Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Muggles The Wank Bothers Penelope

My Kingdom and a Horse to anyone who can explain how that Holy Sand Trail formed on Penelope’s nethers.

Best theory wins a free Schrodinger Cat Kewpie Doll. Which may or may not arrive.

Cole Howitzer Stores Stuff on His Arm

The drink suckle purity of Next-Door Katie offers sweet spackle sunshines. I would do her Econ 101 homework dressed only in a Mumu and furry slippers in the hopes that she’d let me finish her half-drunken Diet Coke.

Diet Coke should never get drunken.

Nor should the DB1 eat too many snack cake treats before lunch.

What's More Horrifying Than Kisseus Vomitorius Mugging a Hottie Bar Wench?

Perhaps an arthritic porcupine.

Or maybe this guy (warning: pic NSFB)

Ask DB1: Pudwanks Who Salsa

——————–

Hi DB1,

– Douche ex Machina

——————

“Douchecreep.” I like it. Let us define it as the moment in which choadwankery moves into various subcultures in which it has no rightful place.

Like knitting.

And tiddlywinks.

And lets get some Pear Counterbalance all up in this shiznit.

And Then There's This Guy…

And lo, the Baby Tebus soiled his diapey.

For the Virginia Slims are tasty choice specimens of warm Southern hospitality.

And by warm Southern hospitality, I mean mostly one and two syllable words followed by Jaeger shots and cries of “Wooo y’all!!” Which, on the whole, is a fair deal by me.

Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Dr. Drew Pinksy

So after the fifth person to die after appearing on Dr. Drew’s exploitation gawkfest “Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew,” I think it’s time we honor this soft-voiced carnival charlatan with the heaping scorn that his fraudulence deserves.

Hucksters. Con men. From magic potions and pills of Ancient Greece to the leeching and bloodletting of a disease riddled rural wastelands throughout the Middle Ages, the need to sell reassurance in bottle or pill form will always be a cash cow. So long as we live in a mortal, dangerous world inhabited by the inevitability and existential crisis of decay, decline, and death, there will be Doctor Drews to sell us the wards and talismans to hide the inevitability that haunts the facts of the universal coil.

And where there’s fear, there’s profit.

Whether in issues of war, religion, patriotism or disease, the stern patriarch who reassures with soothing words of pseudo-wisdom and faux-care will earn his coin through the oldest huskterism outside of the prostitutorial arts.

And who is to say this isn’t an extension of the grand sex-for-food traditions in the rudimentary early culture job markets of yesteryore?

Sex. Death. Fear. Desire. And the profit to be found therein.

Enter Dr. Drew into our televisual carnival.

A small, vain man who began as a hacky sex advice dispensing straight-man on radio during the sleepfest that was the 1990s. Teaching kids about condoms on the radio offered the perfect veneer of cultural value, a way to cash in on the wasted medical degree that the ambitious Drew Pinsky somehow earned.

But talking body fluids wasn’t enough to sustain a role on the pop-culture fisheye. The 1990s gave way to the 2000s. Things began to get real. Dangerous. Dr. Phil and Oprah had the prime slots. Comedians like Jon Stewart were coming at him from the other side.

Pinksy had to up the ante. He had to begin playing the gray haired pop culture superego in the increasingly toxic climate of the 2000s.

And so enter the “rehab.” Our Beyond Thunderdome Truman Show of human misery.

Save the fat people for Biggest Loser and White Trash for the TLC Network. Doctor Drew had something else altogether. He had “authority.” And he was gonna use it.

That basest and choisest of exploitation formats sat waiting for him.

No one else with the courage to go full-rehab. Other reality shows only danced around the edges of the truly destructive and dangerous forces of nature that haunt the human soul. Other reality shows wouldn’t go where the carnival ends and the abyss begins.

Others were not as soulless as the good “Doctor” Drew Pinksy because others could not gloss over the subsequent shrapnel unleashed by exploiting the weakest and most damaged among us.

