Props to the 'Sock!!
I’m back, bitches!! Walkabout: enlightening like a Don Draper doorway. Tasty HoHos?: Consumed. Alcoholism: like a rusty steak knife cutting through a well aged steak.
Props to the great DarkSock (not pictured) for a week well handled in driving the ole’ HCwDB bus.
This deserves an 80s Slow clap.
And, of course, an image of an unholy rockerscrote mugging a sweet poodle pooch hottie globble fondle.
Also, I think I finally fixed the damn mysterious bug that was crashing the site everyday. Who knows? I’m holding this leaky ship together with duct tape and spittle at this point. But we may be operating at 100% again.
So I got that going for me.
Sunday Movie: Adventures in a dark room with an ectomorph
Now try to sleep tonight.
Wallnuts After Dark – James Bond
Ay Jabrone!! I can’t believe it’s been over five deuces since the first Jimmy Bond flick hit the picture shows.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Jimmy B in action. That “Dr No” picture that all the jabroulis were goin’ on about.
I was giggin’ backstage support at the Latin Quarter in Times Square when one a the house band, a guy by the name a Sammy Bidner, comes up to me and he says, “Wallnuts?” he says, “Ya gotta come over to the Paramount and see this friggin’ movie! Theys got a secret agent and a blonde dame wearin’ the smallest bathin’ suit I ever seen!”
And by working backstage support, I mean I made sure the showgirls were accessible to the high-end gamblers that frequented the underground gambling rooms upstairs and collected the kickbacks the club paid to the Gambinos.
Anyways, I ducked out a the Steve and Edie warm-up for Frank’s gig and sat there mesmerized by the blonde Swedish chick with them big knockers in the skimpy suit with a knife in a thigh holster.
The movie was so good I missed Sinatra’s whole set. Madon!
When I tole ole’ Frank about it he had the projectionist run the whole flick for him at 3am after a gig one night.
That Sean Connery was our favorite. Until then we mostly thought Brits were Finnochs and never bought the tough guy image they portrayed in them war films. But Connery changed all a that. He was the real deal. Later on we got to know him and he hung out wit us.
When they was makin that “Diamonds or Forever” flick, they filmed some a the scenes in Vegas and Frank and Dean and the rest a the Pack were always on the set. Frank was pushin’ to play the part a one a the gangsters who tries to rough up Bond, but the producers said no. So instead Frank banged Jill St.John so silly she missed two days a shootin’. So did me and Dean. Silly, I says.
Connery loved the guys so much Frank got him to go on a hit with a couple of Giancana’s goons and he helped them dig the hole in the desert where the buried the skell. He wore his Tux an everything.
That was Connery’s last Bond picture and then it was that Richard Moore character who was a lot more like the Finnochy Brits that we had come to make fun of and disrespect. He had a good run though and then they hired the next guy who was a total pansy and almost ruined the character.
These new Bonds ain’t worth tree clams. Tree clams, I says. And this new Bond guy is ugly like that dog that Budweiser used to use in its commercials. Not my cup of Sambuca, if you catch my drift.
Are you not entertained?
And in spite of continued National Revulsion at the Jersey Shore clowns…the shorties still flock to Fecal Giblets like Pauly D, who has leveraged his stint on that video tool shed into and endless series of button-pushing gigs playing shite music off of his iPhone. This is why we fight.
Discuss.
Okay…we also fight for this.
And this.
And this.
Friday thoughts and links
As I author this week’s Thoughts and Links from my thinking loft at Sock Manor, it appears to me that Pointy Pointdexter here either is trying to literally make a point, or he’s waiting for that booger to dry up and flake off. Either way, Terri Tautness stands by his side, giddy with glee and oblivious to this sentient poo that aims to brown her supple loins with his ruddy baggery.
This is why we fight. Tune in for the Saturday edition for another reason why we fight.
Here’s your Friday Links, Son:
Mid-Century illustrator Art Frahm, who toiled away in obscurity in the 50’s, knew only two things: drawing dames with great gams, and the destructive effects of celery on the elastic waistbands of female panties. Even super-heroine’s squirrel covers.
I am lobbying DB1 for space in his forthcoming 2023 Guggenheim exhibit for some of my own work. I mounted a horse once.
Sure, you all knew that your daily visits to this site gives you 100% of the USDA recommended levels of revulsion and Renob…but did you know this site could help you live an additional 4 years via staring longingly at boobies? Just don’t stare at jogging boobies or you’ll wind up like this guy.
Here’s the perfect gift for that Broheim in your life who has less chest hair than a fetal pig: Now he can instantly look like real men. Or Ron Jeremy. Especially if you ever rip it…
Speaking of Furry Things, did you ever want to process your own unicorn meat? Well now you can. First, you loosen the bung. It’s not as easy as it looks. Ummm…this is kind of harsh; boy that escalated quickly.
Forget all that. You’re not here for Furries and Unicorn meat (except possibly Goolo); you’re here for Pear. Very well:
You Really Have To Hand It To Her Pear
Them’s your links. Tune in this weekend for gratuitous pear; enough to extend your life 8 years.
Friday Haiku
Get your hands off her
You iPhone becrotched Tarzan;
You damn dirty ape
Father-daughter theme
dances: an invitation
into discomfort.
— Douche Wayne
Hot Hall Contender
Please tell me that’s your gay friend
Who’d like us to meet
— saulgoode42
Underboob beckons
Myan Eye of Coitus shines
My banana splits
— Mr. ScrotatoHead
If I wore loin cloth
My Indian name would be
Chief Raging renoB
— DoucheyWallnuts
Like a Bonobo
I would present my red ass
To father her chimps
— Mr. ScrotatoHead
Tarzan dumped Cheetah
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Friday Challenge: Whose Urine Sample Is It?
Can you determine who belongs to the fresh urine sample seen in the lower right corner of this mimeograph? Discuss in the comments section, as always.
She brings the “H” in “HCwDB.com”…
I’d pee in her pool. Just sayin’.
WTF Thursday
Well.
Something’s going on here.
I have no idea what it is.
If you think you know, hold forth in the comments section. I’ll post the most rational explanation(s) on the front page once I sober up from the bender this image caused. Assuming it’s PG-13. So there’s a fighting chance I can’t post nothin’.
*********
Almost 30 comments, and this is the only PG-13 candidate I can post on the front page. I’m so proud of the regs. Wretches!
Wheezer said…
This, not cancer, killed Roger Ebert.
Douche/Nottadouche and uber-hot Tina Tatas
Plaid Pants Pete here may be on the cusp of doucheness; he may not be. But I figured I’d change the direction of the last couple of posts and turn down the douche-meter, and twist the Hott-Knob up to damn near 10.
Is P.P. Pete a douche?
Should he get a notta and go in peace?
Am I simply looking for an excuse to put a smoking hot girl on the front page?
More evidence for Tina Tata’s inevitable nomination for Hall o’ Hot can be viewed here, and here.
Son.
The 12 inch pimps make a point
Yo. 12″ pimps.
Medical FACT:
It takes more than one of them to reach that 12 inches.
Per this photograph…they’re still two pimps short.
