Boobies

    Friday, May 27, 2011

    PETER PUMPIN’HEAD AND MARY MAMMAGEDDON SAY: HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND!

    Peter Pumpin’Head and the little Missus want to wish you all a happy Memorial Day weekend, since Baron Von Goolo failed to make mention of it in his FT&L  (The Baron is a transplant from the Old Country, after all, and is still catching up to our quaint New World customs).**

    It is fitting that these two take us into the Memorial Day festivities, because just as the rituals and celebrations of the holiday remind us of why we as a nation must fight, these two self-tan-slathered raging ids remind us of why we ‘baghunters fight.

    Look at them.

    LOOK AT THEM.


    I mean look at him and her, you perverts.

    Self-worshiping peacockery pushed to a  hyperbolic extreme, both in taste, hue and physics.

    The cost for freedom isn’t free; it’s a buck o’ five.

    But throughout the ages, attention sponges such as these have gladly suffered mutilation in order to achieve the rest of society’s assumed collective envy and admiration, and that cost is even more than a buck o’ five. It is higher; much higher.  Much much higher.  But not as high as the cost of bottle service at the Rehab poolside cabanas.

    **EDIT – OK, Baron did mention Memorial Day.  I just wanted an excuse to run this picture before my time’s up.  Damn you and your crafty ways, Medusa… -D.S.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Wednesday, May 25, 2011

    Peter Pumpin’Head and Mary Mammageddon

    Exaggerated ex·ag·ger·at·ed (v) 1. Enlarged or altered beyond normal or due proportions.

    Ludicrous lu·di·crous  (adj) 1.  Amusing or laughable through obvious absurdity, incongruity or exaggeration.

    Grotesque gro·tesque (n) 1.  A very ugly or comically distorted figure, creature, or image.



    Wow. Just Wow.

    So…I remember the time as Wee Sock in 1978 in the outskirts of Town when Momma took me to the “California Concept” barber shop.  It was a classic late-70’s “butt-cut” hair-do factory (think Bruce Jenner, or Jackson Browne) and I was there to get a “big boy” haircut.

    As I sat in the chair I faced the mirror in front of me, which reflected the wall mirror on the cutting station opposite me, I realized that I could see myself stretching on into an infinite reflection between the two grease-sheened surfaces.

    I ponder if that’s what’s going on here.  Peter Pumpin’Head and Mary Mammageddon: two textbook narcissists, staring into one another, not seeing the other but rather themselves refracted off of the slick glossy sheen of their own ego; their strutting ids run amok, flexing in the funhouse mirrors of each other’s thin magazine-glossy souls.

    Peter Pumpin’Head does not see Mary”; nay.   Rather he envisions himself strutting into the night club with this uber-candy on his swole-assed arm; all heads turn to look…at Him.   Egoasm!

    Same for her; bounce into the club with heels high and blouse straining, all heads turning, aaand cue the silicone dome theme song:

    My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,
    And they’re like –
    “It’s better than yours,
    Damn right it’s better than yours…”

    Ah, but yes.

    If you will excuse me now, I must go stick my head into an oven.

    A toaster oven.

    Do what it is that you do, my comrades.  Existentially dissect these specimens for answers.  And by “answers” I mean “giggles”.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Sunday, May 22, 2011

    The Ballad of Hal E. Tosis and Jenny Talia

    Hal’s poor eye wear choice makes him look like the demented love child of Jimmy Fallon and a bleached KarmaKaze pilot.

    Jenny’s poor choice in hook-ups make her look like Mariah I-Don’t-Carey – complete with twins.  For her, I would gratefully write out palimony checks while extolling the virtues of vitamin E for her lovely creamy and supple epidermis as I gazed zen-like into her uncaring gum-smacking visage, like a doomed cockroach crooning to the uncaring anthropomorphic face of a vintage 30’s  wooden Emerson radio.

    Damn, a splash of single-barrel Kentucky bourbon and a teenie-tiny Ambien pill chewed slowly with malice like it was the fiery nipple of Mother Anger, and these after-hours soliloquies just write themselves.

    Wait…After Hours…but…it’s the weekend…Ummm….carry on.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Saturday, May 21, 2011

    Say Hello To My Little Fran

    Yeah, yeah; I know. The Boss ran this pic already for a Saturday “Comment o’ the Week”.  Well, I shall not presume to put myself in a position to select the best of last week from my peers (and by “peers” I mean those with whom I pee), so I figured this would be a good chance to circle back and hose some mock upon the photo that accompanied DB1’s award, since the choad in the pic was largely ignored as we heaped accolades upon the best of that week’s mock.

