Meanwhile in Bay Ridge…
Vinnie gotta dance, yo!
Angie’s like, okay I guess. But in a few.
But Vinnie’s like, c’mon!
So Angie’s like, yeah, I s’pose.
But then Vinnie’s like, wait, I gots to apply my eyeliner first!
And Angie’s like, that’s so queeyah.
And Vinnie’s like, no it’s not, it’s super!
And they danced. Like a wave on the ocean scrote-mance. Like two pudwacks in love, and they danced.
And… scene.
Hanz, aka The Prince of Pompoos
Well I promisd it. And here it is. A true Monday morning shite sandwich.
Longtime HCwDB fan Jeff From Winnipeg alerted me to this Germanic atrocity now trying to cash in on irono-douchebaggery.
The name: Harald Glockler. But we can call him Hanz.
This extreme douchewank’s title: The Prince of Pompoos
Yeesh. The toxic stench is raw with this one. Like a pungent gouda on hottest summer’s eve. The h.C. side is less frequent, giving us at least a modicum of hope.
And by modicum, I meen ferret nad punch wingy.
Mocking must commence. And commence now.
For if there is anything holy and pure in this ungodly cesspool of a universe, then this deutschsbag will be banished to be gristle in the gears of poo churn.
Your Sunday Randomness
How’s about a little coolass mofo people doing stunts uplift as we finish up our Turkey? Just ignore the annoying techno and try not to think about the fail compilation that would represent this montage’s ugly underbelly.
Tomorrow’s got a douchebag/hott combo so toxic, we need a bit of levity in our lives before we witness that garish monstrosity.
So appreciate a touch of grace.
Happy Holidays From Hot Chicks With Douchebags!!
To all my long term regs, my short term readers, my casual drop-ins and every so oftens, my true ‘bag mockers, and my serious ‘bag taggers and huntresses.
May your Thanksgiving Weekend be as prosporious as a Greasepitzer and Eve celebrating in the frothy locus of spewy spray.
For as Ringo teaches us, labels don’t define us, the ablity to mock does.
Thanksgiving Thoughts and Links
EDIT: The last pic may have actually featured a special needs guy, and I don’t mock them, so I’ve swapped it out with this collection of classic Vegasian hottie/douchery.
Here’s the rest of the original post:
Kinda a quiet post-turkal Thanksgivukkah here in the DB1’s household. Too quiet.
All the chocolate coins were eaten by mid November. So that’s out.
But I did just learn how to stream video through this magic device called a Roku. You know what that means. Every episode of Black Adder, Red Dwarf, and Fawlty Towers will now commence to be viewed.
Because I plan on a productive weekend.
Here’s yer links:
Your HCwDB Buy Your Christmas/Hannukah Gifts on Amazon After Clicking This Link to Help Support The Site Link of the Week: The first step in telling Time Warner or DirectTV to kiss your black ass goodbye
Do not get drunk in India. No, seriously. Don’t.
Some days I really, really wish I worked for the TSA.
1970s vintage beach shots. Like looking into an alien world at once both similar and dissimilar to our own. Uncanny valley in effect.
My next book: The Douchebag with the Miley Cyrus Tattoo.
Douchey Asian tatts translated (for reals, yo).
Fake tanning douchebleethery: 2.0.
Remember those New Wave/Punk musicians and singers from the 1980s? Lookin’ good.
And yet more dancin’ in the aisles.
Okay, nuff of that silliness. Have some:
Sure it’s digitally altered fantasy. But so’s your moms.
Thanksgiving Haiku
When Grey Goose shots fail,
Kevin’s got a brand new game,
‘Try my ‘Play station?'”.
Happy Thanks-hannukah!!
To celebrate this odd pairing of turkey and gefilte fish, I thought I’d seek out the least Jewish image I could find on the internets.
Musclebros and Party Chicks in mid pose outta do that trick.
Either that, or this one.
One Herpster To Rule Them All
Hear ye! Hear ye! All Movember wanabees with the tasty artisanal cheeses? Lay down your PBRs, your mustache grease, your scooters, and vinyl and gather round!! Attend the tale of McSweeney Todd!!
For thine efforts have been in vain. They are now moot. Irony has crawled into an alpaca sphincter and expired like parrot.
The game is over. The gig is rigged.
One Herpster To Rule Them All has arrived.
His name is Rob. But he goes by Alistair. And Carole titters whimsically before agreeing to tune his mandolin.
The Suburban Hustler
70 Degree Hat Tilt is all Kevin needs the ladies to know about how cray cray he is.
Sexy Minka’s plunging neckline plays lutes in a harmonic key.
Meanwhile, your humble narrator flicks lint on the floor and grumbles about the familial responsibilities of a combo Thanksgiving/Hannukah. It’s like exponential dysfunction. Served with cranberry sauce.
Vin Douchal's Suburban Housewife Dilemma Pt. 1
From the Where’s Trevor comments thread comes this gem of a depressing yarn spun by the great Vin Douchal:
———-
Nights of clubbing, Kappa Alpha Theta days at UCLA melt into pop quizes and complexion complexities as Vernon, the solid “C” grade Computation major slides his way into an otherwise innocent life of group poses, bathroom make-up exchanges and pep rallies and Pauley Pavillion ladies room vomit scenes.
An innocent night of jello shooters finds her 6 weeks later peeing on a Rite Aid home test praying, hoping upon hoping the straight line in the little window does not grow a cross hair. Negative? No, positive. Again
All five stages manifest in one stream of anguish, “NO!, Shit!, Please be wrong- I’ll do anything, oh no I’m screwed, Well… five positives can’t be wrong,… time to call dad.”
Showing, glowing back for the Holidays when the high school ex- sees her at the Piggly Wiggly shopping for last minute yams and Coors Light inquiring about college… she cries, falls into his embrace. He tells her he will take care of her , stay here, marry me, I’ll raise the child as if my own. We’ll have others, maybe right away so they can have a little sister or brother… I’ve always loved you more than life itself. I cried when you went to California,… my Kelly, sweet sweet Kelly… they make love in his 4 wheel drive 1500 HD, drying each others tears and gentialia with the same greasy oil rag
Three kids, four years later, the silo manufacturer closes, the corporations snatch up the farms and they’re living in “the extra room” at her parents house all five of them like Mexican pallet families on a sand mountain in Tijuana. No sex, no desire anyway, no quiet time, constant badgering from dad, a baby with colic, a pre-schooler with constantly skinned knees and a toddler wearing opposite sex hand-me-downs ….
In a rare moment when all three kids are asleep and he’s out grousing with his pals, she smiles and in a saturnine, morose moment thinks about a nineteen year old with a fake ID, surrounded by faux-sisters , dapper young men and their will to succeed and the life of her forgotten college friends in their Malibu Zuma classes with designer panini griddles and tremendous Jared wedding rings. She walks calmly to her parents medicine cabinet
She swallows her mom’s month supply of valium and pens a note, ” I’m a failure, I crossed paths with a Douchebag and did not head the warnings,… I’m sorry,goodbye.”
————–
I found the only image I could to counterbalance that depressing tale of woe.