It was his for the having. The purest uncut 100% authentic freak show to be had under the false rubric of “help” and “advice” that only a medical “professional” could provide.

It was the perfect Coney Island gawkfest. For the truly hurting are the perfect carnival geeks of our time. Those willing to biting the proverbial heads off of our pop-culture chickens.

Doctor Drew could go all the way.

Not just funny train-wreck TV.

Destructive nihilism under the artifice of education.

And so Dr. Drew became our postmodern P.T. Barnum. A gray-haired charlatan cloaked in the papal robes of the only authority figure left in a Perez Hilton universe, the doctor.

Here was our Holy Sober Shaman spewing pat Deepak Chopran fortune cookie wisdoms like a machine-gun gumball machine stocked with the shredded pages of lost 1990s Susan Powter and John Gray business seminar notes.

So what if the body count rises after the gaffer tape is removed and the lights are de-rigged?

So what if the corpses that pile up litter the road of pop culture vanity mirror echo?

The program already aired, bub. No need to pay them any mind any more. What’s off-screen is virtual. Theoretical. Yesterday’s pixels. On to the next 30 minute segment.

And so this vampiric ghoul continues to suckle at the teat of mass culture profit the guise of “helping” and “caring” and wearing tiny glasses that validate his authorial presence.

But his riff is every bit the fraudulence of masquerade costume-ball dress up.

He is the shirtless guy in the horse-head mask that writhes and fist pumps during the second half of a Harlem Shake meme. A meaningless interlocutor. A signifier of some lost and mythic past pretending to stand outside of the very media machine that feeds his egomaniacal soul.

And so Drew Pinsky remains the lowest form of exploitation in our carnival empire because he pretends to be outside of it and above it while milking its most craven inner goo. His is the purest of fraudulence, and the most toxic. As the bodies pile up, it is also the most dangerous game in the reality rubric.

Driving without moral license on the televisual highway is akin to a spiritual D.U.I.

Taking those who need help the most and putting them on T.V. as emotion porn for a nation craving the authentic in the age of overstimulation is the most egregious of sins for any human being who claims to be in the business of healing.

Drew Pinksy is our worst form of snake-oil salesman. In a righteous universe he would not only be shunned, but tarred and feathered, then forced to perform the very kabuki dance of shame that he foisted on so many others under the guise of “helping” them.

Here’s your honorary Douchebag of the Month, assface. You are a fraud.

Venicio After Dark Smells Like Horse Spittle and Old Spice

Venicio may resent that his name sounds so much like Benzino, and for that he blames the author of this site, who has recently taken to drowning his creative frustrations in a potent mixture of woodgrain alcohol and olallieberry mead.

But like an idiotic Downton Abbey car crash dictated from upon high by the Gods of Bad Soap Writing, Venicio crashes through the bromides of inane plot convention and onward toward mediocrity.

Camille’s haunting cleavite offers euphoric dreams of sunshine meadows, harpsichordian dancing squirrels, and slavic booble suckle.

Reader Mail: The Story of Benzino

——————-

Hi DB1-

– The Benz Mocker

—————

Because ev-ery roseeeee tattoo has it’s douche…

Good work, B.M. And may all your stools be whole and fibrous. Like little Benzinos.

Venicio Blow Kiss To Camera, Yes?

Venicio like America very much. The women are divine! The food, not so much. Venicio had a plate of spaghetti yesterday from a Chef named Boyardee. It was not so good.

But that no matter.

For Venicio loves Camille as much as a newly dry-cleaned pink Polo t-shirt. She is tasty American woman.

And L.A. Looks hair product and Drakkar Noir both offer a wonderful scent to the air, yes? Like swimming off the coast of Corsica in the rain, yes?

Eurobags See What Happens When They Throw a Can of Axe Bodyspray in a Fireplace

They would douche 500 miles.