HCwDB
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Sunday, June 10, 2007
Sunday at the Rehab
Ah, the Rehab Brunch at the Hard Rock in Vegas. Douche Mecca. The Land of Holy Scrote.
Where everyday hottie blond girl-next-door types go to wear perky pink striped bikinis, smile sweetly, and cohabitate next to two beefy uberchoads simply for the purposes of ruining the DB1’s Sunday.
Thanks a lot, Marsha. Now how am I supposed to enjoy my bowl of Fruity Pebbles?
Saturday, June 9, 2007HallowBags
Feh, I say. Feh to the Halloween pics people keep sending me. Feh.
Okay, here’s one.
Because it’s a lazy Saturday, she’s got a backside I could eat jello off, I’m cleaning out the HCwDB pic attic, and my feet smell like Gouda.
At least I think that’s a Halloween pic.
Either way, his doucheyness scares small children and causes lab rats and gypsy moths to turn sterile. And the crotch grab on the spandex just screams class. And by class, I mean poo.
Note the ubiquitous red cup in the background, reminding us that, much like the grease penis forehead reflection, the signifiers are always there to code ‘Bag.
Saturday, June 9, 2007You Always Were a Douchebag
Were the image not cropped, the explosion of Cactus Hair would cinch the rank douchosity wafting from t-shirt boy here. He looks like a cross between Barbra Streisand and a vat of used cooking oil.
She, on the other hand, can fry my chicken wings in a gold plated wok. I’m not sure why I’m using chinese food references to describe Marisa Tomei Hottie, who I’m sure I’ve seen on the site before. Let me try again.
I would wrestle hogs at a county fair while shouting the lyrics to Gil-Scott Heron’s Whitey On the Moon if it meant I could gnaw her stuffed teddy bears for an hour. And no, stuffed teddy bears are not a euphemism for her curvy mammaries. I mean her actual stuffed animals. Because hotties like this always have stuffed teddy bears on the bed. Named Pookey and Lookey. I would gnaw them. Because I like to gnaw.
EDIT: I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve run this pic before on the site a few months ago. If so, lets mock him again. He deserves it.
Saturday, June 9, 2007Sunshine
Sunshine. On my shoulder. Makes me itchy.
Sunshine. On my shoulder. It’s a douchebag.
Sunshine. On my shoulder. Smells like Tag.
Friday, June 8, 2007Where's Waldouche: Wily Tiger Shark Edition
Okay fellow ‘bag hunters and Bleeth resistant hotties, time to play another round of Where’s Waldouche.
Somewhere in this photo of Miami Beach hotties, I’ve carefully hidden not one, but two wily tigershark Waldouches.
Can you find them?
Look carefully. They’re in there, prowling away as only a Floridouche can.
Click on the picture for a closer examination. And by examination I mean boobies.
EDIT: Image enhanced for better boobie viewing by The Hate Crime
Friday, June 8, 2007LawnGilander
If Ryan Gosling were to mate with a mango, and its spawn dressed in a zoot suit, we might come up with something approximating this heroic and immortal douche legend, LawnGilander.
Many don’t know the legend of the immortal deity, LawnGilander. His epic journey across the centuries, culminating with taking on Sean Connery in a sword fight battle of the Immortals for supremacy of the douche universe. And by sword fight battle, I mean getting your dates drunk on lemon drop shots, telling her all about your father’s construction business you’re going to inherit, and then trying to take her around back behind Dix Hills Highschool to make out on the soccer field.
Good luck with that, LawnGilander. May the forces of the Island douchitude carry you all the way until dawn.
Friday, June 8, 2007The Fountain of Douche
According to a popular legend Ponce de León discovered Florida while searching for the Fountain of Douche. Though stories of greased up scroadbags macking on Bleethed out hotties were known on both sides of the Atlantic long before Ponce de León, the story of him searching for them was not attached to him until after his death.
In his Historia General y Natural de las Indias of 1535, Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo wrote that Ponce de León was looking for the scent of Tag Bodyshots and Old Spice to cure his sexual impotence.[3]
A similar account appears in Francisco López de Gómara’s Historia General de las Indias of 1551.[4] Then in 1575, Hernando de Escalante Fontaneda, a shipwreck survivor who had lived with the greased up mackchoads of Florida for 17 years, published his memoir in which he locates the ‘Bags in Florida, and says that Ponce de León was supposed to have looked for them there.[5]
Though Fontaneda doubted that de León had really gone to Florida looking for douchebaggery, the account was included in the Historia general de los hechos de los Castellanos of Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas of 1615.
Friday, June 8, 2007Friday Haiku
Tilted Yankee cap,
Perched atop greasy choadbag,
There is no Buddha.
New boardwalk t-shirt
How much is this costing me?
Check out my sweet chain
— nastradouche
she is sweet perfection
he is all that is douchey
why does god hate me
— anonymous
Creamy smooth hottie,
Your stripping days are over.
Just move in with me.
-Amerigo Vesdouchey
He likes Eminem,
She tastes like Giselle Bundchen,
I don’t understand.
— anonymous
Thursday, June 7, 2007'Bag / Not a 'Bag
We haven’t had a ‘Bag / Not a ‘Bag discussion in awhile, so I think it’s time we parse this choadwannabe. And with the unprecedented run of hilarious comments threads lately, I’m expecting detailed dissection of all nuances of the hottie/douchey spectrum.
Again, keep in mind that performative douchebaggery echoes the authentic by creating privileged meaning just as the simulacrum replaces what we think of as “the real.”
Does an ironic Douche Gnome qualify for authentic douchebaggery by affecting the performative tropes of the true douche?
Can the performative simulation of douchebaggery create authentic rage within the viewing of a single hottie/douchey image? And can we measure authentic rage using aesthetic measurements or is it simply psychoanalytic affect?
Is the Hottie lost to the dark roads of JoeyPorche level waxed eyebrows and douchosity, ya digggggggg? Or does she hold a glimmer of redeemability?
And why, even facing a hottie that Bleethed out, does the DB1 stil want to twirl her bobby socks with his teeth while playing the drum rhythm from John Bonham’s 1976 Bonzo’s Montreux on her caboose?
Thursday, June 7, 2007The Retarded Shock
I have a hand. Two of them in fact.
I’ve been using my hands with at least a basic level of coherence since I was about six months old, give or take a few weeks.
I know how to make “The Shocker.” It isn’t hard. I’d say you could teach it to a three year old.
So what is up with all the retarded Shockers of late? Has Beefy McGabana been given even a basic intro to female anatomy?
Oh right. Just look at him.
Keep imagining it, Beefy. Someday it might happen.
