Pumpito Lives!
There is… only one… Pumpito.
Head Shop: Vinnie's life choices catch up with him
Vinnie stood silently in the line that started at the small, non-descript door not 15 people ahead of him and snaked long and thick around the corner of the brick building behind him.
It was a huge crowd, an impatient crowd. Like it was every Saturday night. Like every night. Cars drove by and the passengers within either stared in unabashed amazement or looked coldly ahead, as if blind to the spectacle stretching down the dark city sidewalk. Like they did every Saturday night. Like they did every night.
Vinnie bobbed his head back and forth slowly in an erratic pattern to the music thumping between his ears. His ripped denim pants were slung low revealing his underwear. His shirt was open to the waste exposing his sun bronzed skin that was tight and lean over his ab muscles. His sleeves were rolled down to hide his needle ravaged arms. Glimpses of poorly scrawled tattoos peeked out from his chest and shoulders as he wobbled back and forth.
The line shifted forward a few slow, agonizing steps as the man at the door motioned for a couple of women to go inside.
Vinnie craned his neck and swiveled his head at the sound of as a scuffle broking out somewhere behind him. Not everyone was as patient as Vinnie.
He came here every Saturday night. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with others.
He couldn’t call them friends. No, not friends. Just others that shared his interests, that shared his needs. They were all here for the same reason. Like a bizarre, Orwellian conveyor belt the line jerked to life again and Vinnie danced forward three more feet.
A few people ahead of him Nikki shuffled along with the rest. She pulled her jacket tightly around her rock hard, mostly exposed fake tits, shivering as much from the cold night air as from the nagging, desperate need for another fix. Her skirt was too short. Her heels too high. Her frayed stockings the fashion of the day. An hour earlier she had been in the ladies room of “Paragon” two blocks over throwing up what little food was in her stomach.
Nikki wasn’t making good choices and the beauty she’d been born with was rapidly fading to a hard, ravaged mockery of youth. She ignored all the men around her with practiced indifference while and shooting vicious daggers at all the other women in line.
If Bruce didn’t let her inside tonight she was more than ready to change the situation. The line moved again, Bruce counting heads as they rushed past him. The protests threatened to turn ugly when he stopped the line at a group of men. A cold stare from the experienced doorman calmed tempers quickly.
Again and again the line limped forward as more and more people passed greatfully within the familiar building that everyone recognized though it bore no signs of any kind. It was a building everyone liked to pretend wasn’t there.
Vinnie hoped he would get inside. Inside it was a different world. Inside was comfort. Inside was companionship. Inside was the chance to maybe even get laid. Inside was a world that so many people just didn’t understand. If he would have thought about it at all he would have decided that suited him just fine.
It was his world.
A world he’d maybe not been born to, but a world his choices had destined for him none the less. Many people had tried to make him change. Tried to make him see that he was making mistake after mistake. But he had never listened. Never wanted to listen. Vinnie bobbed his head erratically to the music thumping between his ears. He looked up as the shouts of frustration swelled at the front of the line.
“That’s it!” Bruce shouted down the crowd, “That’s it, no more room! You know the drill!” The line began to melt around Vinnie. Some protested, hurling insults and curses at the large black man. Others persisted, demanding entrance, pleading to be let in. But Bruce was practiced at his job and everyone knew it would do no good to beg.
Vinnie saw Nikki slink up to Bruce, her coat open, the cold night air and taught skin of her silicone pushing nips through the thin material of her top. Saw her hand glide across the front of his shirt, drift down over his belt. Saw Bruce half-smile and motion faintly with his head. Nikki squeezed Bruce’s arm and dashed past him on her too high heels, disappearing around the corner that shielded the employee parking lot.
“No more room!” Bruce yelled again. “Sorry folks. Find another place.” For the briefest moment the fog cleared in Vinnie’s mind and he saw himself for who he was and where his life had taken him.
But just as quickly as they dissipated the clouds closed back upon him. Vinnie stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to shuffle away with the rest of the homeless. He wouldn’t be sleeping at St. Vincent’s tonight.
