Vegan Karl Buys Melinda a Mai Tai
Vegan Karl’s vitamin deficient stare and pallid skin tone is haunting me like a zombified iPad commercial.
You know, where Robin Williams describes poetry over images of Japanese people iPading sumo wrestlers and Indian people iPading a traditional wedding while Philip Glass-esque music recalls Koyaanisqatsi like some great big unaware and thus ironic exclamation point on the residue of global violence and cultural destruction in the wake of neocolonial Western media ubiquity.
Just another example of the vision of Steve Jobs. How to shit on the authentic by selling technology with overpriced design made by nine year olds in third world countries to alienated first worlders desperate to reclaim the very authentic experience that they’re lost yet appears in the commercials selling that loss back to them.
At a hefty profit, of course.
Steve Jobs can rot and Apple can bite me.
Now, coffee time.
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's Two Wankers
Dual Peaches Point offends Buckingham Palace and piddles on the Queen.
Somewhere in Passaic….
An elliptical smells like a mixture of bodyspray, groin sweat, and incurious community college essays.
Worst Everything of the Year: "Falling In Reverse"
We have our rankest serving of choadsteak for the year and it’s only January.
Vice continues to get on the douche mocking train with this quality takedown.
A napkin and a hearty handshake to the first person who makes it to the two minute mark without urinating on a Talking Tina doll.
Friday Thoughts and Links
I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t want to know.
Sailor hotts cohabiting with rippled Pringlebags smell like feta cheese under a Tuscan sun.
Your humb narrs doesn’t know much these days.
Diapers and working on a new book define my life.
What I do know is that I heard Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street on Sirius yesterday and it was glorious. The chorus is a freakin’ sax riff fer crissakes. 70s music is before my time but the fact that this amazing song was even produced in a sea of bad disco inferno and skyrockets in flight makes it even more of a masterpiece.
On to the good stuff.
Here’s yer links:
Your HCwDB Buy Some Shit on Amazon to Support the Site Link of the Week: “This city desert makes you feel so cold, It’s got so many people, but it’s got no soul, And it’s taken you so long, To find out you were wrong, When you thought it held everything.”
Remember Crimson Paul Bunyon? Turns out he’s a something something Sons of Anarchy something something.
1990s Action Cinema summarized in two seconds.
Every single Hot Weather Girl compiled in a single website. Because internet.
Celebrities read mean tweets. Almost makes up for the inexplicable fact that Jimmy Kimmel is somehow incredibly famous and successful.
Middle Eastern terrorists are so stupid, they can’t even spell Los Angeles correctly on their flight jackets.
Oklahoma man charged with using an atomic wedgie to kill his father. “Wedgie.” The word still traumatizes me. Looking at you, assholes from Senior Bunk, Camp Kingswood, 1985.
Okay, lets get to the good stuff:
When the iPhone is upgraded with a fancy lens, then the Pear will come into autofocus.
Friday Haiku
Brett learned a lesson:
Don’t let pine pollen get in
Your cocaine supply.
These are not the Clowns
you’re looking for. These are not
the clowns anyone…
– Charles Douchewin
Up your nose with a
Rubber hose, said Fonzie. Don’t
Know what he’d say here.
– DoucheyWallnuts
Beaker’s new gig at
rhinoplasty got results.
He won’t stop “meeping”.
– Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche
She dates the Bozos
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
– The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Thinks he’ll get lucky
Sure, they wear the pink balls now
Soon he’ll wear blue ones
– Vin Douchal
With his nose so bright
Rudolph will guide his meat sleigh
Into her crab trap.
– Crucial Head
It puts the septum
in the bucket or it gets
deviated hose.
– Douche Wayne
Reader Mail: The Tale of Milfy Bartender Woe
Reader Gamecockbag writes in with a tale of milfy bartender woe:
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This girl bartended at a bar me and my friends used to frequent.
She quit working there a while ago and we all kind of forgot about her.
She’s now working at a bar around the corner from my house and has apparently gone from nice Southern girl to something resembling a character on the Jersey Shore.
She has also added a “gorilla” or “juice head” as they call them to go along with her new look. Damn shame.
————
But on the bright side, Gorillabag’s bicep Sanskrit does contain the Zoroastrian prayer for how to bless one’s knife before tanning a lambskin.
So if they’re ever caught in a desert, and need a lambskin properly prepared, they’ll know the blessing.
Just sayin’.
It’s not a likely scenario.
But it is possible.
Fritz Von Helmut Says "Guten Tag, Mein Hotties!"
Fritz Von Helmut has ze mad game, ya?
What about Rusty, ya? He bringin und game too, ya?
In an unrelated historical footnote, Fritz Von Helmut’s grandparents did not like my grandparents.
Blogger Nicki Daniels Indicts Herpster Beardery
Over on her blog, someone named Nicki Daniels unleashes a righteous smackdown of hipster bearditude that summons the best of the HCwDB mock.
Here’s an excerpt:
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Dear Bearded Hipsters,
YOU GUYS ARE RUINING MY BEARD FETISH. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved a man with a beard. To me, they meant strength, power, MANLINESS. Someone who could protect me. Unfortunately, you guys have turned it into a fashion statement. The beard has turned into the padded bra of masculinity. Sure it looks sexy, but whatcha got under there? There’s a whole generation running around looking like lumberjacks, and most of you can’t change a f@#king tire.
Look, I get it. I really do. I understand the motivation behind your beardedness. In fact, I even pity you. Thousands of years of evolution priming you guys to kill stuff, and chase stuff, and f@#k stuff… and now what? You’re stuck at a desk all day. No battles to fight. No wars to wage. So you assert your masculinity the only way you know how. You brew beer. You grow some hair on your face. I’ve seen you, hipsters, sitting in downtown eateries, with your rock chick girlfriends, dipping your truffle fries, trying not to get the aioli in your mustache. I’ve seen the quiet desperation in your eyes. I know you’re screaming into the void.
But I still hate you for it. You’re confusing me. It’s now on me to suss out who is the real man and who is the poseur. Sadly, I fear most of you are the latter. Before this explosion of whiskers on trendy men everywhere, if I saw a bearded man it was safe to assume certain things about him. Like, he probably owned a hammer. Or washed his hair with a bar of Irish Spring. His beard was probably scented with motor oil and probably had remnants of last night’s chili in it.
————–
Head over to her blog for the full quality rant, it’s good stuff.
