Hans Klaussenn Vants You To Party Mit Greta on ze New Years
I can’t tell if it’s the furry leg boots, the weird water bottle utility belt, or the stench of post-Reich fascist mandated dance fun enveloping this lost, wayward collection of Nordic generibots that rankles the pits of my punditry the most.
Alls I know is watching these two shards of electroglide fall into a photo-lens distorted morass of dark ambiguity and bodyspray ennui is enough to throttle all of our gizzards like some lost Herman Hesse novel on the religious profundity of scrotal fungae.
Or maybe it’s just that elbowdanna. –
Regardless, Gretaboobs say Meine Kleine Happy New Yearzenspelche!!
And really, doesn’t that just say it all?
Happy 2016.
From all of us at HCwDB.
Which is still just me.
And my ‘Train. And my brand new renovated kitchen.
I wish to lavage gretaboob’s entire body with my tongue. Verily, upon gazing on her delectable, drool-inducing slurpaliciousness, my thoughts turn towards carnal perversions that would make the Marquis De Sade geyser-vomit.
Armin the pre-op tranny better not stand betwixt me and Greta lest he wind up resembling a skid mark on a vinyl floor.
Happy Holidays, chief!
Your new kitchen is so much more interesting than these two, Boss.
The granite counters go well with the non-solid wood cabinets. The Twinkies put it all together in a bette-noir of holistic synchronicity and shit.
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In politically correct news in Canada:
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This makes me LOL.
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Trying REALLY hard to find something positive in this photo.
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hmmm, well that orange drink looks delicious.
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and she doesn’t appear to have open sores on her face
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And,… at least this guy isn’t in my daily orbit (although I don’t see who is making my Breakfast Jack from the drive thru window)
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… not stranded with these two putzeson a broken elevator waiting for the repair men
I like her.
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Poor Ducky has fallen on hard times, but it looks like he still pulls quality tail.
I was walking in downtown last summer and while waiting for the traffic lights to change, standing next to me was the proverbial little old lady. As we waited, a young woman, likely a student, walked along the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She was wearing tall boots that were at least as fake-furry as those in the photo, despite the fact that it was a hot day. The little old lady began to live up to her acronym and started to laugh out loud. She glanced up at me and I started to laugh, too. Making eye contact with me made her laugh even harder and she grabbed my arm to steady herself. She was really laughing hard at what we’d seen. The light changed and we crossed the street with her still holding onto my arm. On the other side, she watched Miss Furry Boots walking away, took off her glasses, and wiped her eyes. She looked at me again and this sweet, petite, prim, and proper-looking little old lady said (I swear this is true), “Sweet Jesus, what in the hell was THAT?” I said it was a bit early for Halloween and she started to laugh and swatted at my arm for setting her off again. As she headed on her way, she told me she hadn’t laughed so hard in many, many years. I thought about asking if she was going to shop for a pair of those boots for herself, but I was afraid she might pass out or choke from laughing so hard.
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I really, really want to believe that the designer of those boots was conducting an experiment to see if people are actually stupid enough to buy them and wear them in public. That would be even funnier to me than if the designer was as serious about the boots’ stylishness as the cementheads who think they’re cool (but that would be funny, too).
If you think these two schmucks are Euros and not some breed of spics, you’re blind.