Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Stubble Does not Define the Asshole, But The Asshole is Defined by Stubble

So sayeth Confucius.

A Whole Bunch of Stupid People Doing Nothing Interesting, So I just Peed on a Ferret

Sometimes, when life throws you a skull shirt, it’s time to pee on a ferret.

Although Lana’s golden legs are suckle hint of hopeful de-pee.

Wrong Hole

EDIT:  Since that video of dancing Serbian hot chicks got pulled by YouTube, here’s some DJ Lubel comedy for your Sunday morning. (possibly NSFW)

Wallnuts After Dark – Manscaping

What’s with all a these guys that don’t have no body hair? Is it possible that in a generation guys went from bein’ hairy like a man to bein’ hairless like a kid or some weird plastic doll? It don’t look right.

Now don’t get me wrong, an overly hairy guy ain’t too good to look at, and I’m sure no broads love to have that hair shirt all rubbin’ up against their gazongs when they’s doin’ the nasty all slows-like. But NO body hair for a fella? That ain’t natural.

I s’pose us boys used ta kinda sorta “manscape” back in the day. Especially after the watershed Miami Shaving Party that I tole all a youse about a while ago.  Ain’t nobody want to see all a them Gabiles on a guy or a chick. I remember the first time Sinatra tole us all about how he trimmed his chest hair and his down below areas. We was all shocked because that was the kind a stuff only Finnochs did back then, but we was all ascared to say anything like that to Frank. But once the dames saw it and we realized they liked it, we was all about cleanin’ up ourselves down in the underbits.

I remember one time Normy Fell hacked up his joint pretty good trying to trim his Gabiles with one a them old school Wilkenson double edge razors that we all used to use back in the day. You could a cut down a friggin’ Sequoia tree wit one a them razors they was so sharp. You needed to be delicato down below and old Normy paid for it for weeks. He couldn’t bang no broads with a nicked up schvantz. Nicked up schvantz, I says.

Now, another ting, some a these guys back then didn’t have the greatest bodies, but they at least looked like men’s bodies. These days some a these guys with the shaved bodies look like one a them, whattaya call, Hermaphrodities that’s got both a joint and tits and even a twat.

Imagine that.

Buddy Hackett would a banged a Hermaphrodite and never minded it had a joint. He banged anything.

When it came to hair on our heads we had to be real careful what we said since Frank was always wearin’ a rug. God forbid somebody made a comment about anther guy wearin’ a wig, since Sinatra was always tapin’ a piece to his dome. Oofa.

This guy Scungilli Phil, who ran numbers for the Gambinos, had a few drinks too many at Toots Shore’s one night and called Sinatra’s toupee a bath mat. He thought he was being funny. No one ain’t never seen Scungilli Phil after that.

Frank was always jealous of Dean’s hair. Ole’ Deano had a full head of thick, black sheen that he’d grease all up to the nines like one a them Chinese dandies that used ta run numbers at Caesar’s back in the ’30s. Chicks was always runnin’ their hands trew Dean’s coif. Meanwhiles, Frank never would let no dame come near touchin’ his head. Ole’ Blue Eyes was afraid they’d knock his toup off his dome. Dome, I says.

Friday Thoughts and Links

And there it is.

A bored pec-tatt zombie stumbling through life like a retarded yeti in search of primordial boobs, living the unthinking, unexamined life of the basest kind.

And there are the boobs of deliverance.

The comedy of life continues.

So your humb narrs has become ridiculous infatuated with peanut butter and jelly sandiwches of late.

Theories abound.

Is this a need to return to the comfort foods of childhood?

A way of satiating the stomach with consumptive innocence as an act of resistance to the deepening sands of time as they pass by?

Alls I know is a good PB&J on toast, washed down with some Dr. Pepper, is what makes life worth a’livin’.

It smacks the wildebeasts of depressive discourse away.

It holds back the raging, surging waters of ephemeral turmoil.

And so, for that, I munch.

Here’s your links:

Your HCwDB DVD German Expressionist Silent Film Masterpiece Pick of the Week: ……… (no quotes because it’s a silent film)………………

Would you say… I have a plethora of pinatas?

Married? Bored? Here’s one way to spice things up.

For the Girls fans among us (and you know you’re out there), Lena Dunham pwned.

Tag Bodyspray goes down!! We are winning.

The DB1 finds blow-up satisfaction.

Surprising no one in the history of anything, a Miami-Dade Prosecutor turns out to be a… you guessed it.

Oakland defensive tackle Desmond Bryant perfects the art of the Doucheface Mugshot.

Aussie Douchebags. Just like American Douchebags, but much more polite.

And in other news: What Girls Gone Up must Girls Gone Down.

But. Alas. There can be only two loaves of perfection:

White Pear

You’re welcome.

Friday Haiku

Then BatMan cried

“To the Bat-Van, Timothy!”

Never seen again…

Batman and Robin

not the same since monkey holes

and gyroscopes merged.

— UFO Destroyers

The Pauncho Batman

goes home to Alfred, and by

Alfred, I mean Mom.

— Charles Douchewin

Adam West, Burt Ward

Hold court with 6 skanky bleeths;

Comic Con crowd waits

— DoucheyWallnuts

Piscataway Youth

Club takes its final field trip

to Harold’s basement.

— Douche Wayne