Douchelips
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Wednesday, January 30, 2019
The Gator Snorts
Somewhere, just a skosh on the outskirts of a small Bulgarian shtetl, within a semi-crumbled wasteland of a half-constructed tanning salon, a deep guttural cry pierces the pre-dawn greyness. It is a pure, atonal inchoate note of dissatisfaction. A foghorn clarion call that rises like a smokestack into the turgid, Eastern European air.
“Grrrmmmmmphhhhhh!!”
A large, lumpy swatch of leathery orange is visible amidst the ruins.
It is The Gator.
The former king of scrote-choadal greasewankery tilts his leathery visage. Surveys the ruins of his once exalted kingdom.
His face-lumps pulse in contemplation. Rough hewn veins bulge from decades of chemical abuse locked in perpetual battle with Botoxian preservation.
The Woo Hotts, long gone.
The Axe Bodyspray long ago exhausted its pyrrhic scent like a lingering, somnambulant roadkill exhaling one last misty gasp before ending its mortal coil.
The once pulsing techno soundtrack to a life of perpetual motion has been replaced only by the faint howls of wind and failed purchasing power. The echoing, phantasmic boom-siss-boom-siss lurks within the Gater’s mind like the tinny drums of a Ramada Inn 80s cover band doing injustice to early Thomas Dolby. The outdated iPod headphones that once struggled to contain the Gator’s greasy veiny head-visage now hang only limply. Sadly. Discarded. For sale on Ebay.
A moment of silence.
A grackle lands on a wooden stump. Regards the sagging, semi-hulken slugworth slumped in front of it like a discarded baggage of unrecycled cookie dough.
The Gator looks up. His ruddy eyes fixate on the small bird through wrinkled, heavy, tangelo-colored eyelids.
The Gator sniffs. Snuffs. Huffs. Then scratches his leathery orange pec-hide with a coarse, ripping sound. The ragged skin undulates like a vomiting coelacanth.
The grackle knows.
Oh yes, the grackle knows.
Orange is the head that once wore the crown.
Like a rumbling subway station that smells vaguely of yesteryear’s bottle service, the noise begins to rise from within his energy-drink stained sternum. And then, as if a rusty windpipe in a post-Lynch landscape, the Gator’s weary lungs exhale, emitting yet another inhuman, atonal note of dispair.
“Grrrrrrmmmmppphhhhh….”
The grackle flies off.
Too much time has passed for the Gator to still be here.
All that’s left is his thought.
Which means nothing. Nothing is left.
The Gator is exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Roidally. Scrotally.
Long live The Gator.
Thursday, March 16, 2017Charles Von Cankersore Gives Ninotchka the Doucheface
You might presume that a faux tanned Ed Hardy disciple inappropriately cuddle-macking Svetlana is uberdouche precisely because of douche face.
Even devoid of doucheface, Charles Von Cankersore retains a high degree of smelly poo.
Thus proving my theorem that even in the age of Trumpocalypse, douche aura permeates beyond the performative signifiers.
Now that that’s settled, who wants an Orange Whip?
Thursday, May 16, 2013The Rusty Swab
‘Beware the swirling sleeve tatts of The Rusty Swab,’ whispered the seagull to the ancient mariner who bid adieu to his granddaughter Sophie at a wizened old port in Westchester.
And the rest was what Aristotle called tragedy and Marx called farce.
No not that Marx.
Thursday, November 29, 2012According to Lorraine, Melvin Is Not Actually a Very Serious Pimp
According to Melvin, Melvin’s iTunes mix channel is like totally gonna blow up mad serious yo and you just wait.
According to the DB1, Lorraine’s belly requires immediate pooch spackle.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012THE BALLAD OF THUNDERSMIRK MCGEE
Duckface Molly Sims tries to fit in, but her hair betrays her. She pines for a simpler time when featherbacks reigned supreme, and she longs to have a relevant conversation about the dubious merits of replacing Kate Jackson with Shelley Hack.
ThunderSmirk McGee spikes his hair high in an attempt to draw attention away from his freakishly large nostrils. It is not working. There is also no reason to wear suspenders when you’ve already got a white belt with a DG buckle the size of a personal pan pizza.
We don’t need to see it to know it’s there.
Like the very air we breathe.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012Kisseus Vomitorious Has a New Tattoo
And by “tattoo,” I mean the crotch rash.
Friday, August 3, 2012Manuel Uses Doucheface to Hide Deep Insecurities About His Lovemaking Abilities with Kaylie
Kaylie’s youth filled celebration of female doe-eye hints at winterberries, kaleidoscopic sunrises, tangerine trees, and the DB1 hiding in her closet fondling her used gyroscope.
Monday, July 16, 2012Duckhead Hits the Town
Donkey Douche’s little bro, DuckHead Douche, is celebrating the news that D.D., while being denied parole, at least holds the distinction of being worth 2 cartons of Marlboro Reds. That’s a family record!
So it’s time to grab Busty McChesty and L’il Cher and hit the club!
Ducky does miss getting into big bro’s stash of booger sugar though…
Wednesday, July 11, 2012Owen Wilson Nose and Kissylips Pollute Sandy
Doucheface and Rayon Shirt piddle hyperbole like a salami on roller skates.
Thursday, June 28, 2012Manuel Kissylips Ruins Shelley's Debutante Ball
Look, we’ve all made stupidface in pics back in the day.
I get that.
But Kissylips?
Nope. Can’t say as I have.
Manuel is a douche. So let it be written. So let it be done.
Shelley giggles when tickled by an ostrich feather.
