Friday Haiku
Willard combs his hair
By extracting his head from
Between Sue’s milk domes.
Hairspray Vs. Gel
Sven debates Inga; waits for
Roofies to kick in
— saulgoode42
Jean’s big, scary hair
is not the only thing here
overinflated.
— FoghornLeghorn
B-52 ‘do
Meets ‘A Flock of Seagulls’ hair
Run so far away
— DoucheyWallnuts
Nihilists know how to
Party, Jan practiced his stare
For several hours.
— Capt. James T. Douche
Six Boobs Sitting on Bench
One boob turns to the other and says, “I’m cold. Does it feel a bit nipple out here?”
Uhm.
Yeah.
I blame my parents.
M Dawg Gut Punches the Baby Tebus
Douche of the soul is a festering rot, and M Dawg pukes it in spades.
The Ladies of the 3pm-9pm Tuesday shift at the Platinum Club regret nothing. Except that one thing. You know what. Lets not talk about it. The bathrooms at the Ladies Foot Locker still smell like cinnamon.
Douchey and Gabana
Get it?! It’s like Dolce and Gabana but I switched the word “Dolce” to “Douchey!”
Yeah. Got nuthin’.
Watched the atrocity that was a political convention last night and was so disgusted by this country I went for a walk and beat up a pack of wild dressage horses roaming in the Hollywood Hills. Their pained whines and whinnies reminded me of the resiliency of America. So I got that going for me.
But yeah. I’m in a pretty foul mood this morning. The arrogant celebration of wilfull ignorance is a toxic strain of Americana that has always been present in this country’s DNA since the first dysfunctional Puritans used fictions and religious ghost stories to control and deny their anxieties about female libido. It is the Freudian death drive writ political. An intense dissonance born of sexual frustration and cartoonish cowboy dreams that follows a three hundred year path from witch trials to slavery to debates about “welfare”. The wealthy elites scaring the rubes to control them like so many flickering phantasms dancing in Plato’s cave. There will always be a fetishizing of the rich and a need for aristocracy. The need to return to childhood and rekindle an imagined safety that never actually existed, with apple pies on Mayberry Street, and no gays or Mexicans. When reality is scary, it’s 1950s America, Roland Reagan starring as Ronald Reagan as the Marlboro Man starring in the Great White Rewrite of Multicultural Reality. Fear becomes fictions. Stories of hero/villain comic book simplicity. Minorities become a threat. It is the selling of illusion as conceptual snake oil. How to manufacture hatred and fear by the yard? Paint the picture of unseen threat, lurking in the shadows. They are political douchebags proclaiming family values before heading to the strip clubs. And shame on the rubes for being duped.
EDIT: Bonus Pear for listening.
Semitic Hottie Sherrie Finds the Afikomen
It was hidden in Melvin’s Gunt.
What Happens to the Hot Chick at an Overcrowded Music Festival
She gets surrounded and prodded by overzealous Bennington undergrads.
Ubiquitous Red Cup angrily, but without breaking zen state, does not approve.
Jack the Lipper Finds a New Victim
This sequel to the best-selling harlequin novel of the late 19th century ends not with a bang, but with a, well, a bang I suppose.
I can’t tell if 80s Tom Petty Hott is turning me on or making me consider pitching a movie, “Whatever Happened to Baby Tom Petty?”
Pouty Michaela continues, however, not to disappoint. Mayan Eye of Slutty Coitus for the societal elevation.
Connecticut Sue Makes a Poor Life Choice
She blames the four strawberry daiquiris that Todd bought her by the cabana during happy hour.
Later, happy hour will turn into not so happy hour. And by not so happy hour, I mean thigh rash.
