Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Thoughts and Links

Scarfwadius the III defines herspterism for 2013.

Betty Blue makes my loincloth swing through Tarzania on a super-vine of booble poke.

No idea what that means.

Okay, so the first week of group-posts was a bit chaotic. But hey, the regs brought something new to my otherwise redundant postings. HCwDB has to grow and change with the time. “Blogs” are so 2010. Or so Reddit tells me.

And until and unless I can invent a modal cross-platform aggregator of content, that’ll do, Pig, that’ll do.

Uhm, yeah.

It’ll figure itself out.

Here’s your links:

Your HCwDB optional kitchen appliance pick of the week: “Is that ice cream in your kitchen or are you just glad to see me?”

How’s Las Vegas keeping up with the recession? Now there’s a pool where the douche is R-Rated.

Are there douchebags in India? Yes thank you, come again. I hate myself for making that obvious joke.

It just got a little dusty in here.

PeeWee Football star A.J. McClean or whatever is dating a trending hottie and has a ridiculously douchey Jesus-bling tatt.

Bro-ba Fett for the win.

Uberhott Semitic pole vaulter Allison Stokke, once stalked by HCwDB’s own Mr. Biggs, is now his Twitter-friend. I like a story with a happy pearing.

And if you like stories with happy Pearings, I give you:

White Pearty

Thick and succulent. Enjoy your Friday, kids.

Reader Mail: Can't Be Anonymous Anymore Takes Umbrage

Can’t Be Anonymous Anymore reacts to the new posts in the comments threads:

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With all these wonderful changes around here McCrud anonymity is a thing of the past–now you have to provide a made up e-mail address too.

DB1, you’re f@#king up a good thing, but it’s yours, so good luck and godspeed. I think you’re worrying too much about what your career isn’t, rather than being appreciative of what you have. Don’t be a f@#king douche and forget where you came from. Kill it outright, or cultivate it–quick this half assed bullshit.

———–

If I had a chicken, I’d call it an octopus.

Friday Haiku

Blue hair, hot dog arms;

How can Saiko resist this

Oppa Gangnam Pile?

My pee-pee itches

From looking at this picture;

Cyber Clap is real

— DoucheyWallnuts

A lucrative job

At holding a sign by the

Freeway awaits him.

— Capt. James T. Douche

Aliens have come

They want our women; and dress

Based on Pokemon

— saulgoode42

How in the hell did

Traffic control road crew guy

sneak into the club?

— hermit

Parking valet that

thinks he’s a drift racer, hoons

cars that aren’t his.

— Douche Wayne

The King Eternal

Douches come and go.

The King spikes forever.

HEAD SHOP: EVEN DOUCHEBAGS MAKE REZO…RESA…RESI…SELF BETTER PROMISES

The dawn breaks on 2013 and like the rest of humanity, douche and bleeth alike wipe the sleep from their eyes, put crayon to peeled beer bottle label, and resolve to get better. Douche plan to get better jobs. Bleeth plan to give better jobs. They will become self reliant. They’ll hit the books as often as the gym. They’ll pay their parents back all the money they’ve frittered away. They’ll trade in their club passes for bus passes. Instead of spending their hard earned cash on tattoos and tanning creme they’ll donate it to worthy charities. What ever it takes, they will become better people. Respectable, caring, giving people.

Oh who the Hell are we kidding? We know what their sole resolution is this year. It’s the same one every year. That’s what makes them special. And by special I mean shovel worthy.

(To the tune of Queen’s “Somebody to Love”)

Can, anybody

Find me-ee-ee-eeeee,

Some pussy tooo, cruuuuuuuuuuuuush?

Each evening I go out and hit the clubs

Mac on every ho-bag I see

Take a look in the mirror and sigh

Lord who would wanna be me?

‘Cuz I’m tatted and fake baked with bald berries

It only hurts when I pee

Lord,

Somebody, Oooh Somebody, can anybody find me,

Some pussy to crush?

I work out

Every day day of my life

I ‘roid till I’ve got no bone

At the end of each set

I deep fry a whole turkey, it’s just for me

I get down on my knees and I praise my bros

Till the spooge runs down through my eyes oh!

Somebody, oh somebody, can anybody find me some pussy to crush?

[He pounds bleeth]

Everyday day

Cuz’ I lie and I cheat and I prey

But all the hotties turn me down

They say I’m psychopathic

Well they just drink water in the clubs

They got no rich step dad they got no trust fund cash stash to bleeeeeed.

Oh dude,

Somebody, somebody, anybody fine me,

Soooooooooome pussy to cruuuuuuuuush!?!?!?

