Douchepose
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Sunday, October 18, 2020
Peach Point says, “Get out there and vote, ya pinecone!”
Cla
ssic HCwDB legend and Hall of Scrote member Peaches just traveled all the way through time.
Way back from that primal era where mocking ‘bags and lusting hotts was still considered comedy. Yes, from the time we call “2007.” All the way to 2020. To remind all fellow ‘bag hunters and hotts here in the US of A to get off your cheetos-eating asses and go VOTE!!
Vote or face the wrath of the douche-point.
Peaches wanted this message to be purely nonpartisan in its point. Whether hangin’ with the hotts or just his bros, Peaches’ goal is simply to support the ideology and participatory nature of representative democracy as a regulatory necessity given late-Capitalist post-structuralist systems of fractured affect and epistemological decoherence.
But then Peaches realized that the festering mango scrote currently occupying the Presidency is the embodiment of all douchechoadery that we fought on this site for a decade.
So forget that.
Get out there and reject that clown. By voting. With the power of Peach Point.
Stat.
Don’t make Peaches point at you in disgust.
Vote.
Monday, January 15, 2018
Gwarface
“You go to gwar with the doucheface you have, not the doucheface you might want or wish to have at a later time.”
This shminky rends the space-time continuum with Spielbergian aplomb and apoop. All is wrong in Sheboygan, said the calico cat as it upchucked a half eaten squirrel outside Decatur.
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?
Monday, February 16, 2015Aquatool Advocates For Peace
Despite the cacophony of vacuity in which Aquatool exhausts his credit card salad days, therein lurks a deepward hope for a lasting global peace.
Sure those thoughts only reverberate for a few seconds.
Here and there.
When the drugs wear off.
And the boobosity is not too distracting.
But they do recur. Within those few moments of repose before the DJ drops another sampled pre-recorded boom-siss-boom-siss.
Aquatool credits himself for proving, at least for a moment, that he is more than just an overpriced douchey Yankees cap wearing numbers runner for the Long Island Gambinos. He does have a soul. For does a person without a soul not occasionally think about world peace? If you prick his Dolce and Gabana, does it not fray?
And then, like Keyser Sose, they are gone.
Vacuity returns.
And joyless compulsion carries onward until dawn.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014Mongor In Love
Rumor has it everyone’s favorite blank-staring chromosome missing creepy-ass zombified party pud has found true love.
To quote the immortal ode to 1960s casual sex, Hair, let the sun shine in.
And by sun, I mean douche hawk.
And by shine, I mean the most awkward kiss since MJ/Lisa Marie.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013The Grinch That Fondled Christmas
Ironic holiday herpsters molesting Christine’s Santas make the baby Tebus want to frankincense his mur.
Monday, September 9, 2013The Hemoglobin Says "Wut"
A marked improvement from last week when The Hemoglobin could only grunt and scratch his nethers like an angry rhesus monkey.
Fierce Katie will spend your credit card on martinis and steaks and then demand that you thank her for her time. Which you do. Because you hate yourself.
Monday, March 4, 2013Vinny Farfalla and Slutty Suzette Experiment with Chains
The way Vin and Suzette see it, chains are a metaphor for the thematic constrictions of societal imposition.
As our consciousness forms, we intuit the structural norms as understood by the cultures and institutions we abide in. Slowly, our true selves become more and more alienated by this breakdown in the symbolic and structural orders of consciousness.
The only solution to resolve this alienation?
Lots of chain-link butt paddle.
Ubiquitous Red Cup sternly, and with great consternation, shakes its red plastic outer rim with anger at this cohabit.
Monday, January 21, 2013Monday Crisis. And AbaCrab.
DarkSock here at the helm again, with ominous news.
Our hairless leader, DB1, aka Jay Louis, lies in a coma.
He was found late last night surrounded by a halo of empty Night Train bottles and what appeared to be an empty footlocker once filled with hoarded Hostess™ treats such as Ho-Hos and Twinkies. His shiftless mass was buried under a translucent shroud of shucked snack food wrappers.
He now lies in state in a Los Angeles hospital in a diabetic coma. It is not clear if this was a drunken binge or an attempt to end the crushing despair following the collapse of the corn syrup giant that until recently spewed forth such tasty treats. Given that he posted the news of the downfall of Hostess as “The End Of Joy”, he is now on suicide watch.
Until we know more, we must carry on, wayward sons. With Mock.
Take for example the dongle in the adjacent photograph, whom I’ve named “AbaCrab”.
Six pound watch, gratuitous display of his torso, which has been shorn more hairless than a fetal pig’s belly, and of course the dangerously over-siliconed girlfriend exacting endless revenge on Daddy, who cared more for SportsCenter™ than her.
What say you, faithful readers? Dissect this crass display, as always, in the comments section. In the meantime I shall endeavor to tirelessly comb DB1’s filthy apartment in the hopes for some sort of sign, some tiny clue, as to where he has stashed his Vicodin™.
Oh…almost forgot…Gratuitous Pear.
Monday, October 22, 2012THE ULTIMATE ICEBREAKER
Rosa is no easy pick up. She of the flawless caramel skin, the taut yet supple belly and the cleavite so glorious it must be restrained by no less than two articles of clothing – lest mortal men be struck dumb and blind by their brilliance – is not one to fall easily for a paunchy gringo in a $20 tee and a technicolor dream hat.
Luckily for Buddy, he learned to smoke through his dick and blow smoke rings out his ass while doing seven months in Yardville for tagging a Wawa. Good for you, Buddy. It pays to have skills.
