A Roadie Named Bart Gets Lucky
Lotta complaints in the threads about some of the skeezier pics over the past few days. Alls I gotta say is the douche extremes help to define the margins of alterity. And if you think any those ladies are trannies, you haven’t met a tranny.
Anyways, lets tone it back with some classic HCwDB.
Bart drops his years carrying amps for Maroon 5 to Kelly and Angela.
Kelly and Angela are supple taught pokey bounce.
They may not be classic beauties, and are trashy Bleethy with the makeup. But Kelly and Angela’s firm hindquarters sing metaharmonic odes to fractal patterns, the Universal Om, and rem-speed hallucinogenic humpty hump.
Happy 5772!!
Happy New Year to all Hebraic readers of the Talmudic persuasion. 5,772 years ago, the culture that bought us this and this, and, oh yeah, your humble narrator, began its calendar.
That video needs more Semitic Hottness, and less Orthobags.
Something Went Wrong on the Path to Enlightenment
When the righteous wish to settle in tranquility, G-d says: “Is it not enough for the righteous what is prepared for them in the World to Come, that they also ask for a tranquil life in this world?”
– Rashi’s commentary on Genesis 37:1
Brothabag Jesus Is Not in the Military
Brothabag Jesus’s facial pubes do, however, have a tendency to emit dishonorable discharges.
Tall Jenny likes long walks on the beach, candle lit dinners, and mild forms of leather-based masochism.
Timmy Hoverbag
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
If you get in the way of a pic of sapphic inspiration, no matter how undouchey you are, you earn an automatic autodouche.
Get out of the way, Timmy. There’s improv taking place.
Guy Who Flips Off Camera With Hot Chick Guy
It’s like that fortune I got at Bamboo House last night:
“Guy Who Flip Off Camera With Hottie Some Day Flip Hottie with Camera Off.”
They just don’t write fortunes like they used to.
“Wiggas And the Pear”
An excerpt from Shel Silverstein’s lesser known work, “Wiggas and the Pear”:
—–
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo
Went for a ride in a flying douche crew.
“Word up!”
“What fun!”
“He smells like poo!”
Said Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo.
Ickle was captain, and Pickle was Poo
And Tickle served Red Bull and hip hop stew
As higher
And higher
And higher they flew,
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo.
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo,
Over the strippers and beyond the “Woo!”.
“Hold on!”
“Stay in!”
“I hope we do!”
Cried Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo.
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Poo
Never returned to the world they knew,
And nobody
Knows what’s
Happened to
Dear Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Poo.
—–
Burning Crotch
Somewhere in San Francisco’s Mission District, an earthy coffee chain that uses only recycled products and filtered water is missing a barista.
Ode to Tommy Pak
This is what happens when Mitch and Bobby invite two Bennington Girls to Mitch’s parents house up in Burlington, and then Mitch finds the absynthe.
Either that, or it’s an ode to this guy.
