EuroTimmy Celebrates the HCwDB of the Week
EuroTimmy sees Justin Bieber as a trailblazing crusader for pre-pubescent HCwDB rights. Sort of the Rosa Parks of the testosterone-challenged.
Eastern European Leyona say no thank you for Appletini offer and to please stop ask.
HCwDB of the Week: Grover McPocalypse And Sarah Lawrence Sarah
For bringing the rare hippie herpster doucher vibe, and for choke-throttling Heather, Grover and Sarah are a well deserving HCwDB of the Week winner.
And while Sarah’s Douchelips are the main detracting from achieving an enlightened hottie/douchey dialectic, her taut suckle pooch belly was enough to conceivably argue that her lips were merely caught mid-smirk, and she is not as Bleeth as it may appear.
However I realize that is sparse justification. Sarah’s Douchelips may cost this coupling in the Monthly.
Coming in a close second was Marty Deuce and Ripped Jeans Kelly, and Ashley’s Malignant Roadie Ass Tumor.
Yech. I hate malignant roadie ass tumors as much as the benign kind.
Last week also saw the horrifying Atlanta Herpster and inverted douche-shirt.
Not a good week for societal hopes for culture, class, taste, and aesthetics.
I just leaked on a piddle.
Time for Frosted Flakes.
Douchebag Bartending School
When America’s most heinous of hottie/douchey couplings can’t cut it in the real world, the answer is clear: Phucket Bartending School in Thailand. Where every doucheclown has a second shot.
Comment of the Week: Dude McCrudeshoes
Recent Hall of Mock enshrinee Dude McCrudeshoes wins the Comment of the Week with the following poetic Gothic zombie narrative responding to Atlanta Herpstery:
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As moonlight creeps through the few scattered scratches in the blacked-out windows, McCrude paces the floor of his Black Cathedral. Ethereal wisps of grey smoke waft up from the reagents scattered across an alchemical table, never quite dispersing. A pentagram is carved deeply into the black wood. Amidst the items set upon the table, eyes float sightlessly in yellowing viscous liquids, course black hairs smolder in a shallow stone bowl, while other malign substances give of the portentous rancor of corruption.
Opposite the table, a curiously large leather-bound tome sits open on a podium of rough-hewn oak. The leather is haphazardly stitched and still smells sourly of the animal, if it was indeed an animal, from which it was taken. A few hairs remain in the leather as well, and if you were brave enough to look closely, you might find the merest hint of a tattoo. The pages of the open book are indecipherable. Odd diagrams are composed of interlocking circles and arcs, with a tight looping script marching along each circumference, inside and out, like ants on a hill. In the margins another hand, though still unintelligible, has made notes in dark brownish-red ink.
Between the podium and the table is a box. A coffin. It is so old the pine slats that it was once made from have caved in upon themselves. Between the decaying slats you can glimpse white bones and scraps of blue fabric.
McCrude stops his pacing and begins to speak directly to the coffin on the floor. “Sherman,” he whispers, “I have a task for you. They have rebuilt Atlanta…”
——-
Friday Thoughts and Links
Oh Tiny Dancer Maria, ye of the award winging gazanga gnaws.
How I’ve missed your curvy giggles that shake your frame like a caffeinated Shake Weight ™.
You guide me true on this Friday aft.
Here’s your links:
A profound and unfolding tragedy has shaken me to my very core: Hostess is entering Chapter-11. We have not been doing our part to consume tasty snack cakes with creamy filling.
Nik Ritchie’s craptastic “The Dirty” continues to smell like poo.
For those of us who grew up in the 80s, read Omni Magazine, and thought the leap in perspective from Space Invaders to Zaxxon was revolutionary: Battlestar Gallactica As it Was Meant to Be Told. In 64 Bit. With lots of deserved snark.
Guy Fieri, honorary Douchebag of the Month from June of 2008, now has a drinking game.
Call your Doctor if your Election Lasts Longer Than Four Hours.
You know who also thinks the South by Southwest festival is filled with pretentious herpster shoescrape? Hitler.
But you are not here for tired Hitler memes. You are hear for Pear.
Mmmm… Fruit of the Bloom.
