HCwDB
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Saturday, November 10, 2007
Choking the Goose
Let’s see. Vodka as phallus.
I know I’ve read about this somewhere before. Let me consult my “Freud for Dummies” book for where exactly to locate this pathological douche condition.
Oh yes. According to Freud, this young man was traumatized at an early age by too many Full House reruns. He subsequently attempts to replicate the “Jesse” look by way of 2006 white boy guido douche culture. Once “Douche Jesse” has been achieved, his fractured psyche then seeks out Olsen Twin types as part of the perpetual cycle of traumatic recreation.
Or he’s just a heaping toad.
The tri-hott sandwich with three chew-worthy shoulders merits a second look. And by look, I mean coitus.
Not that Goose Phallus would notice. He’s too busy adding his own two olives to that douche martini.
Saturday, November 10, 2007Where's Waldouche: Utah Edition
Somewhere in this gaggle of Mormon tabernacles, I’ve carefully hidden a steaming pile of wigga choad.
Look carefully.
Can you smell him?
Friday, November 9, 2007Don't be a Gator Hater
With crimson pecs and Mark of the ‘Bag schlong-n-balls once again upon his forehead, do not hate the Gator. For he is what he is.
And he can only be that which he is when he is what he must be because it is what he is.
Which is a heaping uberdouche.
Now I’m off to buy some kidney pie and a pint for the Brit bar wenches, while talking in a bad Cockney accent and complaining about the rainy weather and the dole.
Mmm… Brit Chicks. Shakespearean Hotts. So repressed. So awkward. So Delectable.
Friday, November 9, 2007The Prize
Yayyy!! Hottie wins the prize!!
She gets to take home the fraternity dude. Yes, that guy.
There’s always one.
The dude that some school like the University of Wisconsin just secreted onto that old guy’s lawn at 2am out the back of a van. With his head half shaved, and a desperate gutteral cry of “Woo!” escaping from his beer stained stubble.
That guy. The Fratdouche. Enjoy the prize, sweetie.
Friday, November 9, 2007The Jackhammer
Behold the rarest of rare ‘bag hand gestures, the Double Blumpkin (‘Bag Hand Gesture #288).
It is the Madame Butterfly of operatic douche moves. James Joyceian prose rendered in abstract non-linguistic scrotal hand gesture.
Note the swirling soccer moms, caught up in a fascinated undertow by the uberdouchosity on display with that one single hand move. Impressive.
Jackhammer would’ve qualified for the site even if he had non-ambulatory tiny vestigal arms hanging by his sides. The mandana the size of Omaha. The douche everything.
But once we add in the Double Blumpkin, it’s a kick right to God’s groin.
Friday, November 9, 2007Friday Haiku
Hair like frozen poo,
Douche-Face in need of bitch slap,
Hott lost forever.
Did Tom Robbins write
even douchebags get the blues?
Or was it still life?
— d. baggins
he’s in Special Ops.
he has paratrooper hair.
she’s a Navy Seal.
— pfah
Her hand holds the pin
Douche grenade is set to blow
A Suicide Pact
— clementine of cappadoucha
judge reinhold works hard
all-american burger
left hat on too long
— bcs
Both have hair issues
His oddity, her rats’ nest
Go to Supercuts
— ed
Thursday, November 8, 2007The Gator: Never Forget
Never Forget. 9-4-07.
Thursday, November 8, 2007Douchey Boomers
As douche modernity enters its 17th Year After Grieco (17AG), we are beginning to see the first signs of early scrotes developing the paunch of middle age. Still hanging onto their ‘baggy youth and refusing to admit they’re no longer macking with the power of pure Tag Bodyshot youthified pureness.
I speak, of course, of the generation known as The Douchey Boomers.
With narcissistic flair, these aging ‘bags refuse to make way for next-generation douchebaggery. They hold desperately to the shiny forehead, facial pubes and douche-face of their youth. A period now bathed in the nostalgic glow of forehead grease.
Now being repurposed in Chevy ads and T.D. Waterhouse campaigns. Repackaged retro-douchitude, the once ur-greasy idealisms of a bygone era they refuse to admit has passed them by. I speak, of course, about the late 1990s.
Hang up the t-shirts, shave the lip-brow and buy that Chevy Suburban, D.B. It’s ovah. Pump out some kids, join a softball league, and tell tales to your fellow Douchey Boomers about how “crazy” you were in your twenties while you nurse a Miller Lite and flex your fading pecs.
And ladies? Love the Pokey Boobie look. Ditch Boomer before he tells you about the rad Nine Inch Nails show he was at in 1994 that was, like, totally off the hook.
Thursday, November 8, 2007Where's Waldouche?
Somewhere, packed tightly into this boobie sarcophagi, I’ve carefully hidden a Sweatin’ To The Oldies ‘Bag.
Look carefully.
Can you find him?
Thursday, November 8, 2007Hijinks Ensue
This commingling doesn’t need my deconstruction. I need a pinch ‘bagger.
Like one of those poorly worded one-sentence movie summaries written by a low wage flunky that pop up on your cable menu when you’re scrolling around the channels.
You know the ones.
They reduce films to inarticulate little blobs of reductive summary. Trite, often plot point ruining blurbs of simplified word strings of near nonsensical overview. Offensive to any real understanding of the film in question.
Like when you flip the channel to Citizen Kane and the description on your DirectTV reads: Story about a newspaper magnate who misses his childhood. Or 2001 becomes: A ship finds a strange black object in the future.
Even worse is when they summarize some mediocre contemporary comedy, and actually, unfathomably, make it even worse. Along Come Polly summed up as: When a risk assessment recently married man (Ben Stiller) runs into a wacky woman (Jennifer Aniston), hijinks ensue.
Hijinks ensue. Don’t they always?
I think we should hire those flunkies to summarize all of our lives in short bursts of inarticulate prose. I look forward to being Angry guy who hates douches but loves boobies.
Which, come to think of it, pretty much does sum it up. If I saw that on my DirectTV, I’d be like, yeah, that actually captures the essence right there.
