Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

D-Bone and Vegas Sienna Should Not Reproduce

It is a moral imperative that D-Bone’s hairline never recur in the larger gene pool/swimming pool.

Hand Gesture Harold Almost Got Away With It

Hand Gesture Harold had it. Smokin’ Sophia. In pic form.

HGH’s “boyz” on the Facebook would be all sorts of jealous. No one tapped this level of hott back during the Fordham law school days.

It was his for the takin’.

All he had to do was show up.

But no.

The appeal of sideways peace sign (SPS) was too much to resist.

And so, Hand Gesture Harold, here is your Douche Crown.

Like a useless old fogey living off past glory, you will remember this day for the next forty years as your life slips into irrelevancy.

Mogo the Candyman

Too Late.

Woo Cindy ate the candy.

Boatwanks and Hot Chicks in Dry Dock

Warning: Never ask to see the “White Whale,” no matter how much they try to goad you into asking.

Payoff: For it is Joey’s peen.

Good news: Rumor has it that Kelly puts out for a Miller Lite.

Problem: No one can tell which one of the woo hotties is Kelly.

The Sherpa's Scribbletatts

Once, when I was working as a grapefruit vendor for the mob in Tijuana during rainy season, a passing blind Sherpa told me not to look so hard.

“You can only see when you cannot see.” the blind sherpa told me, his gnarled hands clutching a pencil box for charity and a half-eaten Snickers bar.

“When you cannot see, the universe will reveal itself.”

We sang ancient Sanskrit hymns until dawn before being rousted from our campfire by a pack of wandering muskrats in search of truffle.

So we wandered past the Cayan Underpass and over the Hills of Prangladesh. I offered him some mead wine and a few sheckels and bade him on his way at the crossroads by I-59.

But I pondered the Sherpa’s words. And stopped staring at the sun.

Later, I found out the Sherpa opened a tattoo parlor on Ventura. Scribble Tatts, half price.

I still see the signs of his wisdom today.

HCwDB After Dark

As the great eleventh century rabbi and scholar Moses Maimonides once said, and I’m paraphrasing, “there are many ways to honk a boober hooter, but only one purity of suckle pear.”

At least that’s how I choose to remember reading it.

Abs Exploding Like Lohan Coke-Nose

Or perhaps a Ron Jeremy coronary is a better analogy.

Pukey McTirehead Would Like to Fondle Shoulder Suckle Stacey's Nethers

Pukey McTirehead is getting closer…

Pretty sure this story ends with a wacky sidekick making a sarcastic comment followed by a “Wahhhh-Wahhhh” horn sound.

At least that’s how it plays out in my head.

Because my head is on a constantly recurring early 80s sitcom loop.

Pimp Jose Dresses Up For Your Sins and Cuddles Kelly

The 1990s were a silly time.

There were music videos about princes and peaches.

Somehow, somebody named “Gwyneth Paltrow” inexplicably became a movie star.

But amidst all the rancor and surliness of a bored and aimless decade with too much time and not enough gravitas, there was one thing that didn’t exist.

Really stupid giant necklaces.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it, I Love the 90s on VH1.

Yup. Got nuthin.

Coffeetime.

Reader Mail: Chris Makes it All Worth It

This email deserves a douche-free post:

————–

DB1,

– Chris

———–

It’s been a long, crazy, amazing run. In a few weeks, it’ll be seven years since HCwDB was born out of my rage at seeing every male my age putting on paint-spackled $80 Affliction shirts and dousing themselves in Axe Bodyspray in the vain hopes of getting female attention.

So much has changed.

So much has yet to changed.

The battle continues. And in many ways, the battle is also over.

Who knows what the future brings? For now, I’mma still post what I can.