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When Season #3 of “The Walking Dead” failed to find viewership, network executives introduced a complex subplot involving energy drinks, cloth shredding gypsy moths, and a mutant groin virus that attacks the hypothalmus, leaving its victims in a state of perpetual primal “Woo,” only able to talk with a thick Long Island accent.
Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Brett Ratner
For those who are fans of cinema, you probably haven’t heard of Brett Ratner.
Ratner directs blobby things of image and sound that I prefer to call “Poovies.” Semicoherent rabbles of mediocrity that glow with the shameful spectacle of money polished by rat turd.
This rank preening choad of Hollywood obsequiousness and spineless studio hackery was fired from directing the Oscars yesterday for proving his douchebag status by quoting Shakepespeare when he said “rehearsing is for fags.”
Lame fratboy machismo, even buried under a mountain of undeserved Hollywood cash, can’t diminsh the stench of Axe bodyspray and empty cans of Four Loko in the back of a limo covered with various sundry body fluids.
Here’s to you, Ratnerbag.
Now go screw up a remake of “80s Box Office Hit #43.”
And in honor of Family Circus creator Bil Keane having died today, here’s a rant I ranted from back in 2007 that I’m particularly proud of: Why Jeffy is ‘Bag. Back in the stone age when mocking douchebag culture was just something I did on my blog.
Occupy Hair Street
It’s like some garish Brundlefly genetic splicing between arrogant Wall Street douchebags and an early 90s punk band, running with the Goose while hitting on Gillian, the hottest girl from sophomore year English class.
I need a coffee.
EDIT: Fixed the photo problem. Well, the photo is still a problem. But now it’s visible.
Doug is an Entrepeneur
You know that inheritance Doug got when Grandpa Al passed away back in 2009? It’s, like, totally going to start an epic label, bitch. Yellow wristdanna proves it.
Nadijka offers the holy heaving bosoms of Antioch, that the voices in my head tell me they cry and whimper to be held softly, like a stoic baby poodle uponst first breath.
Why You Never Hang Out at the I-Bar Anymore
Once they hired Tony and put Journey in the jukebox so the B&T crowd could faux-karaoke to “Faithfully,” it was all over.
Kimmy’s just paying her way through pre-law. She thought it was pre-med. What’s the difference?
Herpster Melvin Gets Lucky
And by lucky, I mean nasal conversation about the upcoming ironic “Occupy My Pants” app Melvin is developing for Facebook.
Slutty Sexy Joyce Hott is just slumming it at an indie bookstore in the cool area of Portland at 2am on a Tuesday until her boyfriend, Cal, gets out of prison.
Mongo See Crab Cakes!
Mongo like Crab Cakes!
Mongo crotch itch. Mongo not like it when crotch itch.
The Garglebag and Nadia Ruminate on Heidegger
Here’s pic #3 of this waste of generational educational purpose, as the Gargs and Nadia build their case for the next Monthly.
Bro Flex and Flexette Approve of the HCwDB of the Week
They give it two intertextual meta-ironic fist pumps up.
