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Tuesday, January 12, 2021
The Dao of Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott
Many moons ago, when mocking douchebags and lusting hotts without their consent was still considered an appropriate form of cultural adjudication, an usual thread was born on this website.
A thread that has since become legend. And by legend, I mean the spikey, yellow and greasy kind. The kind you never really forget, no matter how many years of therapy your Aunt Sarah pays for.
I speak, of course, of two of the most important icons of early twenty-first century art, philosophy, alchemy, and pedantry, Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott.
Not since Bra!! enjoyed a tasty cola beverage, had the HCwDB mockers found poetic inspiration.
S.S.’s preternatural calm, doucheface, Reservoir Dogs suit and absurd mandana held court in the presence of luscious sequined sunshine perfection.
The toxic cohabit was instantly iconic.
When S.S. and S.S.H. first appeared on this page, he was but a hard partying legion of misplaced cool gone choadally sunglasses tie-on-forehead awkward. She was sweet delightful honeysuckle suckle thigh.
Together, they formed… well… a hot chick with a douchebag.
Dozens of comments in the comments thread gradually became hundreds. Hundreds became well over a thousand.
People came from across the land and betwixt the seas to sing the mellifluous praises and mock the rank douchechoadery of the ethereal presence of one Mr. Scrote as he stood in Zen-like repose next to the delightfully tasty, if poorly named, Sexy Sequin Hott.
They won HCwDB of the Week.
They won HCwDB of the Month.
The comments continued. The legend grew. Here’s a sampling of the elegiac praise and poetic chunder as produced by the regulars in voting for the HCwDB of the Month:
clementine of cappadoucha: He is Kihon Douchebag, His yin is choad and he yangs of smeg. There is no beginning, there is no end. Little old men in South East Asia ponder his wankiness to release Taiji energies. I ponder his hottie. Samurai means “To Serve” in Japanese, and he serves poo. Samurai FTW.
Anonymous: When climbing the mountain of poo to ask the chosen one “Which one should I vote for?” he said, “Grasshoppper, close your eyes and experience the douchness. Only when the doucheness enters your mind and cannot be eradicated can you make the proper choice.” After many days I cannot get the image of a Napoleonic, mandana-wearing samurai out of my head. And besides, even though his hott doesn’t have the funbags of the others, I would strangle baby otters with Shamwows just to pick the lint out of the drier used to dry her underwear. The Samurai it is.
douchetoevsky: rock beats scissors, paper beats rock, phils beat rays, samurai scrote destroys shiva, and laughs mockingly at the mere mortals who dare stand against him in opposition, wee wee wee all the way home.
paper or plastic?: Much like a recent election of lesser consequence, the results of this monthly will be celebrated on a global scale and usher in a new douche order. Samurai in a landslide.
douchepac shakur: Samurai Scrote is subtle. Samurai Scrote is genuine. Samurai Scrote is rage. Samurai Scrote is Monthly.
jonezy: samurai scrote because he is the everyman’s douche. There is a samurai scrote in all of us- we are all one, yet all of us are douchey in our own singularity. Like a katana blade to the face, Samurai Scrote slashes deep beyond my flesh and reveals the true nature of douche within me.
crucial head: I was once a non-believer in Şǻmǚřǽ Ŝcrœtə. An infidel, if you will. My miniscule mind simply could not comprehend the possibility of a power that exceeded the limits of rational consciousness. But alas, dear brothers and sisters, those foolish thoughts were vanquished the night Şậmΰѓǽ ♀♂ made a personal visit to my bedroom.
The non-disclosure agreement Ŝαmu®åï made me sign renders most of the details from that night moot. But, I have been mercifully allowed to say that it involved bacon grease, a rack of lamb and a lamp. When all was said and done, I had asked the §äмứѓǽ into my heart and he had washed me free of all doubt.
Crucial Head’s conversion spoke for all of us ‘bag hunters in those heady prepubescent days of miracle and wonder.
The site continued to mock new hott/douche cohabits.
But the Samurai Scrote thread continued to grow.
Mr. Scrote even joined us again for an epic Friday Haiku a few months later.
S.S. was so inspirational, he even produced this Garbage Pail Kid inspired fan art:
And yet…
Alas…
Alack…
Aladeen…
When HCwDB was transferred to a new server in 2011, while your humble narrator fumbled once again to figure out the technology that makes this series of tubes work, all comments threads were lost.
Just as the Daoist monks construct intricate sand paintings, only to blow them back to dust, so too did Samurai Scrote’s thread disincorporate into the unconscious ecotone.
And yet.
On some voluminous transcendental chrono-synclastic infundibulum, S.S. lives on.
In each of us. In our hearts. In our minds. In our uvulas.
Whenever we lust a hott, Sexy Sequin is there.
Whenever we mock a choad, Samurai Scrote’s face remains expressionless.
For wherever he wanders today, Samura Scrote’s Zen transcends.
For it is here, in this very expression of expressionless whereby we find the sound of one hand clapping. Sisyphus pushing Cookie Puss up Xenu’s Paradox. The silly mandana makes no sound as the tree falls in the forest alone.
Buddha’s belly burps Samurai Scrote with every gurgle.
For herein is the universal om. The chord that pleased the lord. The digeridoo of regurgitative poo that reverberates across our collective phantasms.
It is here that we contemplate all that is and all that ever will be.
And within such contemplation, the loss and erasure of that which came before becomes, seemingly paradoxically but actually quite logically, the only truly marker of the universal eternal oneness where lies Hashem.
