Comment of the Week
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Saturday, November 12, 2011
Comment of the Week: The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Our honorable Reverend, The Reverend Chad Kroeger, reflects on the wasted college years and the power of HCwDB in the Mongo See Crab Cakes! thread and wins the coveted HCwDB Comment of the Week (language edited for Googleness work issues):
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F#cking Coreys. I need some strange. Have known the Mrs. for thirty years around now. F#cking Jebus. I knew I was too young to get married at 31 after she chased me down for a decade seeking the Holy Cock. F#ck. Thirty years till I’m dead, I need more p#ssy. I need Megap#ssy not the little bit of strange lovin I run into through incest and hookers and girls in the bad part of town who give me a blowey for a gram and a slice of pie. And by incest I mean adults at least a first cousin away from me. Hermit has to know some hot chicks that pick up sh#t around his hovel while washing cars in cheerleader uniforms and getting each other all wet and sh#t for the homecoming dance.
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Its like Walt Disney and Charles Bukowski had a retarded love child, and that retarded love child became a poet.
Saturday, October 22, 2011Comment of the Week: Medusa Oblongata
Hall of Mock enshrinee and noted ‘bag huntress Medusa Oblongata weighs in on the tattooed Bleething of Barbie, with the following righteous rant, and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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Tattoos are not for kids, and it sickens me that people are trying to make it this way. They’re not for kids, they’re for grownups, and this Barbie has the worst possible example of tattoos there is: The neck tattoo.
Not to mention, everyone who sees shit like this thinks the tattoos that are screen-printed on the neck of a smooth, plastic doll will look the same when carved onto the blubbery, pimply neck of a sunburned human being. Stop making my job hard, you sleaze merchants, and lest us take it back behind closed doors where the wee ones can’t see. And her little pet there? Bastardino? Unless you’re a total tool, you can make that one out. That’s real Italian for “little bastard”, Nice. I’m going to take Hermit’s advice one step further.
I’m going to have Mr. B. give me a good fisting, and tear out my uterus. He’ll toss it to our three-headed hellhound, Peanut Oblongata, who will surely gobble it up. No seed shall ever creep in there to bring forth life to which Madison Avenue can then market. And bullshit that doll won’t be in toy stores, I’ve seen the Bob Mackie Barbies in with the pedestrian Barbies, Mattell is full of pink plastic shit.
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Comment of the Week: Laura
Laura brings some much needed female perspective on how to react to a horribly depressing HCwDB combination in the Ever Get The Feeling the Universe has Indigestion? thread, and wins the coveted Comment of The Week with this simple sentence:
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This picture makes me want to weepsterbate for humanity.
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I may found a non-profit called “Weepsterbate for Humanity.”
Sunday, October 9, 2011Comment of the Week: Troy Tempest
No Sunday clip this week. Instead, since I didn’t post yesterday, instead atoning for lusting after so many suckle thighs, we’ll do our Comment of the Week today.
And the award goes to HCwDB’s own legendary talking puppet Troy Tempest, who wins the coveted HCwDB of the Week with this explanation of the rising Herpster phenomenon via some classic Ron Howardism:
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This is actually Nashian math in practice. It’s like this: You have, say, 5 women. 4 are average to attractive in appearance brunettes. 1 is a stunning magma hot blonde. 5 guys go to the bar where these 5 women are. If all 5 men chase the blonde, only 1 comes away in victory, and the others get to meet the less than happy brunettes who know they’re second tier.
It is much more useful to focus on one of the brunettes. The odds of success are higher as everyone competes over the blonde. Furthermore, the blonde is non-plussed by your attention – she’s used to being adored. So, by focussing on a brunette, you have not only a greater odds of success, but also a stronger bond and alliance.
Now, here we have The Herspter and his Wingman. The wingman knows that all the trashy babes gravitate to the Herspter like moths to a flame. The Wingman doesn’t get the fakey librarian hott or her kinky role playing sex games. He DOES get the brunette with the mighty fine rack.
Herpster is the kind of oaf who “goes for the blonde”. He doesn’t always succeed, but when he gets tail, it is high quality kink. However, his hook ups are short term and empty. Wingman here will be pounding the well racked brunette for quite a while and will gain from the experience. This is how secondary / B-list status members use A-List status members in their own pursuit of tail.
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I would’ve used the Gung Ho analogy, otherwise known as the “Long Duck Dong” rule, but otherwise excellent work.
Saturday, October 1, 2011Comment of the Week: Barron Von Douchehoven
Another of HCwDB’s many Barons wins the coveted CotW with this gem from Thursday’s Asswipius the III:
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Once as a young growing up in a quaint gingerbread Bavarian village, you know the one. I happened upon a near-fatally contuse and bruised tortoise left on a moist cobblestone road to expire. In haste I gathered him and his belongings into my satchel and rushed him to my “hidden place” where my childhood accomplice Kroeger (not to be confused with a Rev. by a similar name) and I generously nursed him back to health. Using only the finest faux gilded salad spoons that money could buy we would pry provisions into his ever hesitant gob. I never imagined in a hundred years that my wee countryman would grow into such an laudable gunk-mire of a thug.