Maybe there would be a couple beds available at the city shelter two stops up 17th. That is if they weren’t holding spaces just for people with kids. Like they did every Saturday night. Vinnie stuffed his hands into his pockets and began walking up the street.
His head bobbed erratically to the music thumping between his ears.
Friday Thoughts and Links
Remember when you were a kid and your mom would warn you about some van that was abducting kids from the playground using candy?
Here’s the douchepug equivalent.
Tempt the hotties with Vitamin Water, or various tasty cola products that only a Bra!! could approve of.
Drive to the beach.
Molest said hotties with various sundry lotions purchased through an on-line massage oil conglomerate.
At least that’s how Eddie, Manny, and Vincenzio roll.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB DVD Pick of the Week: “If it bends, it’s funny! If it breaks, it isn’t funny!”
The Pontiac Aztec is the new douchecar.
In need of some poetic imagery this weekend? The old grand palace movie theaters take on additional grandeur even as they decay.
Mmmm… stolen alpaca.
Isn’t this how the Tycho Brahe died?
Okay, nuff of that crap. Here’s ya go:
Na na na na na na na na na na na nana…
Not enough? Okay, have some:
In the Woods Fancy Car Doesn’t Make Sense Pear
That’ll do ya.
Friday Haiku
Jeb has stopped speeding
Since Jenny’s nightstick was crammed
In his monkey hole
Halloween outfit
Easy-Loving Cootch Dancer
Motor Boat Jenny
— Et Tu Douche?
Massive Mammaries
Make Meatheaded Manny’s Mouth
Maul her Maracas
— DoucheyWallnuts
The roofie goes in
her drink, not on your tongue you
insipid meatwad.
— UFO Destroyers
Some say more than a
handful is a waste of boob.
They are idiots.
— Douche Wayne
This is not her first
rodeo, but certainly
his first roady ho.
— Bag Margera
Hammocks For Sale!
Two for a dollar!
Just remember, Ashley. When they claim it’s a dollar, it might just be two dimes and a quarter.
The DB1 on a Thursday Morning
No, that’s not me in the picture.
If I were to get a giant tattoo on my Jewish ass it would feature only a giant bagel with lox on it taking a dump on the corpse of rotting Zombie Hitler.
Because that’s how Jewtatts roll.
That, or I’d get a tatt of Kelly’s bazongagongs as an ironic commentary on sexuality and patriarchy, causing gender confusion among our children for generations to come.
But I digress.
So. This morning. I woke up. Fell out of bed. Dragged a comb across my yadda yadda.
And for those of you who have ever dragged a comb across your yadda yadda, I don’t recommend it. You get the bristles stuck in the prickles!
Baddaboom!
Gold, Jerry. Gold.
I had some quality hot and squirty Donut Shop K-Cup action
Then I had nothing to do.
So I neutered my ferret.
No, not literally.
My actual ferret, “Mr. Pancho,” remains a virile and passionate lover.
No, by “neutered my ferret,” that’s actually an expression from the Victorian era that refers to the act of torturing street urchins who fail to chimney sweep in the proper counter-clockwise direction.
And on that non-sequitor, I head for more coffee.
Whaddaya want, brilliant prose? The site’s free, bub.
Wallnuts After Dark: Frank 'n The Boys
Legendary Douchebag Hunter and owner of this here site, DB1, asked me how Sinatra and the rest a the guys interacted with dames back in the day.
That’s a good question there, DB.
There obviously weren’t no textin’ or Internet or nothin’ like that, so the guys, for the most part, actually had ta talk to broads face to face.
Now some a the guys was real crude, but you’d be amazed by how so many dames was so star struck they’d respond to anything. Except to Rickles, as you all know by now.
One time when we was filmin’ “Ocean’s 11” Buddy Lester tole some broad he wanted to, “Drive his bike trew her mud puddle,” and she went for it! But Sinatra would never say somethin’ like that. He’d write somethin’ like, “You are the most darling creature that I have ever seen and I would love to meet you and get to know you.” Now he coulda been sayin’ somethin’ in Chinese or jibberish like, “Cockey moomen Hanukkah dreck,” and he still woulda got laid. But he enjoyed the seduction. Ya mean?
