Bleeth
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Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Esoteric Wednesday
Sad Packers Fan should not have worn the sparkles on the nails.
Thursday, January 5, 2012The Bleeth
For those unclear on the concept of what happens when a woman becomes a trashed out garish douchebaguette Bleeth, here’s proof positive.
EDIT: There’s only one cure for having viewed this atrocity, and it is Alba Pear.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011When Pears Go Bad
Ya know, I woke up all groggy this morning. Those two Trader Joes microwave burritos I had for dinner while watching Eastbound and Down on DVD just sat like lumps in my gut all night.
Then I rolled out of bed all groggy at 4:15am.
I watered the Vuvuzela tree, cleaned off the water frogs, dusted around the Tralfamadorian tree feeder and spitshined the alpacas.
When the household chores were done, I fired up the trusty ole’ laptop, and this is what I see.
Pear gone bad.
Sure it may still look tasty and firm on the outside. But it’s rotten. Gone bleethy. And surrounded by douche fungi to prove it.
There’s only one cure for this: Blood Orange Soda
The “Lifestyle” Takes Its Toll
On stupid stogie smoking mandana douchebags and former boobie hottie suckle thighs, lost to the ways of Bleeth, alike.
The price is paid at all ends.
And by ends, I mean bungspew.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010Mr. Choad’s Wild Ride
This post is named in honor of a long-time contributor who hasn’t been around lately. But there’s always a home here at HCwDB.
If you’ve been a ‘bag hunter, but wandered away, come back and rejoin the mock. We’ll be here for you.
That’s what HCwDB is all about. A collective mission to mock the puds and oggle the suckle thighs.
That’s what we do.
Well, that and waste time on meaningless intellectual pop culture frivolity in the spectral blender of the alienation of the virtual online Othering crisis, and ass pear.
And don’t forget, if you’ve tagged a pic of hottie/douchey wrongness that needs our collective social therapy through the art of mock, or you just want to offer to buy me a bottle of Night Train, drop your humble narrator a line.
Operators are standing by. And by standing by, I mean scratching themselves. And by themselves, I mean myself.
Thursday, September 16, 2010Wet Vac America
Oh, just turned 18 Tracy.
Your tie-died Fratboy Phish-listening 80s sunglasses wearing clownfriends who just took a Bayer aspirin with an “X” crudely cut into it that someone wearing wings sold to them for $22 dollars by the water station are shwicky douchepud.
Your firm, petite melonic melonball firmness deserves to be groped by better hands.
You are clearly stage-2 or even a stage-3 Bleeth, and there isn’t much time to spare. I will read you Balzac and then ask to dust your ankles with a feather duster.