    Nope; this guy, whom I tag as Tony UnTanna, ain’t gettin’ off with his pale hide intact. Not that easily.

    Because I pine for Fran.

    All Tony UnTanna has in this world (besides SPF 90) is his balls and his word.   And he don’t shave them for no one.   But she still does not want to see his “Little Friend”.

    And, with apologies to Levon Helms, I would gladly take a Choad off Franny, and put a load right on her.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Saturday, May 21, 2011

    Both Ends Baldy: A very special Saturday “Caption This Pic”, sponsored by the Baron Von Goolo Foundation for the National association for the advancement of Cthulhu

    And now, a word from our sponsor:

    “Luckily, the Make-A-Wish Foundation keeps some quality tail in their Rolodex for just such an occasion”.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Thursday, May 19, 2011

    U.S. Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team

    Oh, dear Reader, I’d love to tell you that the tri-choad neck tilt you witness was an image caught microseconds after their skull plates were simultaneously flogged by a 48 pound, 12 ounce baby dolphin calf carcass obtained from my blackened gulf.

    But no. There is no necrotic marine mammal slap o’ Justice to be had here today.

    These choads are crimping their C4 thru C7 neck discs in a reptilian display meant to land their empty heads on a primo spot on Grecian Gretta’s voluptuous dirrty pillows. But they are wrong, my friends. I have personally gazed into her eyes and her moonpie grin beckons for the RC Cola I keep in my pants.

    That’s right, you Philistines; I can SEE her giving me the Olympic Greek Eye O’ Coitus beckoning me to Mount-A-Limp-Puss, and I suspect her phalanx yearns to be rammed by the Trireme of Love.

    And then I woke up. Smelling of hay and stable. After having peed in a Trojan Horse.

    Just in case you sped-read through the above gibberish, allow me to cut to the heart of the matter here: Boobies.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Wednesday, May 18, 2011

    Does This Look Infected? (Medusa Oblongata Editorial)

    And now we have a public service message from our very own Bubonic Gorgonic, the loverly Medusa Oblongata:

    Douchal infection, we posit here at HCWDB, starts at the very core.

    Like a rot, it spreads slowly from the inside, killing all that is good and alive and pure, blackening like a mold, decaying, necrotizing what it intercepts. What happens, then, when this parasitic intruder reaches the surface of its host?

    So begins the changes to the exterior, the addition of what are known the adouchetrements. However, mere accessories belie the sinister nature of this malady. For here we see true douche as manifested in lesions of the skin. Huge patches of nonsensical skin irritations that indicate the level to which the internal infection has progressed. In this case, severely. Even across the belly of this beast, we can see the warning that he reeks of cheese.

    And woe, to you, Jennifer-Love-Hewitt-in-a-blonde-wig-hott, and your friend Jenny McCarthy hott. For your proximity to this specimen imperils your own bodies. Boobytanheart is already evident, as is excessive hair bleaching. The answer to this scourge is not to pose with these ass clowns, but to get naked, rub one’s self in protective liniments, and arm one’s self with a flame thrower.

    The smell will be horriffic, but the salvation of bubble boobie hotts is worth any price. We here at HCWDB are happy to assist any and all succle thigh hotties with training, specifically the part about the rubdowns with protective liniments.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Tuesday, May 17, 2011

    Special Edward’s Got MILF

    Sure, Special Ed may only be a Stage 1 PudWack.

    And his Poolside Princess may be the poor man’s version of Fergie.

    But we all know why I am running this picture.  Let us not be coy.

    Bulbous Bouncing Bling.

    Cantilevered Calcium Cannons.

    Stalwart Sternum Stadiums.

    Boobies.


    I detect an emerging theme today…

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Monday, May 16, 2011

    King D Voted; How About YOU?

    Hall of Scrote legend and over-achiever King Douchious just voted in the weeklies; what’s YOUR excuse?

    I was almost ready to stop hatin’ on the D…then I saw it. That. Big. Ass. Watch.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Thursday, May 12, 2011

    ‘Bag / Nottabag

    I put it to you, Greg.

    Is Armond here a ‘bag for the douche-wear? Or do we give him a nottabag and a goinpeace?

    There’s two large conceptual revelations that are distracting me…

    clouding and confusing my judgment with gravitational pull…

    must… figure it out…

    Want…

    # posted by douchebag1
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