Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Evil Yellow Sunball Demands Pear Sacrifice

Will no one be able to satisfy the carnal demands of this cruel and twisted demigod??

Anal Pucker of the Apocalypse Meets Granola Sideboob of Pokey Fondle

A little bit more backstory and Marvel’s gonna turn this into their next superhero film.

Summer 2017. Right after Fondlerman vs. The Pud hits the big screen.

When Tribal Tatts Turn Nipples into Screaming Anal Puckers of the Apocalypse

So a Wannabe Maori douchebag*, a Giggle Hott, and Hippie Frank all walk into a bar.

The bartender says, “What is this, some kind of picture on hot chicks with douchebags?”

And… scene.

* If Pablo is a real Maori tribesman, than 90% is forgiven for the tatt. But no shirt in club still = douche.

Mr. Short

Gold chains and Elvis glasses do not elevate, do they, Mr. Short.

One Word Tuesday

Irony.

Wallnuts After Dark: Who Gives a F@&$ About This Royal Baby?

Management apologia: This edition of Wallnuts After Dark should’ve run over the weekend, but I simply didn’t see it. Because I got drunk and downed a sixpack of HoHos while watching DVRd Jeopardy. That Alex Trebeck is a wily minx.

But since the DB1 is about to have his own Jewish Princess, let us celebrate the virgin birth with a lil’ Wallnuts After Dark:

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Madonna Mia! All over the CNN and the TV this week was this story about the kid that prince and princess had over there in England. But as my barber Frankie the Wop says, “Who gives a Fucc?”

I mean this whole Royalty Family thing to me is a scam. After all, they do nothin’ but live off a the money a them Brits that work, and they live like Kings in palaces and castles. And shit. I guess because they is Kings. What kinda tripe is that?

If their last name was “Gambino,” they’d all be sittin’ in jail somewheres wit a Racketeering charge hangin’ over their heads. Things are goin’ in the shitter over there, an yet people is all gaga over these lazy royalty mooks livin’ high on the hog. An over here people are so nuts about these Brittunculi you’d think these cavones is part of somthin’ to do wit us when they ain’t got nothin’ to do wit us. Na mean?

I never could figure out why everyone was so over the moon about that Princess Diane broad who was married to the prince that looks the back side a my balls wit them big ears and a horse face. I mean, I’d hit it, but she weren’t no Connie Stevens. Back side a my balls, I says.

Then there’s that one prince kid a hers who looks like the guy she was bangin’ behind her prince husband’s back, and not like the prince hisself. Yet I ain’t never hear anyone say anything ’bout that, how that one prince is too sharp lookin’ to be the son a that other ugly prince.

An another thing, ain’t these current princes and queens the relatives a other kings and queens an those Sars who ran Russia an Germany, or some fuccen thing? I mean this whole arrangement has got Mob written all over it. A bunch a families get together an divvy up territories an whatnot, and get a piece a the action all over the joint. Sounds like “Our Thing.” Am I right when I say that?

Now this new princess or duckess broad that had the kid, an the press an all a the women is droolin’ all over her. She looks like your run a the mill Stasch that sits around the house all day, gets her nails done and winds up bangin’ the Cabana Boy. Stasch, I says. Take away all a that make up an fancy threads an she’s just another plain Jane.

Again, I’d hit it, but I’m just sayin’.

If this dame was married to some CEO or some hot shit doctor all a everybody would be rippin’ into her for being too uppity an married to someone who is greedy or makes too much money. But for some reason I can’t figger out everyone loves this prince’s wife for doin’ nothin’ other than bein’ a rich princess. She must have a Golden One.

An one last thing. What if this new baby prince kid is a retard? What do they do? I bet if these fancy pants j’drool s had a tart kid they’d lock it up an you’d never see or hear anything about it.

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Freud's Cigar

When Freud forever altered our understandings of the human mind during the intellectual renaissance of fin de siècle Vienna, one of the most important concepts that he introduced was transference.

Transference is how the mind attempts to resolve incongruities produced between the conscious state and subconscious repressed memories of the past.

To resolve this, we project the past onto the present through sublimation. Thus the Freudian slip — the revelation of subconscious transference through accidental substitution of one word with another.

However, not all cigars are penises.

And this guy sucks.

Boobs.

Reader Mail: Mr. Champ

Richard writes in with the following tag:

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This is a friend of a friend of a friend who dresses, acts and takes complete douchebag pictures. He is the elusive Afro American douchebag. Yet he doesn’t see it. Here are 2 pics with all his douchebag-isms.

In the second pic he is wearing a hat that says “Mr. Champ” a Che Guevera shirt (although he doesn’t know anything about the Cuban revolution) a bandana around his neck and promoting a fake hot sauce brand. The hot Asian girl did not even know who he was. What a douchebag!

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New rule: If, when you hit the clubs, you tell the ladies that your first name is “Mr.,” your ballsack smells like fondue.

Frolic in the Jerz Parking Lots

The Jerz Parking Lot Frolic.

Still out there.

Still a depressing existential crisis embodied by lost, wayward youth.

With gelled hair. And time. So much time. Lots and lots of time. To stare into the abyss.

Comment of the Week: Troy Tempest

For sheer creative genius, lets get a Comment of the Week award to the great Troy Tempest for this rant in The Smirkonomous Looks Forward to seeing “Carlos Danger” thread:

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I swear that photo is from 1986. He’s got the greasy post-glam brylcream Rick Astley joins a boy goth band look to him. I can see him sneering there. She’s drunk and thinks that if she can stare at the camera hard enough (she took her contacts out and forgot her glasses) she might make it to the lens. To cover the fact she can’t see a damn thing because she’s (a) myopic and (b) f@##in’ hammered as a couple of Jersey Shore pile driven beach pylons, she figures she’ll pull some magic distraction and practice a vampy over the shoulder look so as to distract the camera from noticing that she has no idea where the camera is. Of course when the flash went off all she could see was Neptune every time she closed her eyes, because Neptune is close to Uranus.

Memory is an addiction.

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