Pudwack
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Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Caption This Also
Two “Caption This” posts back-to-back? Madness! Veteran Commenter Crucial Head starts us off:
“As the flatulent winds of change lightly blow the remaining follicles clinging to the nethermost regions of his sweaty pate forward, Elmer seeks solitude and solace in the sustenance that seeps forth from Blake Lively Hott’s festering naval sore.”
Where’s Waldouche? (With Your Guest Host, Mr. White)
HCwDB legend and micturation master Mr. White hides a grinning choad behind beautiful scenery in this episode of…WHERE’S WALDOUCHE:
“Somewhere in this picture of bountiful, ethnic curvy goodness, I’ve hidden a grimacing ‘bag desperately trying not to soil his swim trunks. Can you find him?
Oh, sweet Jarita on the left. We met our freshman year. I was just a rural boy from western Pennsylvania, and you were on your own for the first time in America, far away from the old country and your parents’ strict ways. You were shy and retiring, not yet having learned the power that your looks give you. You invited me to your dorm suite to work on our problem set together. We calculated eigenvalues and shared meaningful looks. You laughed at one of my jokes and touched me gently on the forearm.
Then you told me how you couldn’t wait for Father to meet me, because you were sure we could convince him that I was more suitable for you than the boy they arranged for you to marry when you were 12. You told me that you hoped our babies took after me in height, but that they would have your piercing brown eyes.
When you went into the bathroom, I crawled out the window. And I stole $20 from your purse on the way out. I’m sorry about that last part. That wasn’t cool at all.”
Monday, May 23, 2011HCwDB After Hours: “How Much Is That Doggy-Style in the Window” Pear
What do I have in common with Harold Camping?
Currently, we’re both flabbergasted.
Wow. Just wow.
Sunday, May 22, 2011Rock Star Leniency Rule – Metal Edition
The lifeblood of this site are submissions by you, dear readers.
Photographs serendipitously snapped by you of that tool at your cousin’s wedding mackin’ on all the chicks whilst sporting an ant-trail chin-strap beard…
The Thick-necked gym troll whose image you clicked at a bar whilst he was distracted displaying full pee-cockk regalia, hoping to incite a coma-level call-and-response by yayo-fluttered labia, making their soft pink forced-air hum, like dying earthworms on a hot plate…
Or more likely, harvested at a club website, filled with endless frames of douchey party goers whose images go right into the Mock Hopper, its unmoving pig-iron grey lips dripping with yellowy chicken-fat and still-writhing veins; out of the other side come small-format tidy pictures, with a terse write-up from The Boss, and we’re off to the races…
Well, I see here that a well-meaning reg caught a tiger shark in his casting nets.
Better walk on by, Boy…
For this is Vinnie Paul, drummer for Pantera, Damage Plan, and several other side projects we’ll not bother to buy anytime soon.
Much respect to Vinnie and his poor late brother DimeBag, whose death, while about as metal as it gets, was tragic and in the end crushingly random, meaningless and too damn soon. That kid that shot him, who himself wound up wearing his lungs for a vest shortly thereafter courtesy of an off-duty cop and his scatter-gun, took from us a primal force. But Dimebag and Vinnie, who clearly have been mistaken by a valiant but novice eye, ain’t EVEN no douchebags, Hoss.
When you see tomorrow’s tool shed filled with last week’s preening and clueless contenders it will center us all, from these nottas and the pale scurrying wannabies.
It shall FOCUS us like the projector in a junior high school Sex Ed video that no one really wanted to watch but did.
For tomorrow is your last chance to vote before The Boss is Back next week!!!
EDIT: Astute readers noted that my headline “pardoning” Vinnie P was redundant, and repetitive, with the Rockstar Leniency Rule; hence redundant. So I retitled the post to purge all posted redundancy from this post.
–DS
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011Special Edward’s Got MILF
Sure, Special Ed may only be a Stage 1 PudWack.
And his Poolside Princess may be the poor man’s version of Fergie.
But we all know why I am running this picture. Let us not be coy.
Bulbous Bouncing Bling.
Cantilevered Calcium Cannons.
Stalwart Sternum Stadiums.
Boobies.
I detect an emerging theme today…
Monday, May 9, 2011Jacques Doucheteau Tags Señor Pud-a-Bator
Reader Jacques Doucheteau provides the tag as well as the commentary:
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Holy effin’ kee-rap! That is a LOT of Miller High Life!
The Cheesy Gordita dribble stains down the front of of Señor Pud-a-bator’s wife-beater makes this scene of debauchery all the more enraging. And what’s with the tiny dog tag bling? Did Diesel start selling micro-dog tags for $80 or is this guy fifteen feet tall?
And oh, Stephanie and Jamie.
Jamie tries her best to looks sexy for the camera with her kissy-face duck lips, knowing full well that in twelve years time her three kids and diabetic cankles will reduce her romantic life to Passions and court TV with the occasional craigslist one night stand.
But Stephanie unknowingly beckons my penile acquiescence with her oblivious smile, matted eyeliner, and nose piercing her friend gave her one night when they were, soooooo drunk (giggle). Mmmmm, Stephanie.
I would zip-line using my own scrotum, bear-ass naked though a dense metallic dildo forest with a rare earth magnet imbedded in my colon, just for the mere opportunity to lick Sbarro pizza grease off the counter of the Claire’s store she bought those ridiculously gaudy hoop earrings at as part of a buy-2-get-1-free promotion.
Damnit, I need to get out more.
– Jacques Doucheteau
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Come Back to the Ninety-Nine Cent Store, Jimmy Peen, Jimmy Peen
For those pants are bargain basement Woolworths designed by your momma atrocities.
Sissy and Mona deserve off-Broadway quality ab lick.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011Buzzy Fails to Appreciate Marissa’s Taut and Perfect Sundials
For that, for the silly tatts, and for the receding porcupine hair, Buzzy is to be mocked posthaste.
Marissa is to be softly coddled with eggshell powder and buttgrabby grab. Purely in the interests of science and archeology.
Monday, May 2, 2011Thug Island and the Elf Hott
The Scrote Sleuth writes in with the tag:
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This husky vixen cannot resist the brutally sculpted biceps and imposing pecs of this alpha gorilla wannabe. Best case scenario that tat reads “Thug Island”, which ironically is where this throwback would be exiled if crimes against taste ever entered the criminal code. Closer inspection reveals the road in the background is slick with water: rain + shirt off + sunglasses leaves this unfortunate specimen in dangerously douchy territory. Bonus douche points for subtly flexing your triceps while posing.
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