Poolbaggery
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Monday, May 23, 2011
The Coping Cabana – A White Paper by Hermit
Zen BagHunter Supreme Hermit delivers this cold-ass take down:
If Vegas is a place where ’roided, tattooed Douchebags and lithe, nubile hotts go to see and be seen, why do they pay an additional $175 to $300 to hide in a covered canvas Boy Scout tent? Well, for this bunch it makes sense.
Phillip and Steve are far from the prototypical Vegas Douche, while Erma, Chastity (the wild one) and Stacey were sort of hot ten years ago. I contend that we can still find it in our cold, judgmental hearts to heap scorn and our collective derision on them because, quite frankly, that’s what we do.
When we sneak a peek into “The Coping Cabana” the stench of broken dreams, failing marriages and materialistic disappointment is palpable. Shackled by huge SUV payments, and upside-down mortgages, they come here as a temporary escape from the sterilized suburbia where they live month-to-month on lies and bank-owned status symbols.
They’re here hoping for a brief respite from their whining, obese children, clogged toilets and sagging bust lines. An ephemeral hiatus from disinterested sex partners, stretch marks, business failures and the mid-life crisis which is certain to come.
However, it’s only a short reprieve as they lie there among the dead skin, dust mites and bed bugs which befoul the cheap fabric of this sweaty, bacteria-infested Vegas sanctuary. The clock is ticking, the rented cabana must soon be vacated. Their furlough over, they must go home to their self-imposed prisons to finish out a life sentence of dashed hopes, harsh supervisors and the never-ending chore of cleaning out French fries and candy wrappers that those ungrateful little bastards leave under the seats of the SUV.
Also, make no mistake. With some alcohol and a little prompting, I still might rub Erma’s nipples with a plastic Wiffle Ball dipped in candle wax and canned cat food, her muffled giggles would erupt into a hoarse, smoker‘s hack, as I deftly slid the plastic bat up under her large, brown, corduroy bathing-skirt-thingy.
Maybe not.
Sunday, May 22, 2011‘Bag / Nottabag
Is Kareem here encroaching into stage one ‘baggery? Or does he exceed the height limit for douchebags??
Will he and his woman be forever doomed to 68’ing one another (she does him, and he owes her one) due to incompatible sexual modularities?
Did I run this photo on the flimsiest of excuses just to showcase naughty-sweet Greta, who looks like a young Margot Kidder done right?
You must answer these questions in the comment thread as always. As I type with one hand. If you know what I mean.
Friday, May 20, 2011Larry The Lavender Love Lizard Takes on the Doublemint Chins
Larry the Lavender Love Lizard coaxes Jane and Jenny Chin-Chin to listen to his jawboning in the hopes that he may, after lubricating them with Goose, become the greasy peanut butter between their crackers.
Better walk on by, LLLL.
Because you do NOT want a visit from their Daddy…
Thursday, May 19, 2011U.S. Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team
Oh, dear Reader, I’d love to tell you that the tri-choad neck tilt you witness was an image caught microseconds after their skull plates were simultaneously flogged by a 48 pound, 12 ounce baby dolphin calf carcass obtained from my blackened gulf.
But no. There is no necrotic marine mammal slap o’ Justice to be had here today.
These choads are crimping their C4 thru C7 neck discs in a reptilian display meant to land their empty heads on a primo spot on Grecian Gretta’s voluptuous dirrty pillows. But they are wrong, my friends. I have personally gazed into her eyes and her moonpie grin beckons for the RC Cola I keep in my pants.
That’s right, you Philistines; I can SEE her giving me the Olympic Greek Eye O’ Coitus beckoning me to Mount-A-Limp-Puss, and I suspect her phalanx yearns to be rammed by the Trireme of Love.
And then I woke up. Smelling of hay and stable. After having peed in a Trojan Horse.
Just in case you sped-read through the above gibberish, allow me to cut to the heart of the matter here: Boobies.
Thursday, May 19, 2011The Hot Mess: Medusa’s Sloppy Seconds Messy Edition
Medusa Oblongata takes time from her busy schedule of bleaching the playpen to deliver this societal eulogy:
In a perfect world, this douchenozzle would have just drowned in the pool. These girls would have fished him out, not to help, but to make a mockery of his hipsterdouche beard and shaved, pallid torso.
In a perfect world, Gigglescarf would swipe his wallet, while Raven LeVamp kneed him in his cold, shrunken genitals. They would leave his limp, wet body on the terrace and head over here for a repast of cupcakes, Doritos and Manhattans, perhaps followed by belly pooching, and more of Raven’s Eye Of Coitus demonstrations.