I slip them roofies

Ev’ry time I buy them drinks

It’s ok, It’s alright

How else would I get me some pink?

It puts the lotion…on its skin

Or else it gets the hose, lord

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Find me some pussy to crush

Somebody Somebody Somebody Somebody

Somebody shoot me!

Somebody find me some pussy to crush

Can anybody find meeeeeeee

Some pussy toooooooooooooooooooo

cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush

Find me, some pussy tooooooo crush

Find me, some pussy toooooo crush

Find me, some pussy toooooo crush

Find me, some pussy toooooo crush

Find me, some pussy toooooo crush

Find me, some pussy toooooo crush

Any jump off anywhere, anybody find me some pussy to cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush

Find me find me find me.

Ask DB1: The Redemption of The Mayerbag?

FDD writes in over the holiday break with an important question:

——————–

Subject: When’s a Douche, Not a Douche?

SO, can a Douche redeem?, or can props be given to an otherwise Douche?,or is there really a Christmas (sorry) spirit that can defeat Douches for a short while?, or just WTF is going on?

—————

The Mayerbag could save a bus load of orphans from cascading toxic sludge while curing cancer using only zest from orange rinds and the acid residue after stomach pumping a half-drowned Rehab-soaked Lindsey Lohan, and there would still be zero freaking forgiveness for this infected ballsack’s scrotal sins.

Mayberbag is eternal ‘bag.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau – Episode 1: The Tragedy of Petty Officer Sal Man

The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau – Episode 1: The Tragedy of Petty Officer Sal Man

My Grandfather was a noble, powerful figure in my life growing up. As a humble and stern elderly gentleman and WWII vet, he helped define what it was to be a man for me. Though not muscular by today’s pumped-up/oiled-down standards, he continued to run 10 miles a day and practice Judo into his late 70s. Without a disparaging word or angered look, he could quickly subdue and snap a few wrists on some of these ‘roided up sissy boys that try and pass themselves off as male specimens that pollute our great nation nowadays.

But alas he was taken by Alzheimer’s back in ’89 (there was no physical ailment on earth that dared test his wirey 6 foot, 175 lb frame of calm and collected badassery). Once the Parkinson’s-like jitters started to set in, his over developed sense of stoicism forced him to just stop talking. For the last five years of his life he never said a goddamn word, rather than risk sounding like some stuttering six-year-old. Oh, he continued to run and practice Judo every day. Though he started getting lost more and more often, and several CNAs at his nursing home suffered broken wrists and scraped noses from his lighting quick takedowns. Eventually they just locked him in his room, and he sat in quiet solitude, reading books and magazines, never once requiring a bedpan, sponge bath or undressing. He died sitting in an easy chair with his glasses and shoes on, and a book of transmitter schematics in his lap. Like a f*%king man.

Which brings me (sort of) to pink-fleshed and fishy requisite Sal Man and his unearned dog tags.

My grandfather was enlisted in 1942 and quickly promoted to Master Sergent in the Army Signal Corps due to his education and knowledge of the miraculous technology of “amplitude and frequency modulation”. Radio for you laymen out there. One thing he hated more than anything in the armed forces were officers. “A bunch of self-righteous ignorant apple-polishers” he called them. He believed the enlisted man was an honorable man, though as dense a yokel you may find in the enlisted ranks, they earned their stripes by demonstrating quick thinking, bravery, leadership, and a strong work ethic under the most miserable and dangerous conditions that human endeavor could ever dream up. Officers on the other hand, went to school with the sole intent of joining up and sitting around at HQ pushing little toy soldiers around on a board while gently cupping each others’ balls. They wore dog tags just like the enlisted men, but they didn’t need them. Dog tags were meant as a means of identification after Fritz sends an 180 grain hunk of lead flying out from his pillbox at 2,800 fps that caves your face in and blows it out the back of your helmet.

Sal is no better than those officer types. If you don’t have a 1 in 3 chance of getting unrecognizably mauled by the machines of war, those dog tags are unearned buddy. Though at least officers have to pass a basic reading comprehension test.

Yet Kristie giggles at Sal’s irreverent sense of humor with his silly hat tilt and impression of a computer geek (“Ey yo…I play video games all day in my mom’s basement…DER!”). Was it worth spending half an hour that morning slutting yourself up with clear lip gloss, body glitter, and those obviously fake extensions for 7.7 minutes of Sal sweatily pumping away at your scorched crab pot?

F*%k my life.

Breaking: Billionaire Asspimple Thrown Out Of Sushi Restaurant for Being a Douchebag

From Forbes comes yet another reminder why we need an asspimple tax in this country:

————

Stewart Rahr, a New York pharmacy billionaire, just got banned from the celebrity sushi chain, Nobu.

