Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Welcome Back, Bitches!

Another week of the mock here at HCwDB!!

Sure this website’s an archaic relic of the pre-app pre-feed days of god darnit actual blogs with unique names and destinations. Back when the internet at least vaguely resembled a digital simulacrum of spatial certainty.

But HCwDB carries on like ole’ Clint. Shoutin’ at chairs and strangely befuddled by working faucets.

We’se still got the hotties with the purple hairs all up innit.

And douchewanks with stupid shirts.

And never the twain shall exchange DNA without collective ridicule.

May your Monday morning be snow-free and filled with tasty snack treats.

For the work week is uponst. So get yer lazy ass in gear. This world won’t consume itself.

The Greatest Thirty Seconds in the History of Television

This is not arguable. For this is sublime.

Wallnuts After Dark

Madonna Mia! I just read a story where some guy who works for the government is getting jammed up because he farts too much at work.

I mean, what kinda pazzo, mixed-up world is we livin in where a guy can’t drop some Wolf Bait when the urge strikes?

It’s not like he was Bangin’ Down a Stiff Lucy, for Chrissakes.  A Stiff Lucy, I says.

I can think a some pretty famous folks who’d be outta a job if Blowin Kumquats was some kinda disqualifier. I remember some a the biggest stars in the world who had some a the most terrible gas you coulda ever smelled, and yet nobody said nothin. It was a weird kind a code where it would be okay for a guy to float a Rotten Air Biscuit, but then it woulda been considered outta line if another guy said somethin’ about it in a complainin’ kinda way.

One time this wise guy Jimmy the Beep, who was from the Midwest and was a Button Man for some a the families back there, came out to Hollywood as a guest a one a the big movie producers who was into the mob for some serious shcarole.

So we was at a gig at Frank’s in Palm Springs and Henry Silva let fly with a really loud and odiferous Neapolitan Butt Belch, and The Beep starts carryin’ on like he just got shived in the shower at Sing-Sing whilst gettin’ boned up the shoot for bein’ a f@#kin’ Wise Guy. Odiferous, I says.

So Silva, who was a legit tough guy, walked over to the Beep and slapped him in the mush and tole him there was dames who was tougher than him, and who did he think he was actin all c@#ty over another guy blowin’ heat. C@#ty, I says.

Everyone held their breath waitin’ for The Beep to rip out Silva’s larynx, but he backed down. Plus Silva laid down another Methane Brick whilst he was face to face with the Beep. We didn’t never see The Beep again.

And you don’t even know what kind a pollution that was bein’ snuck out by some a the choicest skirts in all a Hollywood.

Janet Leigh was known for Cuttin’ Walnuts whilst doin the deed and would Queef like an old Studebaker with a clogged intake valve, with regularity.

Some guys loved that noisy shit.

That’s one a the reasons that half-a-Finnoch Tony Curtis married her.

——————–

Friday Thoughts and Links

Okay kids, time to play another round of “Homeless or Herpster”! It’s the easiest game to play in the world!! Every guess is correct and everybody loses!!

Yup.

Undies Kelly makes the cockles of my hearth glow fond with burning ember.

The weekend is here. And it is weekendy.

I dunno, I keep hearing about this massive snowstorm but it’s 75 and sunny out. Huh.

Here’s your links:

Your HCwDB Classic ’80s DVD Pick of the Week: “This is the Cosby decade! America loves black people!”

Angry Ink rants about the four worst trendy tattoos. John Mayer’s body is still not a wonderland.

Meanwhile in England, celebrities you never heard of flash sideboob.

I have ambiguous feelings about this being a tattoo: Death Before Duckface.

Your humble narrator may just cancel his suicide plans after all.

Nasty-ass FruitPear.

Smartphone app to predict penis size. Owning a white BMW 535 also a pretty accurate gauge.

Okay. You’ve worked for it.

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

Loungepear.

Not enuff? Okay. Have some

PlanningaDinnerPartyPear

There ya go. You’re all set. Bundle up, East Coast. God’s dandruff’s about to bury you.

Friday Haiku

The ‘Sock Lost at sea,

800-Lip-Herp.

– Management

For her – Same ol’ thing:

A bunch of buzzing noises

Down between her knees.

Tough economy

forces pimps to flagrant means

of advertising.

— Douche Wayne

Ready to call that

number but then realized

it’s for bike, not her.

— Eliza Douchecoo

She has bugs in teeth

Since the gyroscope was put

In her MonkeyHole

— The Reverend Chad Kroeger

The glorious crash

That will ensue fueled by hair

Gel and silicone

— Capt. James T. Douche

They’re living the dream

Moped. Motel Six. Cheap beer.

It’s a real short dream

— Mr. Scrotato Head

Trying to use a

scooter to haul ass is like

farting in windstorm.

— Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche

Caption This Pic

After Angie, Roberta, and Zach passed their third hour in the tub, the scented patchouli oil began to smell more and more like rancid fishmeat. Which was okay by Zach. For, coincedentally, rancid fishmeat was both the smell of his basement apartment at his mom’s house, and also the nickname he had for his facial pubes.

Kisseus Vomitorious is Ripped and Scoring the Hotties?

Not so much.

Mo Flanders Has Crabs

I have no idea what this headline means. Old Simpsons flashbacks may be involved.

I do know that I like Raisin Bran. I don’t just mean like. I mean like like. Like I like to snuggle up all cozy in each sugar coated raisin and search for my Rosbudian lost childhood like a whimpering man child from Alpha Centurai.

Yup. No more caffeine for me.

Vegas Paid-to-Be-Youngs Take a Dump on a Squirrel Carcass

Only taut Aryan suckle thigh Janelle offers hope of escaping this skin displaying tattoo monstrosity pileup with at least a modicum of dignity intact.

And by modicum of dignity, I mean completing enough extension classes to finally qualify as a massage therapist at a place other than “The Happy Ending Oyster and Snack Shack” off Robertson and Bundy.

The Toronto Lickjay

Why do all the HCwDB pics sent it from Canada feel like a technical college graduation mixer had sex with a J.C. Penny catalog from 1985?