Comment of the Week
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Saturday, October 27, 2012
COMMENT OF THE WEEK: JACQUES DOUCHETEAU
Looking from the inside out, I have a new-found appreciation for the subtle genius of rewarding creative commentators with the coveted Comment Of The Week while at the same time utterly phoning in an entire weekend day by re-posting something you didn’t even write yourself in the first place.
Oh DB1, you sly boots.
Semi-aquatic regular, Jacques Doucheteau, takes home the gold this week with his pithy observations on the dearth of worth when it comes to bedding a bleeth in IT’S ALIVE…PROBABLY.
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That broad looks like a migraine f@#k. The p@#sy isn’t that great, but a damp hole is a damp hole, and the satisfaction of getting to brag about tagging that scrawny ass with much disrespect would make it that much more worth it. However…
Funbags there no doubt gets her ideas of what’s sexy from redtube and pornhub, like oh so many more of those pseudo-SoCo girls. They throw out fake scream/grunts with every thrust, a grimace of half pleasure, half discomfort from unaroused lack of lube as they force out “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!” repeatedly in the same ascending pitch. The sound of their bad porn actress moans drives into your eardrums like old Asian lady in a Saturday Market on a closed street, taking out unsuspecting neurons and running over your more cherished memories of girls giving genuine moans of coital triumphs, spinning the tires on their faces until they’re ground down to a bloody gore and bone soaked sludge of “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!” Like a cluster headache, once you get your d@#k wet you reach the point of no return, where the pain behind your eyes is so intense the only way out is a forceful injection of lidocaine and double-aught buckshot into the sinus cavities.
You pound harder and faster, slapping you d@#k muscle into her boney loins like an overtaxed steam engine piston, hoping to hurry up and be rid of the torture emanating from her vocal cords. But the fake grunts just get louder and faster in unison, and the pitch rises. Neighborhood dogs begin to howl. Nearby tenants put out “For Sale” signs. The old deaf bum who begs for Big Macs and Camo 99 down in front of the corner market vomits out his pancreas and promptly bleeds to death, his last experience in life being the first sound he hears: “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!”
I’d still tag it.
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So say we all, JD. So say we all.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Comment of the Week: Vin Douchal
V.D. takes down Marty Crotchenrott’s pollution of Amanda in Vegas and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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Amanda’s thinking this is as good as it gets. She may be right. Three kids and yet another month with no child support payment will not be rewarded with gratification when the D.A. suspends Marty’s drivers license.
He’ll still be tooling along the 405 to his job manning the copier at Office Depot, hitting on the hot secretaries dropping off their work. The rejection piles high but Marty rises to the occassion in a tank top in front of his mirror each night, tatts out, fan blowing in his face as he mouths the words along to Maroon 5 seeing himself as a dude that just couldn’t catch the big break.
No Marty, you caught the biggest break of all when delicious Amanda fell for your line of auditory diarreah and tough guy posturing accentuated by horrible, meaningless and unsightly tattoos. And you blew it. Chaulk it up to the times and lack of effort and substance. You suck. Hard
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Saturday, October 6, 2012Comment of the Week: Sierra
Sierra responds in the comments threads to the various deconstructivist mocks of her Reader Mail self-tag, Sierra Dates a Bouff:
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Hahaha y’all are awesome. The above relationship lasted 2 months. Mainy based on alcohol consumption. No my idea of country music isn’t Taylor Swift 🙂
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Read it slowly, and it is Haiku-esque tone poetry.
Saturday, September 29, 2012Comment of the Week: Mr. Scrotato Head
Mr. Scrotato Head brings epic mock and breaks down the backstory on the Tapout Family, winning the coveted HCwDB of the Week:
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I know, I know what you’re thinking Ronnie. If only you’d gone out for the football team as a freshman instead of playing trombone in the marching band. If only you’d bought that home gym instead of the BlackNaga 2000 tower PC with the AckAck graphics card and 20-inch monitor. If only you’d listened to your dad, who said you should run far far away, instead of your mom, who said you should start school at the local community college and get all the general classes out of the way. If only you hadn’t hit the club with the other salesmen and flashed all that cash from your first quarter bonus payment for being Scion Peon of the Month at Schmidtweiser Scion and Subaru. If only you’d had maybe five beers instead of eight. If only you’d looked the other way when Jenna from billing and license plates smiled at you in her too-tight tank and her too short skirt with the oh my gawd holy white triangle flashing every time she shifted in her seat. If only, dear God in heaven, if only you hadn’t given up on trying to open that condom wrapper as the two of you fumbled around in the backseat of your loaner Scion with the speakers thumping and visions of guinea pigs in matching track suits with bling and backwards hats giving you the thumbs up exploding in your head.