No More Dr. Douchebag
Angry Heather recants her previous missive:
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Dear DB1,
First, I would like thank you for posting the picture I submitted of my exboyfriend and I a few weeks ago, it is an honor that my photo made the cuts to be worthy of being published and I really appreciate it. I do love your website so much and I was shocked that it even made it up.
Unfortunately, I really wasn’t in the right state of mind when I submitted my bagicide letter and photo and would like you to take it down. I feel really badly but neither of us can take the beatdown (& I also don’t want to end up getting sued.)
You are the best, your website is #1 and I will always appreciate how kind it was of you to think my exboyfriend is one douched out jackass, so thank you, it makes me feel good in so many ways.
I will continue to frequent your site and get good laughs when I’m looking for something funny on the internet. Take care and keep the good postings coming. I’ll be a fan forever.
-Heather
————
Easy come. Easy Botox.
Friday Haiku
Kate’s Hot Tub Findings:
Pour brown liquid in Tony,
Brown liquid poops out.
jet of hot water
prep for colonoscopy-
new use for hot tub.
— Troy Tempest
Kate’s favorite drink
Combo in the hot tub is
Always “Jack and Cocck”
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Seems there is a use
for handlebar mustaches;
foothold to drown douches.
— Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche
Filthy, dirt-smudged bleeth,
Asks, “What would Jack Daniels do?”
Make him bearable.
— hermit
Drunken Hottub Nights
Skanks above the Vegas Hills,
This tub needs a flush.
— Mandouchian Candidate
Mustache rides are free
But are they really? Depends
On where you get off
— Jeff Nancy Dreuche
A young Rip Taylor
with his first girlfriend ever
this is why he’s gay
— Medusa Oblongata
Adding whisky to
greasy handlebar mustache
makes for toxic soup
— army (ret) douche
Part-time pool boy knows
Customers are out of town
Raids ‘fridge, fouls hot tub
— Vin Douchal
Salvador douch-i
Lusts for Anna’s paint pot, but
Clocks aren’t all that droop
— Mr. Scrotato Head
Captain Jack gets high
on own supply while bleeth gets
tgrease stains on left arm
— soy bomb
Kate never get spins
Since the gyroscope was put
In her monkey hole.
— Nepo
Marty Deuce Is Emotionally Distant Towards Ripped Jeans Kelly
Marty Deuce is droppin’ loads. Of laundry. Off at the dry cleaners on Pico and Robertson. At his day job.
Ripped Jeans Kelly is all that is androgyne early 1990s ripped jeans butch hottness.
Reader Mail: Atlanta Herpsters and Viral T-Shirt Mutation
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DB1-
Greetings and salutations from Atlanta.
I’m sending this note due to a section of Atlanta the cools kids refer to as “East Atlanta Village” or EAV.
Basically, EAV is a breeding ground for the Hipster Douchebag or Herpster as I think you’re now calling them. Anyway, it’s like Urban Outfitters mated with American Apparel and had a bunch of v-neck t-shirt wearing, non-functional-glasses sporting, my-beard-is-ironic, no-I-don’t-know-what-ironic-means, ew-you-smoke-Marlboro-Reds f#ckwits.
It’s enough to make you heave, but the restaurants are cheap and usually sport some library hottness, so my friend and I usually suck it up and wade into a sea of pastel-striped skinny jeans just to ogle at Anjelica serving our beers.
I came across this: a website selling angled-V and reverse-V t-shirts which makes me think that while the douchebag still exists, the Herpster is multiplying in droves. I submit for your approval/disdain: Zona By Peter V as I weep for Atlanta.
– Sherman’s Arch
——-
The “Back V” may be the douchiest clothing innovation since they started silkscreening Jesus bling. Yech. Well worth monitoring in 2012 for raging lubous heinosity. Good work S.A., and send in pics of some Georga Hotts making lemonade.
Ashley's Malignant Roadie Ass Tumor
Nothing is more tragic for Louisiana Waitress Ashley than suffering from a nasty case of Roadie Ass Tumor.
On an related note, “Malignant Roadie Ass Tumor” was the working title for Roland Barthes’s 1979 philosophical treatise on memory and image, “Camera Lucida.”
