Granpa Olebag Got Game
Granpa Olebag approves of the HCwDB of the Week.
And he approves of his Grandaughta’s besties.
If you knowamean.
His layabout meth dealing great nephews, not so much.
HCwDB of the Week: Tommy Pak, Giggle Ladies with Daddy Issues, and the Hand of the Collective Unconscious
While last week was a notoriously toxic week for douche tatts, what with The Skin Show, the creepy neck hitting on innocence of Coprophagia, yet more from Crazy Eyes Killa (1/2 of the Greasepitz), and the heinous Tatticus Finch.
Yech. Seriously depressing realities of our overstimulated, overtatted culture.
THen there was D.J. Assholio and Random Pocahontas Girl, the Greek myth of Pecopoulous, the jaundice of Old Man Liver, and the great news of Bankrupt Preppiebag.
But none were more poisonous to the ecosystem than this unholy pairing.
Maria and Consuela hate their father, Mario, for uprooting them from Uraguay and moving them to Arizona.
Tommy Pak is uberpudwack. The Hand of the Collective Unconscious speaks for all of us. And adds a delightful touch of the surreal to this kinetic mess.
Chalk this classic Vegas Clownpud and tasty latina burritas for the next Monthly.
And your hungover narrator for early morning HoHos and milk. Cuz I’m healthy like that.
The Krumps Are Not All Right
Well since that Persian Fugs video was somehow removed just after getting posted, lets all observe this puddly wiggling twitching with performative palsy.
Talented kids in service of the ‘bag virus is talent wasted.
Persian Fugs
The last vestiges of British colonialism remain, as Homi Bhabha or Edward Said might argue, in the cultural artifacts of alienation and psychoanalytic doublings.
Or in the greasy gell hair of two Persian Fugwanks.
WARNING: Minimal hott counterbalance. Apparently, the Persian Hotts heard there was a sale on white BMWs on the same day of the video shoot.
Comment of the Week: Tall Guy
Tall Guy waxes poetic in an Eleanor Rigby modus in response to his flower query:
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Morning and evening I watch ladies walk by my front door. They’re heading for the train station. Most are well dressed and some are attractive. Occasionally, I’ll seek the company of the masses and sit over an espresso in the posh local cafe opposite the train station up the road, where close by is a small florist’s shop. En route to doing an obnoxious thing for 8-hours and their own survival as well as somebody else’s profit, the ladies often stop off at the florist’s shop and smell the flowers. Then they head off again towards the centre of their lives. The mother’s breast. Their sun. The job. Lonely. Frustrated. Living mostly without sex and certainly without love, working at doing something they probably hate. Too scared to look at my face or into eyes for fear I’ll assume they want sex with me. But off they go, either to the cubicle of work or to the cubicle of rest, where they’ll eat dinner, watch TV, phone Sheila, smear their faces with cream, set the alarm and sleep. Because tomorrow, or next week or sometime real soon, he may walk in.
——
Friday Thoughts and Links
As this crisp Los Angeles Friday turns breezy and gusty with the desperate cries of frustrated servers working at Chipotle who really totally could’ve gotten that part in “Footloose” if the casting director wasn’t such a pidge, I meditate on underfed Ukranian hott.
Underfed Ukranian Hott in creepy blue bathrooms, with succulent pokey poke power boobs, heapings of euro attitude, and zebra purse.
Enough to make Todd (with his oft ignored but great at Scrabble sis Mandy), start to hat tilt and sunglasses hook. You almost had the notta Todd. But hat tilt and chin fung must not pass.
Yup.
‘Tis Friday.
Your humble narrator pees on Hollywood.
Here’s your links:
Reader Stefan suggests we make LMFAO’s“Sexy and I know It” the official theme song of HCwDB. Gonna be hard for me to ever replace either the great Vin Douchal’s “Donkey Opus in Douche Major” or Foglizard’s “Hot Chicks with Douchebags”
Some Friday Zen: An incredible series of color photos taken of New York City between 1941 and 1942.
There have been many movies made since 1895 when the Lumiere Brothers first projected “Train Arrives at the Station” on a sheet at the Grand Cafe in Paris. Trog is one them.
Some days it’s time to chat about Heidegger. Some days, not chatting about Heidegger, but wine. Other days, chatting about Gordon Ramsey Lookalike Pornstar Dwarfs Killed by Badgers.
My cousin (on my father’s side), Lu Louis, stars in My Roommate The Athlete. Give it up for what the cast of Swingers would’ve been up to if the internet had been around back in 1996.
Got red hair and sperm? No thanks.
If you’re ever in Southern India, the term for douchebag is Tumbida koDa tuLukuvudilla. Translation: “The pot which is full does not splash.” Makes sense. Sort of.
Speaking of Pear, now’s a good time as any to remember that formerly barely famous something or other, Jennifer Love Hewitt, once complained about being called a ‘Pear Ass.’ Ladies, it may be reductive and objectifying, but it’s still meant as a compliment.
The great, cryptic and mythic hero of HCwDB, the legendary John Largeman, was caught on camera catching a foul ball, Ferris style.
But you are not here for John Largeman Ferris moves. You are here for Pear. And it’s time we go back to a classic:
Like two fleshy sea grapefruits gargling jello.
He’s Fascinated By Boootiful Womien
From now on, I shop only at Divine Rags.
Friday Haiku
In a perfect world,
This asshole would don a shirt;
Preferably hers.
I would name her breasts
As Fat Man and Little Boy.
I’d like to drop them.
— Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifelt
No shirt, a bow tie.
That’s a look that never works.
Unless it’s on her.
— FoghornLeghorn
Always campaigning.
Michelle Bachmann Junior tries
To pray away gay.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Mahogany gimp,
freezes clubland (and tailors),
with basilisk stare.
— The e’er-present Anonymous
Chippendales reject,
Angers Swayze and Farley,
Afterlife ruined.
— Condouchious
Holy Chest Muffins.
They could save you from drowning.
Or drown you as well.
— jonezy
Prom poster was clear
In bold print “Black tie AND tails”
Not “Black tie and fails”
— Mr. Scrotato Head
Sweaty cuff on wrist
Don’t ask where that thing has been
And do not smell it
— Vin Douchal
Welcome to the Skin Show, Ladies of the Westchester Garden Club!!
Note to future generations: Giant skull chest tattoos may not be a good life choice. No, not even if they incorporate the nipples into their design leitmotif.
Note to self: Never grip a Corona like you’re milking a deer.
Note to Hot Mom Besties Sophie and Franny: You should probably rethink your divorces and go back home to your kids. They miss you.
Breaking: New York Preppiebag Goes Bankrupt
File under “Unexpected Benefits from the Economic Recession“:
———–
Dear DB1,
I just read about this Douche Turd for the first time. He’s a wannabe NYC preppy/player who has no money – no job – no nuthin, AND he’s in debt for $160,000!!! Love it!
Enjoy!
Signed,
Pfft
Mostly a lurker, occasional poster
——-
We featured this clown macking on hotties a few years ago and, if memory serves, he wrote in with a series of whines and legal threats until I took his pictures down.
Heh. Turns out that high end pockets don’t pay the bills like they used to. Schadenfreude, indeed. Puppets? Sing this clown off stage left.
