Friday Thoughts and Links
When a scarfed-up Mongor dates the hotter younger sister of that chick who had the babies with Paul Thomas Anderson, then it is on. So on.
So, uhm, yeah. The 2012 Douchie Awards. I’mma guess they start on December 7th. Which means I gots work to do.
But this awards show be small.
Drunken.
With dwindling HoHo supply to sustain.
Handing out a smaller batch of awards this year, as befits a one-joke blog in its sixth year of existence. But Douchies there shall be!!
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB DVD Hannukah Gift of the Week: “Strippers should be role-models for little girls. If only for the fact that they wax their assholes.”
Have years of douche mock influenced hottie natural selection?
Fan of hot French chicks? Of course you are. Fan of Swedish death metal? HCwDB provides for you.
Just the other day I was sitting around, munching my dwindling supply of tasty Hostess HoHos, and said to myself, “Self? What would an Egyptian Popeye look like?” And now I know.
When is a Rubik’s Cube not a Rubik’s Cube? When it’s yo’ momma.
If you haven’t seen this yet, enjoy the greatest prank ever played. Well, other than this one.
But you are not here for internet memes and illustration art. You are here for Pear. Enjoy:
For the organic pear that grows in the wild is always the choicest. More? Okay:
Sort of the karmic inversion of the bed pan. Unless you pee in it.
How about Purple Pear?
At least she has a tiny ass. Wait. That isn’t her ass. Her ass is shoved up ultra-wigger style above her belt. Eeeesh! Grape ape. I’d still hit it though. ..Unconcious and loaded with bath salts I’ll do just about anything for chills.
Maybe she needs her asshole cinched by a low belt due to the chrones and colitis problem she gets with every order of the family sized chili nacho supremo. Son.
Imagine what her gun looks like! Gunt!, I says!
One time Connie Francis – or was it Connie Stevens? – tried to deep throat Bob Goulet and when she tried to sing afterwards she sounded like that French broad singin that devil music.
Jesu Christi! What did we ever do before yoga pants???
I would bury my olfactory system in Sarah Silverman’s pickle beet-scented Yenta-schnitzle and munch that until the bread rose. Or didn’t
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Matzos
Monger’s new chick looks like a younger, better looking Susan Rice. About to tell us that World War II started because of a you tube video.
Mongor doesn’t smile
Since the last time he had to
Wash moms uterus.
Yoga Pants is the new Boner.
I want to wipe Yoga Pear’s ass with my SOUL.
I would mosh on a kiddie pool full of kittens in front of the local news team just in the off chance that it would get picked up on CNN, Fox and MSNBC and be shown with a warning that the following footage might be too graphic for some viewers, making Yoga Pear change the channel, just so I could have touched her life in some small way.
I would fuck Yoga Pear’s dog.
I would show up on Yoga Pear’s doorstep with no pants on, saying “how ’bout it?”.
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Might work.
I would drink the grey lumpish water out of Lenny The Box’s forgotten bong leaned up behind his coffee table which is actually a stolen utility company wooden cable spool in the off chance that the inevitable projectile vomitus flayed upon the wall might land in some sort of parabolic curve resembling the side profile of Yoga Pear’s mighty mighty turd cutter.
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Son.
Lest we forget why we fight onward in our own personal Viet-ghanistan war on all things douche…Consider this screed against Douchie o’ the Year Contender “Bag Islander” from 2007. It was written by long-forgotten but e’er mighty bag slayer “Waiting for GoDouche”. Read ye now the following treatise about the sorry cluster of pixels you see below:
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“This is truly what HCwDB is all about.
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It often seems that the douchebags we find, while hilarious/infuriating, are too polished, too self-aware, too in debt to the choads who have come before for their style and attitude.
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This is the original douche.
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He’s not sporting that headband or ignoring that girl or wearing sunglasses around his neck or drinking Miller Lite or pointing to his douche buddy because he’s seen others do it and he wants some of that action – he’s doing it because it’s who he is. The role of the Douchebag is not one he adopts when it’s convenient, it is the life he lives. It’s as if all the other photos on this site are of Julia Roberts, and we’ve finally gotten a picture of the real Erin Brockovich.
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“No ‘bag is an island,” says John Douche, but this may be as close as we’re ever going to get.”
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That was as beautiful as the surely shaven hosebox of the lovely elf poised behind this ass burp’s flaxen dome.
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Ten points to Griffindouche to those who ‘get’ the moniker of “Waiting for Godouche”.
This thing on?
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*tap*
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*tap*
Her Side of the Story:
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He was in an odd mood Sunday night. We planned to meet at a bar for a drink.
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I spent the afternoon shopping with the girls and I thought it might have been my fault because I was a bit later than I promised, but he didn’t say anything much about it. The conversation was very slow going so I thought we should go off somewhere more intimate so we could talk more privately. We went to this restaurant and he was STILL acting a bit funny. I tried to cheer him up and started to wonder whether it was me or something else. I asked him, and he said no. But I wasn’t really sure. So anyway, in the car on the way back home, I said that I loved him deeply and he just put his arm around me. I didn’t know what the hell that meant because you know he didn’t say it back or anything.
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We finally got back home and I was wondering if he was going to leave me! So I tried to get him to talk but he just switched on the TV. Reluctantly, I said I was going to go to bed. Then after about 10 minutes, he joined me and to my surprise, we made love. But, he still seemed really distracted, so afterwards I just wanted to confront him but I just cried myself to sleep. I just don’t know what to do anymore. I mean, I really think he’s seeing someone else.
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His Side of the Story:
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The Saints lost again. Got laid though. Son.
Here’s the thing about mosquitoes.
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They extract our blood by pumping their spittle into our flesh. This spittle is an irritant and itches like hell. So we swat at the little bastards. Wouldn’t it be easier for them if they evolved so that their spittle was benign? They could swarm on our backsides and we’d never notice. But I suspect that such a variant once existed, but died out, because they were able to swarm their hosts with impunity and eventually bring down that host. Their sustenance was then lost, and they died away themselves. So we have the modern mosquito of today. They irritate us just enough to allow both species to coexist in perpetual misery.
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Douchebags are like mosquitoes. We notice them and swat them but cannot eradicate them. If we did not notice them they would breed with impunity and eventually destroy the society they leech off of. But we DO notice them. And the Jesuit protectors of society, namely us, wield the collective swat of mockery to keep them in check and hopefully shame some, if not all, into eventually growing the fuck up.
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We are the Hand of Justice, perpetually swatting the sweaty bare ass of society to keep it free and clear of the draining insects of douchebaggery.
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I intend to keep my hand firmly upon that ass.
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Son.
D-Sock, that’s an exquisite treatise. And I am completely fucked because I have to perform in 8 hours. The douche with his hand on the girl’s ass — has nice nails. Just thayin’.
Real World Text Pear looks like she’s smuggling Kim & Klhoe around in her pants.
Only Mongor can look completely non-douche while looking like a complete douche.