Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Bikini Girl Dances in a Bikini

Because sometimes in life you just need to stare at a bikini girl dancing in a bikini with a creepy smile on her face in front of a bizarre chyron of a streetcorner.

As Nietzsche would want us to.

Comment of the Week: Mr. Scrotato Head

Mr. Scrotato Head brings epic mock and breaks down the backstory on the Tapout Family, winning the coveted HCwDB of the Week:

———————-

I know, I know what you’re thinking Ronnie. If only you’d gone out for the football team as a freshman instead of playing trombone in the marching band. If only you’d bought that home gym instead of the BlackNaga 2000 tower PC with the AckAck graphics card and 20-inch monitor. If only you’d listened to your dad, who said you should run far far away, instead of your mom, who said you should start school at the local community college and get all the general classes out of the way. If only you hadn’t hit the club with the other salesmen and flashed all that cash from your first quarter bonus payment for being Scion Peon of the Month at Schmidtweiser Scion and Subaru. If only you’d had maybe five beers instead of eight. If only you’d looked the other way when Jenna from billing and license plates smiled at you in her too-tight tank and her too short skirt with the oh my gawd holy white triangle flashing every time she shifted in her seat. If only, dear God in heaven, if only you hadn’t given up on trying to open that condom wrapper as the two of you fumbled around in the backseat of your loaner Scion with the speakers thumping and visions of guinea pigs in matching track suits with bling and backwards hats giving you the thumbs up exploding in your head.

If only, Ronnie, if only. In the meantime, try to smile sincerely when Jenna tells you this time she’s really going to lose those last few pounds of pregnancy pooch. And for hell’s sake would it kill you to clean up after the dogs once in a while?

——————-

Friday Thoughts and Links

I just drove by three mules by the side of the road on a dusty Los Angeles street.

On one of the mules was the following link written in gaffer’s tape.

I have read that link.

And I feel enlightened.

At least enough to ignore oily eurodouche hitting on barely legal Swedish Fish.

Here’s your links:

Your HCwDB DVD Pick of the Week: “A putz? What’s a putz? It’s somethin’ bad, isn’t it? You better take that back or I’m gonna kick your fuzzy butt!”

World’s oldest douchebag corpse discovered! The battle has been long and complex.

Ripped abs or gay porn? Hard to tell anymore.

Bro-ing it up with URC this weekend? Use this handy kegulator.

Twenty-something Brooklyn Herpster tries to defend herpsterism on the merits. Use of “Beer Garden” as a concept = autodouche.

Fun with photoshop: Trekdouche. “Damn it Jim! I’m a scrotebag, not a choadlick!” Or something.

For the lady who has everything: Vibra-finger.

Here’s a fairly amusing parody of an Instagram Hipster Artist.

Sophia Vergara has a’spicey meatballs.

For the philosophers among us: How to explain Heidegger to Douchebags. Screw it, lets open up a restaurant in Santa Fe.

Okay, you’ve been good. Have some.

Real World Adjustment Pearo.

Not enough? Okay, one more. Because I like you:

Mellonic Pear.

Like choral harmonies from 17th Century European Indentured Servants. If 17th Century European Indentured Servants were glute chompy chomps.

Friday Haiku

After seeing Jill

Todd was unable to get

Her ass off his mind.

Wearing an Ass Hat

Is better than being one

This douche managed both

— DoucheyWallnuts

Jills prolapsed colon

looks eerily similar

to my mechanic.

— Not Safe For Rest (NSFR)

Jill’s pear needs a rest

Todd is mistaken for stool

happens all the time

— Douche Springsteen

The Porn Convention

Was going well until Sue

Pooped a Latino

— saulgoode42

Those Hollywood Nights

Hollywoodland.

Where a no-talent ass clown not named Michael Bolton Christian Audiger can make millions by dressing people like clowns.

And by selling this.

Even Mickey’s in on the disgrace.

But still Hollywood sells its dream. The land where the boobies beckon.

But so does the craziness.

The Family that Taps Together Craps Together

We’re losing the war.

Alissa Takes the Pepsi Challenge

It involves garish taste in clothes, excessive hair gel, words pronounced without the “r” sound, and a frightening rash on the inner thigh.

Herpsters Ruin Pabst Blue Ribbon

There was once a time when Pabst Blue Ribbon was the beer of choice for coolness.

That time is no longer.

Atoning for Alpacas

Your humb narras will be spending the day atoning for a whole host of personal deconstructions, not the least of which involves my unhealthy obsession with sexy, sexy alpacas.

I imagine them in the sweetest of knee socks and skirts.

Making sexy falsetto mews and brays.

And I am shamed in the eyes of Adonai.

An even greater sin because the great Hebraic prophet, Moab, explicitly condemns alpaca fetishization in “Psalm Like it Hot.”

And then there’s my unhealthy obsession with treyf Pear. Perhaps more understandable, since Maimonides himself was a huge Pear fanatic.

But still.

All will resume tomorrow.

Shofar so good.

I blame that last pun on your moms.

Potato-Chip Hitler Does Not Approve

Potato-Chip Hitler does not approve of Ciggy McGoebbels hitting on Aryan Anna.

This post brought to you on Yom Kippur Eve by a Jew who now has one more thing to repent for tonight.