Mellonhead Wong Offers Redundant Point
Okay, I’m probably being a little harsh making fun of Mellonhead Wong’s mellon head. After all, he’s not so douchey. Kinda okay. Borderline nottadouche and goinpeace.
But as Hashem offers us mere mortals the path to spiritual Halakhic enlightenment via Kim’s Belly Button Dangle Thingy (BBDT), I am not one to quibble.
Gettin' Back in the Mockin' Spirit
Because if you can’t mock greased up jackbags and oggle party hotts on a daily blog, then the terrorists have no uvula.
Patriots Day in Boston
Hard to fully express just how important Patriots Day is in Boston. Having grown up in Brookline, my memories of the marathon were like an annual marker of seasonal change. A time when the whole city gussies itself up and prepares to look good for our much bigger neighbors. Like when you’re forced to wear that tux in the back of your closet every year for a family event.
The city takes off the work boots and baseball caps and puts on its proverbial tux. The eyes of the world all shift to the city that birthed the modern marathon.
This is why Patriots Day is a distinctly New England form of transformative marker. It signifies the unofficial start of spring, yes, but also the end of the six months of ass-freezing shite that defines life as a Bostonian. When the running shoes and short shorts are careening down Boylston Street by the thousands, the snowy-ass assitude of life as a Boston denizen is finally taking a turn for the better.
Those ass-chafing winters have finally given up the frozen ghost. Forced to release their icicle grip on our collective nethers.
Sex lives put in storage for six months finally begin to heat up. The crisp air is just starting to turn warm. Flower scented. The collegiate boobie hotties tentatively bust out their mini-dresses for the first time.
It is renewal.
Baseball has started up again.
The Charles River no longer has ice floes on it.
College kids all over Cambridge, Boston and Brookline are finishing up their classes and preparing to search for summer jobs scooping ice cream or maybe that dream job at Newbury Comics will finally come through.
And there’s the marathon to usher in the change.
Boston will recover.
But it still feels like a rending of something sacred.
I was in the East Village on 9/11 and saw the second plane hit from my rooftop. So I’ve been up close with this sort of thing before.
It is awful. But it is not permanent. Recovery and healing will come.
Thoughts and Prayers with the People of my Hometown of Boston
Too depressed to mock douchebags right now. Thoughts and prayers that this isn’t as horrific as it appears right now.
Where's Creepy Hal?
How’s about a lil’ Where’s Waldouche for your Monday morning?
Somewhere in this pic of barely legal woo hotties with daddy issues and an affinity for singing late night off-key renditions of that Taylor Swift song about sitting in the bleachers, I’ve carefully hidden a Creepy Hal Waldouche.
Look closely.
Can you grow annoyed at his ruining of sapphic harmonance?
Like Hand Gestures For Hot Chicks
Got a lotta posts in the post-hamper ready for a week of mock here at the ole’ HCwDB, your friend through good times and extended economic recessions.
Like this one. Snarl Stu runs with the Goose with proverbial post-recession posthaste postulation.
Posthumously.
Celebrity HCwDB: Avery Levine Tells Peter O'Toole About Marrying the Nickelbag
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In a related story… wait, nothing is related to this tripe.
I apologize for posting this, but for matching HCwDB Douche Tattoo stories, it is relevant to the thematic point of this blog. And therefore we must witness Avery Levine.
Wallnuts After Dark – What's With All A The Gay Stuff?
Ya know, you can’t go nowheres anymore witout seein’ somethin’ about the gays. Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t got nothin’ against any gays, broads or guys. Especially broads. Na mean?
But seriously, as my Uncle Patsy would say, “Enough’s enough.”
And it don’t mean I gotta bug up my keister for the gays. Hey, if you’re a guy and you get all warm and tingly-like by the site a another guy’s hairy Gugutz, “Va Bene,” I says. Gugutz, I says.
Chicks diggin’ chicks and guys diggin’ guys has been goin’ on since the Greeks invented civilization and all a that other stuff they did there in the ancient times with all a that mythodology, or whatever the f@#k they called it, with them Gods that all looked like Finnochs anyways.