But this is not a perfect world.
This is where douchebags feel the supple young boobies of poolside hotties press against them. This is the world where buffoonery and arrogance are rewarded with positive hott interaction.
This is why we must mock.
For the buffoons bed with the hotts tonight as the lone coyote howls over the hills and the tasty snack cakes lie in state in cellophane coffins.
Thursday, May 19, 2011Out Caste – A Study in Societal Stratification: by Crucial Aloysius Head
The great philosopher Confuse-us once opined that the Douchebag Society has, since ancient times, adhered like donkey jizz to a complex hierarchy of tribal communities commonly referred to as an “Out Caste” system.
This system contains many levels of Scrote which have been detailed in full throughout the Holy Scriptures.
In this case, we see a devout member of the Out Caste system, Franklin Stein suffering the humiliation of letting his Bindi slide from Bra!man status (typically located between the eyebrows – directly in line with the mark of the bag), to the lowly Fungtouchable state (Bindi between the eyes – facial fung multiplying at an alarming rate).
Now that partially medicated Mary and ashamed Shelly have seen the folly of Franklin’s ways, mayhaps they’ll feel more at ease by joining me for a moment of Tantric respite on my yoga mat whilst I ply them with real comic book legends like Captain Haddock, Professor Calculus and Tintin.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011Nipplestopheles (Jacques Doucheteau Edition)
Dispatch from the Desk of Jaques D; a little bile with your morning coffee:
Frank the RV salesman weekends in Pensacola, still blissfully unaware of the sad fact that he’s twice divorced and 70 lbs heavier than when he flunked out of Thomas Nelson Community College.
Diana too has seen better days. Once a pseudo-Asian hott before all the bukakke videos and Benson & Hedges, now she is but an aging trail mule rode hard and put away wet. But these two are just players in the grand drama of society’s demise.
Dave’s dangling tit rings summon ancient gods of destruction from their eternal slumber, to wreak havoc on the soul of humanity. His vacant stare and gleaming forehead conceal a mind torn asunder by the primeval forces of the eternal poo of Nergal: Babylonian deity of war and pestilence.
It is this mighty impetus welling up through the ages and expelling themselves through Dave’s sphincterous navel that is an omen of the forthcoming douchepocalypse. His religious iconography worn, without realization of its irony, upon a viscera of unfettered consumerism is a symptom of the larger social impoverishment in human-nature relations. This affront to the natural universe beckons elder demons from their sleep, blackens the sky with smoke from the burning flesh of innocents, and causes orphan children to rape puppies with bootleg DVDs of “2 Fast 2 Furious”.
And so Frank subconsciously teat-punches that which he does not comprehend.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011Does This Look Infected? (Medusa Oblongata Editorial)
And now we have a public service message from our very own Bubonic Gorgonic, the loverly Medusa Oblongata:
Douchal infection, we posit here at HCWDB, starts at the very core.
Like a rot, it spreads slowly from the inside, killing all that is good and alive and pure, blackening like a mold, decaying, necrotizing what it intercepts. What happens, then, when this parasitic intruder reaches the surface of its host?
So begins the changes to the exterior, the addition of what are known the adouchetrements. However, mere accessories belie the sinister nature of this malady. For here we see true douche as manifested in lesions of the skin. Huge patches of nonsensical skin irritations that indicate the level to which the internal infection has progressed. In this case, severely. Even across the belly of this beast, we can see the warning that he reeks of cheese.
And woe, to you, Jennifer-Love-Hewitt-in-a-blonde-wig-hott, and your friend Jenny McCarthy hott. For your proximity to this specimen imperils your own bodies. Boobytanheart is already evident, as is excessive hair bleaching. The answer to this scourge is not to pose with these ass clowns, but to get naked, rub one’s self in protective liniments, and arm one’s self with a flame thrower.
The smell will be horriffic, but the salvation of bubble boobie hotts is worth any price. We here at HCWDB are happy to assist any and all succle thigh hotties with training, specifically the part about the rubdowns with protective liniments.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011Vin Douchal brings back The Wednesday Limerick!
Yeah, baby…Limericks are BAAAACK!
Jill asks for help from this schmoe,
Needs SPF where her reach doesn’t go;
Sure, I’ve got my own lotion
And with this subtle motion
I’ll slather you from head to toe
Melanie Meets the Douchehound Gang
The “Case of the Awkward and Inappropriate Grope” just got a little more interesting once the Douchehound Gang became implicated after an ass pear fingerprint dusting.
Yup. No idea what I’m saying. Time for some string cheese.
