JaMon is Not a Douche
Some dudes, many of them brothas, can pull off a look that no white man can achieve. This is the immutable nature of coolness, and has been since Cab Calloway first donned a zoot suit.
Even with ‘bag hand gesture #26 and chest reveal, I’m willing to go notta. Why? Because JaMon’s fro crosses over into Jewfro territory, and for that, I feel a kinship. He’s verging on violation of the brothabag leniency, first enacted as penance for the appropriation of black subculture by white suburban tools since the mid 1980s. But he has not crossed over.
Seductive Spanish Paprika Hott Pilar makes my nethers cha cha to gringified salsa. She is the spicey chiquita of life, and I bow to her ancestral thigh rub.
Where's Sleazy Gun Tatt?
Somewhere in this pic of murky boatbaggery and aging Blu Blockers ™ I’ve carefully hidden a sleazy gun tatt.
Look closely.
Can you avoid bacterial lake water infection long enough to find it?
Bartleby the Scribbler
As Melville once wrote: “And lo, the hunt for white boobies take man to the deepest darkest plunges of self-immolation ‘neath the quivering waterlands. Only that ‘ere betwixt the globular moons of Vegas sunset will one find peace.”
Jack the Lipper
There are many schools of flush that circle the toilet bowl of life.
Jack the Lipper is one of them.
A steaming brown turdlike substance that smells vaguely of wheatgrass and trust fund.
A shmorgasboard of faux “Rock star” impersonative taint.
I write this not as poetry. But as mock. For Pouty Michaela’s Mayan Eye of Coitus suggests the girl you did drunken shooters with at the oyster bar near the sandy cove during junior year spring break. And for that, I wistfully honor her memory by rubbing up on a tree stump and humming the theme to Kojak.
That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas Approves of the HCwDB of the Week
We know That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas approves, because That Asswipe Who Fist-Points At Cameras in Vegas fist-pointed.
Tri-Tip Kelly giggles mellifluously and orders another Bud Light.
HCwDB of the Week: Methholio and Rachel
Last week had Creepy Photobomb, and the wonderful future thigh rub Eurohott that was Inga. There was even Ed Hardouche and the Twins, which could easily be the Weekly HCwDB winner/loser.
And while BroKevin and Supple Ashley also brought a solid fleshial challenge to the fight, in the end, this site is about mocking those most heinous of couplings between wretchchoad and pooch suckle.
And oh, yes, Rachel offers the quality pooch suckle. I would tickle a Furby in a bout of 1990s-era nostalgia just to Chubawumba her Cake.
And holy crap, “Self Made” Methholio is all that we have collectively decided to fight here at HCwDB. This toolwank needs Alex and his Droogs to sing Singing in the Rain to him beneath a barrage of lead pipes and British “What’s all this, then?” Bobbys looking the other way.
For theirs is poo. And theirs is the Weekly.
Goldblum Sounds
Because every Sunday is better with a little Goldblum.
Comment of the Week: Troy Tempest
Topping what was a superb thread of mock in What it Looks Like When a Father Fails, legendary talking puppet T.T. busts loose and wins the coveted Comment of the Week:
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Her belly button forms a tiny cave, where little people live. There’s 4 of them – Jimmy, Bobbie, Lori, and Denise.
Jimmy’s the quiet one. He is stern and serious and only eats okra.
Bobbie’s the funny one. He can tell jokes about raping baby faces that always gets everyone in a good mood.
Lori’s the pretty one. She’s got a body that screams “f@#k me please!” Unfortunately, she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so her body usually says, “let’s watch baseball.”
Denise is the smart one. She knows everything worth knowing, and anything she doesn’t know, their little tiny kitty cat, Tingles “the ring tailed chickabeastie defender of the realm”, certainly does know. Because he went school for for home economics and advanced napping.
Together they live in her belly button. They mine it for lint, and that is how they make clothing – everything is made of felt.
Some times the belly button gets unhappy and says “Bwaaaa – you people go away!” So they just pour booze into it, and that shuts the drunken old slut right up.
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Friday Thoughts and Links
Ed Hardy Hatdouches.
Still out there.
Still gravitating towards boobies like tractor beamed ‘Falcon.
Your humb narrs is well back into the Angeleno life. Mexican food. Herpsters drinking milkshakes ironically.
It may not be New York. That it most certainly isn’t. But like Hemingway in the islands, I make do with moxie and self loathing. I persevere. By plotting my long game return to New York.
Here’s your links:
So while I was on the east coast, I finally experienced the joy that is Five Guys Burgers and Fries. My experience went a little something like this.
Don’t get excited. It’s not a pear. It’s a tomato.
For those long time readers looking for an investment tip, now’s your chance.
Five Great Things Coopted by Douchebags. “Writing in public” for the win/loss.
Jay Leno. Still a huge douche.
Remember this clown? His name is “Horny Mike.” And he’s now on a new reality show on the History Channel. What does Horny Mike have to do with history? The same thing Flava Flav has to do with video hits 1.
Orange Bros. Yeech.
While Pear overload (fondle) is only reserved for SockWeek, nonetheless, you have been good:
Thems your pears. Go forth into the eve and rescue a hott. Or trip a ‘bag as he heads for the bathroom. For the Weekend is upon.
BroKevin Sees Boobs, Scratches Himself, Says "Groooo"
Eventually, BroKevin formed his first coherent word in weeks. That word was “Groooobs…”