And them Old Time Guineas in Ancient Rome was all into that stuff that we saw in that movie made by the Penthouse Magazine guy about that ruler that had them big sex parties, where he fisted in a horse’s butt once, and all kinds a other crazy boffin’ nonsense. Boffin’ nonsense, I says.
If there’s an NFL guy that’s a gay, who am I, or any of us, to bust his friggin’ culones? As long as he plays hard. And I’m sure he will.
To each his own, as my Aunt Ro-Ro used to say.
I knew this hit man, Frankie the Finnoch we called him, who was as tough as any guy ever. He was a gay. We didn’t mean nothin’ by callin’ him “the Finnoch.” We just had so many damn Frankies it was easier to call him Frankie the Finnooch. He didn’t care none. Hell, he was Sam Giancana’s favorite hitter, and was Sam’s grandson’s godfather. Hand to God.
Them gays who make a big to-do about gettin’ married are just as pazzo as the other jamokes who don’t want gays to get married. And don’t get me started on the politicians, they don’t give 2 Fazools about none a us. But that’s a cannoli to eat another time.
Marriage pretty much sucks. If the gays want to ruin their lives, let ’em. Some a them lesbian babes shoulda had the chance to talk to Liz Taylor about it. Lana Turner was another skirt who coulda talked some sense into these gay chicks. She said she wanted to be married an have 7 kids and instead she was married 7 times and had one kid, who wound up stabbin’ than Stomapnato Mo-Mo, by the way.
And some a them homosexual fellas – is that an okay name to call ’em? – shoulda talked to Dick Burton or Artie Shaw. They kept gettin’ married and kept gettin’ divorced. And how about half a all a the married people who is friggin’ miserable bein’ married?
Them gays is always tellin’ us how great they have it, yet they wanna go and get hitched, so they can be just like the straights? That don’t make no sense. Madonna Mia! I’ll tells ya, if the anti-gay folks wanna stick it to the gays, they should just let ’em all get married. That’ll fix their wagon!
So as the pointed ear guy Spock from that space show in the 60s said once to another one a his pointy ear buddies, “After a time you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting.” Or some shit like that. Now I says, be careful what you wish for ‘cuz you might just get it.
Friday Thoughts and Links
Didja hear the one about the Bald Asian Guy Obsessed with Black Culture, the Hot Bar Wench and the skinny bottle of Champagne?
You haven’t?!?
Okay, so a Bald Asian Guy Obsessed with Black Culture and a Hot Bar Wench walk into a bar. So they say to the Bartender, “Hey Bartender! Give us a skinny bottle of your best skinny champagne!”
And the bartender goes, “Okay.”
And the bartender gives them two bottles of skinny champagne.
Here’s yer links:
Your HCwDB Historical Text-Book of the Week: The Reign of the Phallus: Sexual Politics in Ancient Athens
Douchebags begin to experience regret in the form of skin removal techniques.
Okay kids, time to play another round of Greatest… Headlines… In… History. And… we have a winner.
Poop in space gives new meaning to the overused term, “Floating Frozen Feces Orbiting a Planet.” What, you don’t use that term in everyday conversation? Where do you hang out?
Okay, screw all this links. Lets get to it:
Not good enough? Okay:
Like a summer breeze. Wait, what?
Friday Haiku
“You wanna screw for
that nut?”, Todd joked…No, but she’ll
Screw for an iPad.
STD spreaders
public funds pay for your fun
which way to clinic
— Bag em, Tag em
He puts the screw in
The basket without a wrench
The Purple Flesh Wrench
— DoucheyWallnuts
For copulation
Needs WD-40
And a screwdriver
— DoucheyWallnuts
This coupling won’t work,
Unless he’s on the bottom,
And she’s a spinner.
— hermit
His hair turned to snakes
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Sometimes she feels like
A nut. Sometimes she don’t. I’d
Chew her Almond Joy.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
