Epic Dump
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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 The outdated iPod headphones that once struggled to contain the Gator’s greasy veiny head-visage now hang only limply.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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015The Manicorn
So Man buns are now a thing.
One that cannot, nay, must not stand. Not with hair band. Nor clip.
Whether appearing on quasi-celebrities or just in classic douchepose selfies, we are witnessing the spread of an insidious follicular blight.
For this douche ooze bridges the generations. An amalgam of hippie nostalgia, metrosexual choadery, and the emergent lumbersexual gender crossing vortex of confusion to produce a giant circular Princess Leia hairpoo.
Lo, the moment is bleak. Enough to make me break my self-imposed HCwDB silence. Not even spiritual appeal to OatesStache can cure my disquiet.
I dub these festions of toxic rot ‘Manicorns.’ For mock is our only hope. It may not stop the onslaught of next-wave ‘Baggery. But it can at least mitigate the cultural reprehension.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014Greased of Eden
Ah yes, Vegasian Clublandia.
Where Germanic greasevomits with Mark of the ‘Sack uponst their slimy-ass eighthead get ab fondle from tasty perkle potts named Kelly Von Slenderfondle.
Still not okay.
Your humbler narrs may not be updating HCwDB on the reg anymore.
But the taint/hott cohabit still rankles the cockles of the cackles of my nethers like an alpaca on a treadmill.
Keep the mock going, fellow ‘bag hunters. For ours is, as always, the noblest of cause.
Monday, September 30, 2013Pontius Pimplate Washes His Hands of Pear
You’re fooling no one, Pontius. Get thee to a P-Town Clambake and leave the oggling to those of us who don’t know the first names of Right Said Fred.
Thursday, August 15, 2013Reader Mail: Carlos the Jagoff is nottadouche?
Responding to yesterday’s pic, reader doosh disputes whether Carlos the Jagoff is really a ‘bag:
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Seems the standards for douche mocking have fallen off over the last year or so. No douchy tats, no douchy hairdo or facial hair, no douchy clothes. Yeah, his shorts are a little douchy and the pose is too, but I would consider those circumstantial evidence. This guy is NOTHING compared to the legends on this site, and IMHO – nottadouche.
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Perhaps this pic of Carlos with his suburban Asian hottie gangsta harem will help clarify the situation.
You have learned nothing, grasshopper. Nothing.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013Carlos the Jagoff and Kim Kill a Saturday
I’ll take “Patriotic Bikini Hotts With Attitude” for $1200, Alex.
Yup. Carlos the Jagoff and Kim are back. Once again posing like the true suburban gangstas they is. The kind that roll all up into a 7-11 like hustlahs, yo. Word.
Proving that you don’t need a job, a personality, or any consciousness above and beyond that of a vibrating eucalyptus tree to operate a digital camera and post the evidence to the internets.
Or, as the great John Lenin once said, You say you want a revolllutionnn.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013Max Drives Through Plutonium
Isn’t it fitting that it would end here. In a club on Douchebag Boulevard.
Annie had a plate of mashed yeast infection.
Yeah, I’m making 70s Woody Allen references. Got a problem with it? Because I like to stay current with the kids. Uhm… Skrillex shaves his head!! Ah, screw it. Back to antiquarium for me.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013A Whole Lotta Lumps
I’ll say this for Veg Armstrong, aka Peter Pumpin’head and Mary Mammageddon, he sure can pick a shooter humper full of dumpster crabs.
Lets move on before I get crabs of the eyeball.
In a related story, Crabs of the Eyeball was the best novel in Piers Anthony’s Xanth series.
Thursday, May 9, 2013Your Thursday Poem
The night starry,
She enters the club to pulsing techno,
It cannot be unseen.
Purple diarrhea,
flows like molten douchelava,
A willow harks,
A sparrow chirps,
Into the night…
into the night…
Purple diarrhea head saunters into the strobes.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013Truth in Advertising: The New Dove Soap Commercial
So the ad wizards that peddle premium soap by peddling Oprah porn are rolling out a bunch of pseudo-honest claptrap designed to blame society for making women feel bad about their self image.
Oh how sad! They think they look one way, but then when an entirely objective sketch artist (in no way biased by the agenda of the ad agency paying him) draws another sketch based on a witness (in no way biased by the agenda of the ad agency paying her), she looks way more pretty.
This, of course, means something something.
In reality?
Who gives a crap what we think we look like?
Take a look at this pic, Dove Advertising Agency! And then lick my scrotundae.
This pic is the real America, baby.
The rest is selling something.
