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Thursday, January 16, 2014
Reader Mail: The Tale of Milfy Bartender Woe
Reader Gamecockbag writes in with a tale of milfy bartender woe:
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This girl bartended at a bar me and my friends used to frequent.
She quit working there a while ago and we all kind of forgot about her.
She’s now working at a bar around the corner from my house and has apparently gone from nice Southern girl to something resembling a character on the Jersey Shore.
She has also added a “gorilla” or “juice head” as they call them to go along with her new look. Damn shame.
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But on the bright side, Gorillabag’s bicep Sanskrit does contain the Zoroastrian prayer for how to bless one’s knife before tanning a lambskin.
So if they’re ever caught in a desert, and need a lambskin properly prepared, they’ll know the blessing.
Just sayin’.
It’s not a likely scenario.
But it is possible.
Thursday, January 16, 2014Fritz Von Helmut Says "Guten Tag, Mein Hotties!"
Fritz Von Helmut has ze mad game, ya?
What about Rusty, ya? He bringin und game too, ya?
In an unrelated historical footnote, Fritz Von Helmut’s grandparents did not like my grandparents.
Blogger Nicki Daniels Indicts Herpster Beardery
Over on her blog, someone named Nicki Daniels unleashes a righteous smackdown of hipster bearditude that summons the best of the HCwDB mock.
Here’s an excerpt:
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Dear Bearded Hipsters,
YOU GUYS ARE RUINING MY BEARD FETISH. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved a man with a beard. To me, they meant strength, power, MANLINESS. Someone who could protect me. Unfortunately, you guys have turned it into a fashion statement. The beard has turned into the padded bra of masculinity. Sure it looks sexy, but whatcha got under there? There’s a whole generation running around looking like lumberjacks, and most of you can’t change a f@#king tire.
Look, I get it. I really do. I understand the motivation behind your beardedness. In fact, I even pity you. Thousands of years of evolution priming you guys to kill stuff, and chase stuff, and f@#k stuff… and now what? You’re stuck at a desk all day. No battles to fight. No wars to wage. So you assert your masculinity the only way you know how. You brew beer. You grow some hair on your face. I’ve seen you, hipsters, sitting in downtown eateries, with your rock chick girlfriends, dipping your truffle fries, trying not to get the aioli in your mustache. I’ve seen the quiet desperation in your eyes. I know you’re screaming into the void.
But I still hate you for it. You’re confusing me. It’s now on me to suss out who is the real man and who is the poseur. Sadly, I fear most of you are the latter. Before this explosion of whiskers on trendy men everywhere, if I saw a bearded man it was safe to assume certain things about him. Like, he probably owned a hammer. Or washed his hair with a bar of Irish Spring. His beard was probably scented with motor oil and probably had remnants of last night’s chili in it.
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Head over to her blog for the full quality rant, it’s good stuff.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014Putztopia
Armtatts, cylindrical beverages, bikinis, and a canted frame of a young couple on a beach define our cultural zeigeist like a squirrel with diarrhea crapping on a chestnut.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014Three Little Bros
I really just can’t get on board with updating nursery rhymes to connect with the youth.
Especially when they get to huffing, puffing, and blowing.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014Breaking: San Francisco Quarterback Colin Kaepernick is a Douchechoad
For those of you who follow football, Colin Kaepernick is an icon of Millennial generation pathos, detachment, disassociation, and video game doofusery.
But now we also have irrefutable proof.
Colin Kaepernick is also a choadfondle.
The Awkward Years blog is on the scene. Tracking the development of this sportspud from innocent young suburbanite to hard partying Vegasian rich-and-famous scrote clown.
So whether you’re a fan of football or not, mocking must commence. Immediately. Lest the excesses of woo!, stupidtatt, hand gestures, and tilted baseball cap continue in presence of bikini hotties at various cookouts in the greater North Bay area.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014Dave's Middle Earth 'bag Tag
Dave writes in with yet another ‘bag tag from the greater Australia/New Zealand area with the following celebutag:
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From: Dave
Subject: Down under douchebag
DB1,
What can you do about an obvious douchebag from the far-flung shores of New Zealand who meets every conceivable criterion for a mention on HCWDB? Give him a mention on HCWDB I say!
I give you musclehead meatball third-rate soap opera actor Ben Mitchell and his muscle car, suitably greased up and waxing lyrical about how cycling is for losers.
Enjoy!
– Dave
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Brett? Check.
Jermaine? Check.
Murray? Present.
Aussie and New Zealand ‘bags always fascinate me. No matter how greasy and ridiculous they look in chasing the Hotts, they’re always just so damn friendly.
Happy. Grinny.
Is any guy in Australia not the nicest guy in the world? Not glad to meet me? Not willing to buy me a beer and pat me on the back in a friendly but still masculine manner?
Except for this guy. Don’t trust him. Nope. Not at all.
But we should take a moment to appreciate the slavic nordic perfection of Aussie uberhott and “Wolf of Wall Street” star, Margot Robbie.
Monday, January 13, 2014Two People You Never, Ever Want to Have Dinner With
No, not even pot luck.
And by pot luck, I mean groin unlucky.
And by groin unlucky, I mean you will acquire an STD if you perform coitus.
Monday, January 13, 2014Creepy Kal Hangs Loose Behind Jennifer
HCwDB hired an expert linguistic trained in ancient Aramaic to translate Creepy Kal’s disturbing under-breast tattoo.
Here are the results of our scholar’s diligent efforts:
When dawn turns to dusk during rainy season, and frogs poop Flav-o-ice like so many porcupine twills, only then will the poultry be fondled.
Historians and scholars will spend many a journal article debating the meaning of this enigmatic archival work.
Monday, January 13, 2014Four Prong Refuses to Go Gently into That Good Nightclub
Most of the ‘bags of yesteryore gave up.
Packed it in.
Took off the Ed Hardy.
Washed out the crust.
Resigned themselves to their idiotic tatts.
Got menial jobs.
But not the uberwads. Not Four Prong. Four Prong will not go gently into that not hitting on hot chicks good night. Like Dylan Thomas by way of Skrillex, the spikes carry on my wayward son into the great wide open.
And choadwankery burns bright in the chosen few. The proud. The Vegas Crustwank.