When he was done, he always treated dames right. Made ’em breakfast, brushed their hair, drove ’em home. That’s why you ain’t never heard a any stories from pissed off dames he banged. All the other guys would get jammed up from time to time and had ta scramble to cover their tracks. But not Frank. Not never.
I’ll tell ya, there’s nothing wrong with progress. Anyone who remembers when Hi-Fis was able to be in Stereo instead a Mono knows that progress is good. Do any a youse even know what Mono is, have you ever listened to music in Mono? Madonna mia!
Now that I think of it, I been readin’ about how vinyl records is comin’ back. I don’t know how I feel about that; records sounded good but it was a pain in the ass with the scratches and the needles and if your kids walked into the room and were jumpin’ around the friggin’ record could skip and God forbid you scratched the album and it would skip every time you played that tune. I remember buyin’ the Sinatra Live at the Sands with the Count Basie Band album and the first day I dropped the friggin’ needle on the record and made a scratch on the opening track, “Come Fly With Me,”and it ruined my week. I had to go out and lift another one.
Now me, I like the 8-track tape. I got the complete Sinatra collection on 8-track, baby. These babies can get runned over by a semi rig and not skip a beat. Of course, it sounds like you’re listenin’ to music trew a pillow.
The Twitter and the Facebook and that other thing that lets you post pictures and add comments to them, and all a the other societal media don’t make it no easier to meet and talk with dames, or anyone for that matter. People think these things represent progress and maybe in some sense they is progress, but is it really progress?
I know Dean never would a posted his spur a the moment thoughts on the Twitter or started a beef with another guy by sendin’ a Tweeter usin’ misspelled words, remoticons or whatever the fuck they’s called, and phrases like, “U suxxor, the Pack is 1337,” or “My last album pwned urs n00b! :))”
So maybe we weren’t as advanced with all a these gizmos and things, but we knew how to talk to people and how to treat ’em and weren’t hidin’ behind a cell phone or computer.
Julius McAsswipe Sails on a Boat, Wears Muscle Tee, Fondles His Step-sister
I haven’t been this disturbed about quasi-incest since this happened.
Frankie says, “Douchelax.”
The 80s called. They want people to stop saying that they called to make a point that your fashion is out of style since they didn’t actually call since a decade can’t actually operate a telephone.
Got nuthin’.
I need a coffee.
"No More Gynochin"
Numerous readers have written in and begged me to stop with the Gynocular douchetrocities that remind us of the dog days of 2011.
Nay, I say!
Nay!
Nay!
For we must witness!
That is our duty!
With a douche-jaw like that, and a bevy of hotties in tow, what else ya gotta do on a Wednesday? Don’t tell me you have a job.
Pshaw, said the cat.
Ask the Reverend
Q. Dear Reverend Chad, are Canadian chicks easier than American chicks? Pearce “Ma” Nipples III.
A. French Canadian girls are more promiscuous than American chicks cause they are all stoned and bi-sexual,Son. I don’t know personally about the American chicks cause my member was always well groomed by the chicks I rolled with and the sacred Mrs. Kroeger and Quebec teenage hookers I cheat on her with on the bias. Bobs. All chicks I grooved were drunk and stoned, cause that’s the way I rock. Son.
Q. Dear Reverend Chadster, what do you think about having relations with a girl in menses? In Canada? Wiping locations? Hugh Wypter
A. I always said, ‘ If a woman can’t stand the smell of ya from working to provide dinner for the family.. then that woman’s going out to work. Son
Q: Dear Reverend Chad, I got these two dead clowns I gotta get rid of. Antoniso Prano.
A: Dude. I’m not getting complicit. Watch the fifth season of Criminal Minds. And tanning fluids. From a tanner. Like lye and rotted dog urine. Not orange. A bit of HCL if ya got a bit by the pool.