I know Ronnie, I know. If only you’d made those choices. Because if you had, instead of wearing a Tap Out shirt and looking like you’ve clearly checked out, you’d be in the octagon, ripped and raging, wrapped in tats neck to nads making the other asshole tapout.
If only, Ronnie, if only. In the meantime, try to smile sincerely when Jenna tells you this time she’s really going to lose those last few pounds of pregnancy pooch. And for hell’s sake would it kill you to clean up after the dogs once in a while?
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Saturday, September 22, 2012Comment of the Week: UFO Destroyers
UFOD brings the cost analysis to blowing up the Hard Rock in the Epic Dump thread and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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The military has actuaries that caculate how much it might cost in case a jet crashes in populated areas or a bomb goes off the range and strikes private property. The reasoning is to determine the “risk-reward” equation. Now, if a fully-loaded remotely piloted B-52 (the bomber, not the band) crashed into the Vegas strip while on departure from Nellis AFB and wiped out, say, Rehab on a Saturday afternoon, the “reward” side of the equation would be off the charts. Fewer future welfare recipients, fewer Ed Hardy purchases thereby putting the company out of business faster, fewer STDs, fewer room temperature IQs clogging up the gene pool’s filter, and a lot of new construction jobs to rebuild the area so it could be done all over again. Also, it would give the Air Force a chance to test out remote control bombers and their precision target acquisition guidance systems. It’s not like the military would be losing any possible recruits, just your local Valvoline Instant Oil and McDonalds.
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Saturday, September 15, 2012Comment of the Week: Sergeant Scrote Stain
S.S.S. unleashes the rage at refusing-to-grow-up oldbaggery in the Someone’s Dad is the Most Embarassing Dad on Earth thread and wins the coveted HCwDB of the Week:
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My Dad was never embarrassing. However, he is, and always has been, extremely terrifying. I will never cross this man. Never. Part of me hopes that now is just the time (Me: 27, Him: 50) where I could handle him in a fight. But the noninsane part of me knows that this is only a pipe dream. Well into his sixties my father will be able to rip my face off. God. If I sucker punched my father in the throat, he wouldn’t even make a sound; he would calmly grab my torso and start cracking ribs, one by one, until a collapsed into a pile of human putty. No. He wouldn’t kill me. he would just calmly stand there as I paid my appropriate asshole tax.
Now, “What,” you may ask, “does this have to do with the rather tanned Oldbag – who may, or may not, have a high-hipped Stripper G-String tattooed onto his torso?”
Well, everything. And probably absolutely nothing because I spend a vast majority of my time drunkly playing Whack-a-Mole a Chucky Cheese whilest yelling incoherent demands at the god-damn-animatronic-banjo-playing-bears who never have the common courtesy to play Outkast’s, “Southerplayalisticcadillacmuzic.” Just that damn Twang, over, and over, and over.
But I digress. This so called “Fatherbag,” instead of rightfully instilling fear and cowardice into his sons and daughters, has taught only texting shorthand and the propper spacing of butt cheeks on the tanning bed. This is why you see infants with fauxhawks. This Mother F’er right here. The crumbling of our society began not with the launch of this site some, shit, I don’t know, seven or eights years ago. No, it started when this complete twat decided to take a vacation to Saint Barts instead of spending the week berating his children for talking over the Ohio State game. Douchey America was born when thousands of parents in the eighties decided it was ok to support their child’s desire to express themselves (whatever the hell that means) instead of telling them to shut the hell up and mow the lawn.
You know why Douches always have that smug look of entitlement? Because they aren’t afraid. No one – i.e. Their God Damn Fathers – smacked ‘em in the mouthes when they were acting like asshats. And if you aren’t taught as a youngster that retardedness is punishable by the swift knuckles of justice, then you probably are on a fast track to Scrotehood. This photo right here is the Darwinic Origin of “Smarmlippery.”
Dear Oldbag, You destroyed America’s youth. We hate you. Sincerely, Everyone.