Why? Well, apparently for a number of reasons. The fight started when billionaire Rahr (who sold Kinray to Cardinal Health for for $1.3 billion in 2010) made a scene at Nobu on 57th street when he found a group sitting at what he considered his table. The New York Post says Rahr called the Nobu manager some very nasty names. The Daily Mail claims he threatened to kill her.

—————-

An asspimple says what?

Asspimple.

Bob The Heaping Pile of Taint Has a Conversation with Ashley

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Yo.”

Ashley: “Hey.”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Dis DJ is off the chain!”

Ashley: “I love dubstep!”

(crickets)

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “(mumbling)”

Ashley: “Did you ask me if I wanted a butt plug prime?”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Bud Light Lime! I asked if you wanted a Bud Light Lime! Damn womin, fogets it.”

Ashley: “(giggling) sure!”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Fo’ realz?”

Ashley: “You’re treating me, right?”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Heellz yeah, girl! I treat you with my fine cash my moms gave me this morning!”

Ashley: “Sweet!”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Bud Light Lime gets all the bitches.”

(crickets)

Ashey: “So… you wanna go get it now?”

Bob the Heaping Pile of Taint: “Can I borrow ten bucks?”

And… scene.

Wallnuts After Dark

Welcome to the first installment a my new feature here on HCWDB, “Wallnuts After Dark.” I figures since I gave Hef the idea for his show back in the 50s, and the title for it that he didn’t use 10 years later, I might as well use it now since he ain’t.

So anyways, I’ll be usin’ this regular feature here to tell stories from back in the day, give my thoughts on how things have progressed over the years, and tellin ya about what we drank, what we wore, how we was, and how all a that differs from what’s goin’ on now.

Bein’ I’m a raconteur, I have some great stories for ya.

So, speakin’ a Hef, there was no guy who worked harder to “class up the joint,” as we used to say. Class, that’s one a them things that’s missin’ today. When you get some time, check out Sammy on this here video from Hef’s first show, “Playboy’s Penthouse”

Now, I was flippin’ through the channels the other night and I came across that benefit concert they had for the victims a that f@#kin’ hurricane we had back there in October. Now, on the good side, these organizers or promoters a today are real civic minded, you see. They got this thing together licketty-split and got all a the big names to pitch in, even the ugly, too-old British guys.

Now I make fun a the old Brits but back in my day, the boys never would a gotten together to pass the hat for a bunch of unfortunates. No way, not never. Sure Frank ponied up with cash and gave tons a dough to hospitals and for sick kids and all kinds a stuff like that, and some a the gang was generous to charities and whatnot. But a free concert? Never would a happend.

So I was watchin’ that Who group, or whatever the f@#k they’re called, and I’m rememberin’ them from when they was young punks and had that wild kid playin’ the drums and they would wreck hotel rooms and trow TVs off a balconies into the swimmin’ pool, and I says to myself, “Wallnuts,” I says, “these guys finally growed up.”

One time Frank, Buddy Rich and I got went to go see these kids play at the Whisky-a-Go-Go. Frank and Buddy would sneak in the side door and watch these new rock acts from where nobody could see them, and then talk to the guys after the show. Frank and Buddy hit it off with the Daltry kid and the drummer, and got these young kids blowed by some real dames.

These Who fellas had been boning every dirty, hairy hippy chick groupie they could shake their joints at, but after Frank and Buddy got them dames who was all shaved up down below, they startin’ demandin’ these groupie broads clean up their Snappers.  Clean up their Snappers, I says. They used to come to watch Frank and the guys, but they kept it real quite-like so their fans wouldn’t think they was squares.

Back to the other night. After Who finished this other guy called Kanton West or some f@#kin’ thing, comes on stage wearin’ a skirt and starts with this jibberish that ain’t even rap and certainly ain’t no kind a music. I mean I like the Sugar Hill Gang, Kurtis Blow, LL Cool J, Run DMV, De La Soul, Snoop and those white Jew kids the Beastly Boys or whatever the f@#k they’s called, and some a these other young talents who create stuff that sounds like music, but this was just a cacophony.

Cacophony, I says.

Which brought me back to thinkin’ about Sammy and how he could mesmerize a room full a people whether there was 20 or 20,000 people, no matter what color they was. Somebody needs to tell that Kenyon West character to take a powder. Don’t no one need to hear that. Am I right when I say that? God forbid someone tells this jamoke he’s piss-poor and needs to cheese it. This Mo-mo carryin’ like this is an insult to all a the other class acts out there who is actually good.

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