HCwDB
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Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Umbiko's Vision
Umbiko, a young tribal Bushman of the Khalahari, runs screaming through the shrubbery one dawn morning.
For he has had a nightmare.
Cut by brambles and near hysterical, Umbiko reaches his local village hut.
Frantically, Umbiko tells his Village Elder and part time Witch Doctor, Kakuule, that he has had a vision.
“Kakuule! The Douche is Real! I saw it in a dream!” the young boy shouts.
“Relax, child. Sit and tell me what you saw.” The aged one replies.
“Somewhere, there is a spiked up Douche Poo, right now, spreading sweat and hair gel on two reasonably cute girls! And, worst of all, the Douche Poo is revealing his monstrous, scary, artificially tanned lobsterian abs!”
“Nonsense.” replies the aged one to the young boy, as he crumbles a pinch of snuff in his wrinkled hands. “The visions of douchebags with artificial tans and hand gestures mugging hotts come to all of us during Walkabout. They are tests from the Gods. Nothing more. Spirits. Phantasms that task you with questioning morality and sanity in this world.”
“But Kakuule, I know it is real!”
“What place did your Vision tell you this was taking place?”
“It was… it was called… Jerz.”
The old man’s eyes grow wide, but his voice goes silent. For he knows, Umbiko’s visions were, indeed, real. And very smelly.
And… scene.
Yeah. I need another coffee.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Umbiko’s Vision
Umbiko, a young tribal Bushman of the Khalahari, runs screaming through the shrubbery one dawn morning.
For he has had a nightmare.
Cut by brambles and near hysterical, Umbiko reaches his local village hut.
Frantically, Umbiko tells his Village Elder and part time Witch Doctor, Kakuule, that he has had a vision.
“Kakuule! The Douche is Real! I saw it in a dream!” the young boy shouts.
“Relax, child. Sit and tell me what you saw.” The aged one replies.
“Somewhere, there is a spiked up Douche Poo, right now, spreading sweat and hair gel on two reasonably cute girls! And, worst of all, the Douche Poo is revealing his monstrous, scary, artificially tanned lobsterian abs!”
“Nonsense.” replies the aged one to the young boy, as he crumbles a pinch of snuff in his wrinkled hands. “The visions of douchebags with artificial tans and hand gestures mugging hotts come to all of us during Walkabout. They are tests from the Gods. Nothing more. Spirits. Phantasms that task you with questioning morality and sanity in this world.”
“But Kakuule, I know it is real!”
“What place did your Vision tell you this was taking place?”
“It was… it was called… Jerz.”
The old man’s eyes grow wide, but his voice goes silent. For he knows, Umbiko’s visions were, indeed, real. And very smelly.
And… scene.
Yeah. I need another coffee.
Monday, May 4, 2009Blurry Xenu
Blurry Xenu laughs at this week’s HCwDB of the Week Finalists.
Next week?
Xenu’s a little more nervous.
Not enough to put away his purple silk vest and open chest shirt.
But a little.
Monday, May 4, 2009Grad School Melissa and Whiffy the Clown
Melissa is ballet trained, graceful, and smells like lilacs. She likes to practice yoga, loves Desperate Housewives, and is a huge fan of books by Michael Chabon and David Sidaris.
Melissa is a part time artist and an expert sculptor. For her uncle John’s sixtieth birthday, she made him a beautiful abstract figure out of clay.
In September, Melissa will go to grad school and major in Interior Design.
Melissa is dating this choad. Whiffy the Clown.
A Daoist monk in Uttar Pradesh just lit his balls on fire in protest.
Monday, May 4, 2009Excuse Me Waiter, There's a Herp in My Salad
I’d send it back, Carolyn.
And switch restaurants.
Monday, May 4, 2009Excuse Me Waiter, There’s a Herp in My Salad
I’d send it back, Carolyn.
And switch restaurants.
Monday, May 4, 2009HCwDB of the Week
Okay, I received a bunch of emails demanding a Weekly this week, even though I wasn’t gonna do it. You’re right. Rain or shine, the site needs it’s Weekly. Even if these pics aren’t uberdouchey, they must be processed.
So I hopped in the shower, scrubbed off the residual Doritos residue left on me from last night’s festivities, and here are your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Popeye the Scroter Man
For classic douchewank, Popeye gets his shot.
Super-tight Ed Hardy tee.
Double muscle plus cig move.
Blocking a lineup of five quite tasty ladies of the suckle thigh?
For shame, Popeye.
Douche Kills.
Tall blonde on the right would crush my inner thigh with her power boots. And I would take it like a whimpering boy.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Chia Hawk
Chia Hawk makes splash?
Chia Hawk finds love.
Busting the dog tags, the actual mo’ (so gelled, even poolwater can’t make it go limp), the chin pubes, and most importantly…
The Dual Middle Finger.
Skinny Carmacita is a little too chiquita skinny for maximum hottage, but picture #2 definitely places her in the good to go category.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Tattoo
Gaybaggrery? Not so fast.
As you know, I tend to dismiss Gaybags from the conversation not because gaybags can’t be douchebags, they of course can, but because since they pose no threat to the hott’s suckle thigh, they simply do not bother me.
That being said, Tattoo is simply echoing gayscrotery for the purposes of boobwankery.
And that last sentence was Hemingway quality. Thank you. Thank you for your linguistic accolades.
And don’t forget the great Tom Petty lyric, a Tattoo two.
So them’s your three.
Which combo of hottie and boobie and choady and chin pude most deserves our collective mock?
Vote, as ever, in the comments thread.
Monday, May 4, 2009Tony the Tilter
Last week really didn’t have enough superior hottie/douchey scrotiffery to warrant an HCwDB of the Week, so your scruffy narrator’s gonna skip this week’s contest, and instead, move us straight to the choad mocking and boob lusting.
Instead, here’s a picture of advanced hat tilter, Tony, demonstrating that uberscrotebaggery can often only be marked by one clear sign.
Note that Tony has no other douchetributes. No bling. No collar pop. No facial pubes.
Just a hat that is tilting in four dimensions. This is the Ph.D. of Hat-Tiltery. Do not try this at home.
And, of course, let us celebrate the two pouty brunettes who want me to water their plants while they’re backpacking through Europe for the summer. Which I would, after only minimal protest. And I would cancel my own vacation plans to do so.
For they are peanut butter, peanut butter, jelly. On rye. With a Fresca.
Sunday, May 3, 2009"Puke In My Mouth"
The hotts respond to Lonely Island’s Jizz in my Pants.
Expulsive fluids, shifting gender subjectivity and cultural critique. It’s a war between the hotts and douchebags and we are at the epicenter, fellow ‘bag hunters.
Between this and the genius of the Vince Slap Chop Remix it’s a transmedial battle of the textually reappropriated meta-snark.
Sunday, May 3, 2009“Puke In My Mouth”
The hotts respond to Lonely Island’s Jizz in my Pants.
Expulsive fluids, shifting gender subjectivity and cultural critique. It’s a war between the hotts and douchebags and we are at the epicenter, fellow ‘bag hunters.
Between this and the genius of the Vince Slap Chop Remix it’s a transmedial battle of the textually reappropriated meta-snark.