Also, where the hell is that damn Banjo Bear with my meatball pizza?
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Saturday, September 8, 2012Comment of the Week: Lafayette Here We Douche
Lafayette Here We Douche offers some European perspective in the Gay or European? thread and wins the coveted HCwDB of the Week:
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Well, I beg your pardon for my poor english skills, but as an European, i feel like i have to render to Caesar the douche that is Caesar’s.
There are loads of douchebags in Europe, as you know, but this picture does not illustrate the kind of fauna we have to deal with.
No, we do not have this distinctive combination of an obvious mexican chick, a presumable half-polak truckdriver daughter, and an all in all Wal-Mart-esque free internet porn video hair salon afterwork party atmosphere, that seems to be, my guess, from the great US of A or Canada.
Still, I sincerely sympathize with you and salute the true mock spirit here… for this plague has no frontier.
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Saturday, September 1, 2012Comment of the Week: Et tu Douche?
Superlative ‘bag mocker ETD? deconstructs the dysfunctional WASPian shame underneath the polite whiteness of Connecticut in the Connecticut Sue Makes a Poor Life Choice thread and wins the coveted HCwDB of the Week:
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Back home in Darien, after seeing this pic of his daughter, Connecticut Tripp rues the day he and his wife allowed her to attend Choate Rosemary Hall if she had only gone to Miss Porter’s this probably would not of happened. Oh well I guess a few Vicodin and a stiff couple of Dewar’s should ease his shame.
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Saturday, August 25, 2012Comment of the Week: Troy Tempest
Topping what was a superb thread of mock in What it Looks Like When a Father Fails, legendary talking puppet T.T. busts loose and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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Her belly button forms a tiny cave, where little people live. There’s 4 of them – Jimmy, Bobbie, Lori, and Denise.
Jimmy’s the quiet one. He is stern and serious and only eats okra.
Bobbie’s the funny one. He can tell jokes about raping baby faces that always gets everyone in a good mood.
Lori’s the pretty one. She’s got a body that screams “f@#k me please!” Unfortunately, she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so her body usually says, “let’s watch baseball.”
Denise is the smart one. She knows everything worth knowing, and anything she doesn’t know, their little tiny kitty cat, Tingles “the ring tailed chickabeastie defender of the realm”, certainly does know. Because he went school for for home economics and advanced napping.
Together they live in her belly button. They mine it for lint, and that is how they make clothing – everything is made of felt.
Some times the belly button gets unhappy and says “Bwaaaa – you people go away!” So they just pour booze into it, and that shuts the drunken old slut right up.
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Saturday, August 11, 2012Comment of the Week: Dude McCrudeshoes
Dude McC doesn’t quite get the math right, but does an excellent deconstruction of the sexual proclivities of the Olympic village, and wins the coveted HCwDB Comment of the Week.
Alls I know is would lightly rat-a-tat “Hava Nagila” on Semitic hottie Aly Raisman’s glutes with two elongated licorice sticks and a battery powered metronome. And no, that is not a euphemism for the peen.
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Olympic Math:
There are about 10,000 athletes living in the Olympic Village. 10,000 of the world’s fittest bodies; young people at the high point of their lives; and slightly carnival atmosphere are going to lead to a little bit of sex. But how much?
The London organizers like to be prepared (in every sense of the word), and expect to hand out 150,000 free condoms. Is this ridiculous number? Apparently not. Sidney organizers went through 70,000 in just the first week, while Vancouver organizers said their 100,000 did not last the whole fortnight.
So 150,000 seems a reasonable number. If you ever thought you had the makings of a world class athlete, but neglected your training, here is what you missed out on: 150,000 condoms for 10,000 Olympians works out to 150 per athlete. But wait… presumably athletes are not using them for ‘singles sports’. No, this is usually a doubles, or even triples, event. Just sticking with couples (no reason to get all kinky), this means every athlete is expected to get busy 300 times over the 2 week period. That’s over 21 times each day; or roughly once an hour if they restrict themselves to just 3 hours of sleep.
Consider for the most part that people have just met, and you have to condense small talk, flirting, petting, foreplay, and monkey sex into each one hour block. Each athlete is engaging in a CONSTANT, ahem, marathon, of sexual escapades. Kinda makes you want to pick up a ping pong paddle on your way home, doesn’t it?
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