The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau: Ep. 3 The Sound of Dolphins Dying
You think you had some weirdos on your bus ride? Try my daily sojourn to the CNC shop, bitch.
I worked just up the street from a pallet manufacturer that was able to get tax exempt status by hiring nothing but ‘tards – sorry, “mentally handicapped ” ‘tards – and had to ride the same bus to work as them.
Forty minutes to and from downtown everyday having to listen to a mess of gimpy bike helmet-wearing half-wits yell children’s songs out of key at the top of their lungs while spitting their Cheerio peanut butter breath all over the side of my neck.
I swear if I ever hear anyone start belting out “The Wheels of the Bus Go ‘Round and ‘Round”, including my own kid, I will tear out their toenails with vise grips and staple their genitals to their gawdamn forehead.
Meanwhile, Ed Hardy bikini sportin’ Shoshana displays her wares for Chinstrap Jason, who exudes a deep spiritualism born of his own brand of disingenuous Catholicism. Shoshana has not been keeping up with current events, and knows nothing of Netanyau’s weakened position as the centrist Yesh Atid Party picked up 19 seats in the parliamentary elections over the weekend. She’s just digging this new concealer that makes her nose look more “petite” like her Caucasian friend Sandy’s.
No it doesn’t.
Off in the distance, oohs and ahs can be heard as Smallman John demonstrates his invisible “skills.” You wanna see some funny sheit? Go to Google images and search “people coughing”. It looks like a bunch of people giving BJs to invisible snausages.
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Two-Button Biff is…The ClubRubber
Yeah, we’ve all seen this guy out on the town. Two-Button Biff chicken-necking to whatever’s blasting through the house system, wending his way through the fleshy pit trolling for skank around the 1 am mark, after the first barrage of free drinks has softened up the moistened beachheads of Southern Pants.
Then…he spots his prey…moves in for the chill…after floating out a string of increasingly crass come-on lines without rebuff, it happens: The Suggestive Forearm Caress. Don’t do it, Amber!
Fast forward to the next morning…the drafty walk of shame after Amber abandons the futile search for her panties, which he had the presence of mind to stuff behind the head of the mattress on the floor of the spare room of a brah’s pad he’s crashing at until that kiosk job at the mall comes through again. He will, after being ejected by said brah for not pitching in on, well, anything, take the several soiled trophies he’s stuffed between the grimy wall and lumpy mattress and tack them up on the wall of his old room at Ma’s house.
Then T.B.B. will shellac himself with axe, button them two buttons…and steer the Hyundai towards The Club once more.
Monday Crisis. And AbaCrab.
DarkSock here at the helm again, with ominous news.
Our hairless leader, DB1, aka Jay Louis, lies in a coma.
He was found late last night surrounded by a halo of empty Night Train bottles and what appeared to be an empty footlocker once filled with hoarded Hostess™ treats such as Ho-Hos and Twinkies. His shiftless mass was buried under a translucent shroud of shucked snack food wrappers.
He now lies in state in a Los Angeles hospital in a diabetic coma. It is not clear if this was a drunken binge or an attempt to end the crushing despair following the collapse of the corn syrup giant that until recently spewed forth such tasty treats. Given that he posted the news of the downfall of Hostess as “The End Of Joy”, he is now on suicide watch.
Until we know more, we must carry on, wayward sons. With Mock.
Take for example the dongle in the adjacent photograph, whom I’ve named “AbaCrab”.
Six pound watch, gratuitous display of his torso, which has been shorn more hairless than a fetal pig’s belly, and of course the dangerously over-siliconed girlfriend exacting endless revenge on Daddy, who cared more for SportsCenter™ than her.
What say you, faithful readers? Dissect this crass display, as always, in the comments section. In the meantime I shall endeavor to tirelessly comb DB1’s filthy apartment in the hopes for some sort of sign, some tiny clue, as to where he has stashed his Vicodin™.
Oh…almost forgot…Gratuitous Pear.
Hot Russian Chicks with Too Much Time on Their Hands Make a Video
Das Uncle Vanya.
HCwDB Sails Onward….
From the peaks of fame and fortune, celebrity worship, and Hollywood a’callin’, to the ignominy of internet passe status, HCwDB moves through inter-life as a she-beast of nostalgic oasis.
For we are, after all, the oldest internet picture-mocking blog of them all.
Almost seven years old.
Which is 145 on the interwebs.
Like a pixeled dog-ratio.
Sure I could pull the plug on this site. Say “that’s all folks!” Mark it done.
But, I tells ya, I’m not going out proudly.
I’mma limp and whimper onward, ever onward, into fading irrelevancy.
Because that’s how I roll.
And because pear.
Friday Thoughts and Links
— Insert standard hookah/hooker joke here —
Nice hair, Vazquez. May all your tacos be taint.
So, yeah.
HCwDB’s rocky journey into the future continues. Bumps and crashes. Bumps and crashes.
