat, lurking in the shadows. They are political douchebags proclaiming family values before heading to the strip clubs. And shame on the rubes for being duped.

EDIT: Bonus Pear for listening.

Semitic Hottie Sherrie Finds the Afikomen

It was hidden in Melvin’s Gunt.

Esoteric Wednesday

The fish.

What Happens to the Hot Chick at an Overcrowded Music Festival

She gets surrounded and prodded by overzealous Bennington undergrads.

Ubiquitous Red Cup angrily, but without breaking zen state, does not approve.

Jack the Lipper Finds a New Victim

This sequel to the best-selling harlequin novel of the late 19th century ends not with a bang, but with a, well, a bang I suppose.

I can’t tell if 80s Tom Petty Hott is turning me on or making me consider pitching a movie, “Whatever Happened to Baby Tom Petty?”

Pouty Michaela continues, however, not to disappoint. Mayan Eye of Slutty Coitus for the societal elevation.