Cabana Baggery
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Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Stupid Shirts
Stupid shirts.
Still out there.
Still in increasing proximity to $2 Oyster Shooter night at the Crabby Crab Shack.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012Connecticut Sue Makes a Poor Life Choice
She blames the four strawberry daiquiris that Todd bought her by the cabana during happy hour.
Later, happy hour will turn into not so happy hour. And by not so happy hour, I mean thigh rash.
Thursday, August 9, 2012Papa Smurf Got Eaten by a Brothabag
Serves him right for trying to peep into Kelly’s cabana.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012Billy Bartleby Is Way Too Excited to Be Working Part Time as a D.J. In Sheboygan
Thought bubbles:
Billy: I hope Cheyenne is digging my sweet dyed faux. Hope she doesn’t think I’m losing my hair.
Cheyenne: WTF? Who dyes their hair and turns it into a faux when they’re going bald?
Suzanne: Are porcupines where they get porcelain from? If so, I’m totally throwing out my kitchen table.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011Jose Canseco Worships the Buddhas
Legendary steroidal basebag, the odious Cancesobag, is all spiritual n’ stuff. He wanted you to know that.
Speaking of inflated stats, those boobs are also apparently playing in the steroid era.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011Post Halloween Undies Poke
Your humble narrator is digging out of a haze of alcoholic post-Halloween candy euphoria, sugar wines, and group alpaca licking.
So while Fledershmidt spends his summer vacation on the Jersey Shore saying “Jawohl!” to Madschens like Mindy here, I’mma drink some YooHoo to recover.
Two-inch jean strips for the win.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011Caption This
“Jerome hacked and wheezed in great heaving spasms in hopes that his feigned choking episode would again result in his blonde friend attempting the “Hind Lick” maneuver.”
Alllllright. That sucked. Perhaps: “...and with one final swat of Cindy’s palm, the plastic baby head shot out of Tyrone’s colon with an audible *pop* and plinked directly into the middle of the punch bowl in front of the cabana. Red team wins again!“
Sorry. Final attempt: “Cursing her ill-advised attempt at amateur colonoscopies, Tina pummeled Drew’s backside in a futile attempt to get her VHS camcorder back out.“
There. I have set the bar. On the floor, perhaps, but still…Bring Forth The Mock, dear friends, as always – in the “comments” section.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011The Veiner Sausage
Theory time, kids! The Veiner Sausage, whom you see here in tragic proximity to Tammi Taught-Tummi, is suffering from vascular bulge much the same as can be observed on turgid horse dong because:
A. Like any good American, he’s doing his doodie;
B. Grey Goose, as it turns out, curdles steroid injections;
C. His Brown Eye is on the verge of losing the fight against the Olestra potato chip assault;
D. He summons his pet pit bull with ninja flatulence chirps above 15,000 hz;
E. Oh, you guys know what to do…there’s plenty of letters left in the alphabet to finish this list…
Tuesday, May 17, 2011Running Without the Goose (Reverend Chad Tent Revival Edition. Son.)
HCwDB regular and dimensional hypernaut Reverend Chad Kroeger touches down on Earth long enough to deliver this payload of bring-down:
Although a wretched and buzz-harshing picture, Snor and friends here show the downtrending of douche signifiers to the fringes of society. As civilizations rise and fall like so many Peloponnesians, so do trends and Snor’s moods. Snor think he’s a player with his gaudy ring, infected flab shave reveal, flea market Ed Hardy cap, obligatory wingman Yankee Matt, girlie drinks, and chin fungi. Snor is wrong. Snor is sleepy from a high glycemic index.
When you are the assistant road manager for Insane Clown Posse it is very difficult to combine Vegas flash with the VIP pop-up trailer. No Goose and Red Bull drinks here. No bolt on Vegas hotts. The drink is XXX and Faygo for the bros and Jugaloo hotts, and by hotts I mean Beth and multicolored Jenny.
Beth used to have a great job as a greeter at a Hyundai dealership in Nevada until she ran away with Jen to follow the Clowns to every festival they headline. They left with just the bikinis an their backs. As they are the tastiest Jugalette’s at every show with their trashy clothes and insatiable appetite for sugary soda, Snor and Matt have no other options here than the old regulars for a go. Snor told Matt they were really hot last year when they were 17 and only had two kids each frolicking in the putrid festival mud/toilet. But that Faygo hides the remarkable bodies they arrived in. And that thing on Jen’s tummy is not a tattoo, just sayin’.
As the good Virgil causioned Dante at the gates of hell, “Do not ye effort at escape or attempt to look like a douchebag, or ye become ons’t with them”.
Good luck Snor and Matt, I would rather finger Cee-Lo Green’s constipation than be you. And I will ponder that while I dive into another drunken day and dream of Wanda Sykes. Put on a fuccken shirt Snor.