Kinda like when I snuck into the Limelight as a teenager in NYC in the early 1990s and unsuccessfully hit on a sexy Long Island princess while “Groove is in the Heart” was spun by the DJ. Nothing worked right after that. I blame the bubble room.
Who the hell knows where the site goes in 2013. I sure don’t know.
Is it fun anymore? Is it funny?
Do actual blogs even have relevancy in a customized scrolling world of feeds and lists?
Sheeeiiiittt..
Wells, I can always drown my sorrows in some wood grain.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB Depressive DVD Pick of the Week: “Mommy? Why is Steve Guttenberg in this? I thought it was a drama?”
In Ole’ Miss, the URC races alone.
The Greatest Cotton Candy in the World.
Bagimi. No I don’t really get it either.
In groin-shaving news, Bikini Waxing Decreases Pubic Lice. So I got that going for me.
The Mayerbag is still trying to redeem himself. Still eternally damned to douche mock.
Okay. I got nothin’. So lets get to the goods:
Doughy but in all the right ways. Or perhaps Poppin’ Fresh?
Friday Haiku
Site was down again,
Because GoDaddy sucks ball,
Blue Lance Armstrong ball.
********
Vin wants a RealDoll™
Then he thought, “Hey! It’s cheaper
To rent than to own!”
mutant ethnic smurfs/em>
perform in caged parking lot
nobody watches
— creature
Getting banged by Douche
Is a real eye opener
Brown eye opener
— DoucheyWallnuts
Nickelodeon
test markets new Blue’s Clues show
Dora gets explored
— Magnum Douche P.I.
She has to wear blue
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
I don’t know if you’ve
ever heard of blue waffles.
This is how it starts.
— Bag Margera
The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau
Today I got full on blindsided by the flu, WHAM! And it seems to be centered around my colon. Yes, I have the usual eye splitting headache like a nasally ex-girlfriend who’s way into cosmetics and Real Housewives, feverish chills, crawling skin, and body aches coupled with the general grossness of feeling like I just got compacted in the back of a garbage truck…but the evil, evil things it’s creating in my ass is unequivocally other-worldly in its appearance, sound, and stench.
It started off innocently enough this morning with some gas and a normal-consistency poo that was so grand in its stature and voluminousness, that I had to raise my chair a notch after sitting back down at my desk afterwards. I was even forced to give the sucker a preventative breaking apart with the plunger to make sure it flushed all down without issue. The farting continued however, becoming increasingly noxious and violent, until it reached a fevered pitch and crescendo when I s#!t my pants. Before I could waddle back to the restroom, the fever set in, and I excused myself from work to go home and take a shower.
That shower has done me a whole hell of a lot of NO GOOD AT ALL, as I’ve been blowing chunky brown urine out my puckered starfish every fifteen minutes for the past five or six hours. Personal hygiene will have to take a backseat so that proper hydration can keep me from dying.
And so I hunched over my laptop with a cup of peppermint tea and a fist full of Imodium, and perused the interwebs in search of a picture with which to appropriately convey my sad, desperate physical state. This silly little Heineken-fueled suaré in the Lagoon of Caustic Ships seems appropriate enough, though it’s hard to tell through my blurred vision and the wrenching gut pain. Judging by the trees in the background, this floating get-together is taking place in a subtropical climate, no doubt on some swampy pollutant and microbe infested lake, half of which was spewed out my ass early this afternoon. Though bouncy-boobled gigging Tammy’s concave tummy is definitely worthy of some light paddling and a spackle rub-down, I have not the energy nor gastrointestinal stability to dedicate towards a well focused lusting.
I also can’t find it in me to initiate a sound mocking of Big-Shouldered Dave and his pancake nipples as they slowly engulf his persistently sagging moobs. Even Crawdad Dan there just isn’t inspiring me with enough disgust and scorn to make proper fun of his Sarah Palin sunglasses, complete lack of nipples, untanned belly crease and oh my GOD IN HEAVEN WHAT THE F@%K IS HE WEARING FOR SHORTS!?!?!?!?!?!
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy that he would wear $5 board shorts sold at the airbrush booth in the mall? If given no other alternative, I would rather wear the boxers I completely destroyed this morning on the outside of my pants while on a date with Julie Banderas than let anyone I know ever wear shorts like that.
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Where's Oily Groinshave Bohunk?
Somewhere in the gaggle of party bros and suburban slutty hotts, I’ve carefully hidden an Oily Groinshave Bohunk.
Look closely…
Can you smell the glove?
Fwippy McJohnson Goes Full Herpster, Scores Kelly
Looks like Sears had a sale on wrinkled herpster ties. Two for $9.99.
Kelly has the smirking attitude of suburban New England mixed with delightful boobie suckle leg chomp potential. For lo and hark!, Kelly is that rarest of New England woodland creatures: A hottie from rural Massachusetts.
