Sophie Disappoints Me
Oh Sophie.
Last night you had me at “hello.” And by hello, I mean “Woooooo!! Letssss doooo shotttssss!!”
But now I see that you cohabit with the worst of beachdouche detritus.
And so I am crestfallen.
Not enough to stop staring.
But enough to stop overstaring. And by overstaring I mean burning your cleavite with the heat of Hebraic lust.
Boobs.
Rusty Stares into the Hott Sun
Come Monday morning, Rusty will tell his coworker bros at Initech all about his glorious Saturday Night. With minor embellishments.
Involving tree frogs, WD-40, and candle wax.
Joe Shmuckers Scores Way Out Of His League With Giggle Corrie
With a name like Shmuckers, he has to be a douche.
Giggle Corrie inspires cherubic lute playing cupids to dance around an ethereal bonfire and then hump nearby tree stumps like cracked-up gila monsters.
Kelly Does Not Have a Fun Day
Kelly’s creeping sense of ennui makes her wonder if a centralized Spinozian morality is still possible in a Kantian destabilized and subjective ethos.
The Greatest 2:32 In the History of Everything
“Don’t cuss!” “Not us!” for the win.
And RIP Tab Thacker. A hilarious performer I remember fondly from my youth.
Wallnuts After Dark: What's Wit All a The Friggin' TV Channels?
Back in the day there was only a handful a TV stations. It was Channel 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and then in the 60s the Finnochs started showin’ up on Channel 13 on the PBS. If there was a show on it was easy to find since they was only these 6 channels.
I knew Joe Franklin was on Channel 9, which was WOR, an so I never forgot to watch his show or couldn’t find it. Another thing, these channels use to be known by their letters, so Joe was on WJZ that changed to WABC an then he moved to WOR that became WWOR.
I guess them letters weren’t as confusin’ to me as all a these 3-number channels I got on my TV these days. I mean who the F@#k ever thought they’d be a channel 596? An let’s not talk about how many Clams this is costin’ me…..
When the cable first started an they gave me that box that looked like a typewriter wit all a the buttons that was connected to another box by a wire that went to the TV, I couldn’t figger out how all a them channels was fittin’ trew that little wire. I mean I could unnerstand how all the channels could get sent trew the air an into those Rabbit Ear antennas, or whatever the f@#k they was called, an into my TV. Na mean?
Then they came up with the satellite TV that never made no sense to me as they had to send the TV shows up inta space before sendin’ them back down to a dish on my roof that had a wire to the TV. Again wit the friggin’ wire! That seemed like an awful lot a trouble to go to to get Regis and Kathie Lee. Am I right when I say that?
So cable got more channels an more confusin’ an they gave me this remote control that was bigger n a black jack Knuckes Rizzo use ta use to knock out skells an that looked like it was for a friggin’ space ship, or some shit.
I liked the remote that had on, off, volume and channel. Kinda like how I like my cocktails wit two ingredients, one a which is ice.
Now we got this Fiat or Fios or whatever the f@#k it’s called and now I gotta have my phone and computer all mixed up wit the TV. It’s like havin’ your two Goomads and your wife all gettin’ together to play Canasta. Nothin’ good can come from that. A fannabala!
Plus, back in the day, we had the TV Guide that tole us what shows was on where an when. You got a whole week a TV in that magazine every week an there was stories about TV people and a real jake crossword puzzle in it, to boot.
Now we got that cable guide, or whatever the f@#k it’s called, that makes my head hurt with all a the colors an channel abbreviations an them 3-number channels that I can’t never remember. An what makes all a this worser is that there ain’t never no good shows or movies on anyways, even when I go an check out what’s goin’ on around channel 920.
At least in the old days when there weren’t nothin’ good on, I only had to check 6 channels and it wasn’t costin’ me nothin’.
Friday Thoughts and Links
Joey’s Bikini and Speedo Party. Cleveland, Ohio. February.
Where even Clorox dares not to scrub.
Speaking of violent dismemberment, Sharknado was everything that I thought it could be and more. This interview with the writer of Sharknado, naturally a hipster Jew named Thunder Levin, is one of the greatest things ever written. I feel satiated. And anticipatory of shark week. So I got that going for me.
Yup. An unventful week.
Los Angeles finally got over its heatwave so your humb narrs chews on some stale Mallomars and contemplates the state of belly lint.
Philosophy is like chocolate. It gets melty if you leave it in the sun.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB DVD post-Sharknado pic of the week: “This sweet little fish called the grunion swims up out of the ocean, onto the beach, for a moment of privacy for his mating ritual. And human beings swoop down on him, scoop him up, and fry him for dinner.”
Bon Jovi’s new album, New Jersey, gets it right.
This won’t end well. It’s like 70s David Bowie got Brundleflied with a Bratz doll. And yes, I just used Brundleflied as a verb. Or maybe an adjective. Me not grammar good.
Oh Captain Pubing. Your wacky dubstep lightshow infused MDMA noxious parties are all that sucks the joy and life out of youthful exuberance. How you make me long for Threes Company vs. The Love Boat on Family Feud. How many people think Cleveland is an important American city? Survey Says?… zero.
Bored this weekend? 33 Minutes of Fail makes the time go quicker.
When hipsters tire of raising chickens, this happens. Maybe I won’t move to Portland after all.
What happens when irony stares in the mirror.
Okay, for all your hard work mocking ‘bags this week, here ya go:
For it is pensive and poetic for this summer Friday.
Purple Perry Hits on Hott Mom Cheryl at the PTA After-Party
C’mon, you always suspected that those boring, stodgy Parent-Teacher-Association meetings that your mom and dad used to go to on a Tuesday night in the gym at your school weren’t all about funding and after-school programs, right?
That’s because mom and dad never told you about the legendary PTA After-Parties.
I even heard that Mick and Keith once dropped into the Jefferson Elementary PTA After-Party in Decatur, Illinois one Tuesday back in ’78. They did blow with Mrs. Everly off a fold-out desk in the janitorial closet until 4am that night. It took the custodial staff three days to clean the puke stains out of the lunchroom rug after that shindig, I tell you.
Will.He.Isnt Macks on the Persian Hotts
I see you offering me Mayan Eye of Coitus, Persian Meadow Soprano.
I raise your coital eye play, and counter with Malaysian Hairy Chest Scratch and Burmp of Guy Who Just Ate a Bowl of Cheerios.