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Then today I see him frolicking with a deuce of Bleeth and their delicate suckle trove. He is now known as “Asswipus”, not “the Great”, or “the ever thankfull”, no! So I say unto Asswipus, go! and enjoy the unholy Douchepocalypse, for I have scratched myself of you and your evil ways.
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Comment of the Week: Tall Guy
Tall Guy waxes poetic in an Eleanor Rigby modus in response to his flower query:
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Morning and evening I watch ladies walk by my front door. They’re heading for the train station. Most are well dressed and some are attractive. Occasionally, I’ll seek the company of the masses and sit over an espresso in the posh local cafe opposite the train station up the road, where close by is a small florist’s shop. En route to doing an obnoxious thing for 8-hours and their own survival as well as somebody else’s profit, the ladies often stop off at the florist’s shop and smell the flowers. Then they head off again towards the centre of their lives. The mother’s breast. Their sun. The job. Lonely. Frustrated. Living mostly without sex and certainly without love, working at doing something they probably hate. Too scared to look at my face or into eyes for fear I’ll assume they want sex with me. But off they go, either to the cubicle of work or to the cubicle of rest, where they’ll eat dinner, watch TV, phone Sheila, smear their faces with cream, set the alarm and sleep. Because tomorrow, or next week or sometime real soon, he may walk in.
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Comment of the Week: The Dude
The Dude riffs poetic on the base impulses of the human race in The Porny Smell of Poo, Sweat and Tears thread and wins the coveted HCwDB Comment of the Week:
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Sometimes when I’m in a book store and find an interesting book, I want to take a dump, because it’s the one place where no one will bother me and I can read for awhile.
Sometimes when I see nice big’n’soft boobies, I want to take a nap, on them.
And sometimes when I see a used rag of a human, I grieve for our species.
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Comment of the week: Capt. James T. Douche
Capt. James T. Douche, inspired by another excellent rant by tattoo artist Medusa Oblongata, beams in to win the coveted HCwDB Comment of the Week with this reflection on the horrifying trend of lady ribcage text tattooing in the Quoth the Raven: “What a Douche” thread:
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Rib cage dialogue is the new tribal tattoo, atleast though there is some comfort in the knowledge that in a couple of years the Vegas pool scene will dry up for people like this, they’ll succumb to an obscure suburban existence and shit out a couple of Bleeth/douche larvae (thus the circle of douche life continues) and that once clever dialogue will look like a Rhorschach test. Every morning in the mirror will be a requiem of days spent rubbing elbows with the cream of the douche crop at Wet Republic and nights Bleething it up at Pure and Tao in a vodka and redbull haze topping off thier evening of youthful frivolities being pecker slapped silly by guys like rockerbag.
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Pretty much sums it all up.
Saturday, September 3, 2011Comment of the Week: Douche Wayne
Douche Wayne invects on the state of youth marketing and consumer product fetishization in last week’s ‘Bag Daddy ‘Bag thread and wins the coveted HCwDB Comment of the Week.
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As I stroll through the New Jersey malls with my own sons searching for stores that still sell cd’s, I witness these crimes firsthand.
Jackass “fathers” dressing their own children like jackasses. Small children with small hats with small tilts. I’ve seen toddlers wearing gold chains and wifebeaters.
Nikes come in sizes clearly not designed for children who actually old enough to walk, yet the price of those shoes assume they have already started NBA careers. It’s not just the males; 4-year old bleeths are rampant making my wife and I not-so-secretly thankful we don’t have daughters.
I weep inside, knowing that those children, much like those born into street gangs (Blood drop fo’evah, yo), don’t stand a chance.
I remind my boys of their grandfather’s sage observation: “No one is completely useless. You can always serve as a bad example.”
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Comment of the Week: Hermit
As the DB1 battens down the hatches in preparation for something or other in NYC, the always creative ‘bag slaying linguistic thespian Hermit wins the coveted Comment of the Week for summing up the absurdities of life in the face of nature with this elegiac riff:
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DB1 has bought-out all the Ho-Ho’s, Mr’ Pibb and fortified wine for twelve blocks in each direction as he prepares for an extended power outage and the subsequent rioting and apocalyptic sex romps which are certain to take place in the squalid gutters and debris-strewn alleyways of The Big Apple.
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Back here in mid-west Amërïkä it’s summertime and the living ain’t easy. We struggle through the sweltering heat to preserve our tomatoes and other semi-rotted vegetables over electric ranges and the overheated engines of abandoned Buick’s.
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The squatters and homeless families which have begun to inhabit the forclosed houses are the twenty-first century’s New Pioneers, blazing trails with the desparate conflagrations of a thousand meth pipes.
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I prefer to do my food-processing naked, with my moderate, secular-sized cock bouncing along the counter top like a happy tuna at a minstrel show.
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