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What a flaming Slouvakian dumpster fire. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads. In four days a tangerine uvula will spittle across our collective national identity like an angry, castrated llama gnawing on a Jolly Rancher. You are a human Zika virus.
A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. Every pixel hot to pick up a girl your online presence, hot to pick up a girl. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined.
I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. I expunge you adult login every ounce of my soul, my shmeg, and my spirit. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition. You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society.
And you are certainly not invited to my next birthday party. And that party will be awesome. It will contain real people. It will have cheese dip. And tasty Hostess treats. And people with actual souls. From Socrates to Billy Ocean. The collective progress of Humankind, hot to pick up a girl.
Of which you are no longer a member. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race.
But not just any douche. We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. You are not merely standard issue douche. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. You are a new form of pimple lick. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, hot to pick up a girl, each a differing shade of fecal brown.
The collective effect is one of patchwork shite. To name you a single feces is to do a disservice to the many sphincters and colons that collectively excreted the various elements that make up your kaleidoscopic dung discharge.
As such, we are at an impasse. For there are not enough neologisms to express my contempt for your retched life choices that you exemplify, occupy, taint, or otherwise smear with the vile spittle that pours forth like mildewy Mountain Dew from your scaly manure-built form.
But you are patchwork waste. The product of a thousand poops personified in one giant humanoid flush. You just wanted a tax break. You wanted a certain kind of Supreme Court justice or just thought it would be hi-larious to mix it up by voting for an orange simian rhesus hemorrhoid. And even if the memories of those savory square burgers still haunts its myopic walls. Once you pulled the lever for a preening con-man sexual abuser, you exemplified the narcissistic diuretic spew of that most craven core embodiment of American Douchebaggery.
For what is a douchebag if not you? Douches ignore the larger world in favor of the narcissistic self. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And so is the Trump vote.
And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you. You sorry, pathetic milk teat on the taint of a toad. You never shaved your chest but voted for Trump?
I hereby micturate on your rug for all eternity. Because you live in the age of infinite, accessible information laying at your fingertips. And yet you chose ignorance and hysteria over consciousness and thought. And you chose the Great Orange Darkness. You are to be held in utter fucking contempt by all that value anything beyond the navel gaze. All that value the notion of humanity above primal animal urges and violent impulses of the jungle. To the millions of us on the side of righteousness, I call on you to join me.
Participate in this collective shunning of those that deserve nothing but shun. De-friend any Trumpdouches in your midst. They do not deserve reasoning.
They do not deserve negotiation. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek. Christian Audigier and Ed Hardy are dead now. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on. The faux tribal tattoo on the bicep of humanity. They deserve to be scrubbed off and flushed down the toilet as soon as possible. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. This is our next challenge.
This is a war. And do not go weak kneed simply because a meat-sack in human form resembles an actual human when justifying their Faustian bargain. View them for what they are. Condemn them for failing to be what could so easily have been theirs. A world of knowledge. And so the nightmare is real.
Like some crusty psychological remnant from the deepest darkest orbs of the inner ear crawling outward, Trek II style, to reveal itself. The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeanceto suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful. Ten years ago I started Hot Chicks with Douchebags to mock the accelerated development of exaggerated hyper-masculinity.
Faced with scrambling of traditional gender roles and a growing multicultural world, I watched in horror as young, suburban white men of privilege were rendered apathetic and clueless by self-indulgent crap parenting, too much disposable income, and an ethos of amoral narcissism.
The pleasures of Cheetos and Chill polluted and infected the mind, replaced by primal sexual urges masquerading as identity. I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Like beads of sweat underneath a spray-tan rain. It had to be mocked. As Foucault taught us, only humiliation can break through the constructed prism of false consciousness and really stupid doucheface. You elected to join me. And for years, there was push-back. Their con was absurdist theater and brand name spectacle.
Their hot to pick up a girl were their stage. From unholy groin tendons to sheeny shades of orange to inflatable cloud-men that barely look human to stupid tatts and sideways neck-glassesthe stench of modern douchebaggery was a product of the digital media carnival, hot to pick up a girl.
Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. Proof of natural selection. Evidence of self worth. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. Surreal efforts and externalization of value hot to pick up a girl previously privileged suburban masculinity had undertaken to make up for their loss of assumed cultural birthright.
And then the douchebags struck back. Their primal scream took collective form. How to bring a woman to bed here we stand. As witness to the victorious summoning of their most absurdist douche Svengali. We thought he was a crimson turd born from reality television and cartoonish lunacy. A silly-string piece of pop culture flotsam.
And yet it happened. Turns out it was but one small step from fist pumping Vegas Red Bull choadwanks to a festering global implosion led by an orange rhesus monkey. And so here we are. The douchebags are triumphant.
An amoral, whiny man-child fascist clown has become their King. There are a disappointing number of design and technical problems that range from inappropriate burping to flat-out untreatable STDs, making this attempt at returning the series to glory a non-starter. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.
Frustrating moments pulled me out of my groove far too often. This puke-onymous genetic hybrid splicing is equal parts generic model dude from Sex and the City, the overly constructed pseudo-outrageousness of overpaid hack screenwriter and post-Nerdist nepotist-beneficiary douchewank Max Landisand the neo-pointilist postmodern abstract art of Jon Thompson. Okay then, how about Douche Baby? Or Douche Fanny Pack? Ah yes, classic action movies.
When men were men. And racist stereotypes served as delightful comic relief. The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not? A moment that bridges the divide. An experience writ communal through the bonds of empathy, communication, and tasty snack cake products made by underpaid and unamused assembly line workers.
Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality, hot to pick up a girl. And so I give you Shmegma McWankpuddle commingling holistically with Pert Clarissa. For within this toxic cohabit, each of us can experience a communal revulsion.
Her soft talcum booty sullied by tatted up upchuckery. Together, it becomes a collective illogic beyond comprehension. But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. For if you and I can both comprehend this neon titty twister of inanity then surely there is shared experience in this dark journey of life. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis.
For the stench of hair spike semi-employed wank-tool pawing pooch suckle thigh innocence rends the power chords, riffs into dissonance, and transcends into the sublime. And by sublime, I mean Billy from St. As if millions of Coachella Snapchats cried out at once and were suddenly silenced.
This skeezy hairstrosity must not stand. And by stand, I mean allowed to carry an iPhone and almond milk in the same hand. Why hast thou forsaken the mock? I have forsaken the mock to pursue other pursuits. This is a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a Travis Barker.
Or John McCain died in vain. Nor that that foot is not me. Because two negatives make a positive. They have the palsy. And because, hey, free hot wings. But Krista smiles politely anyway.
Like Homer Simpson when he met the Smashing Pumpkins. Email to learn more. Ass Not What Your Country Can Do For You. Jasmina from The Four Horsemen of the Douchepocalypse. Arielle from the Fratbrosephus Bros.
Europeans, Teenagers and Shoe Polish. She Still Loves Me. There Can Be Only One Pumpy. The greatest gift you could ever give a friend or a loved one. The Reverend Chad Kroeger. I R A Darth Aggie. Hot women in public the Douche Sprocket. Hot Chicks With Douche Bags. You have given in to the dark forces of greasy pec butt fondle spikewank. HCwDB may be no more. But the time for mock has never been more free gay local sex. The Shunning of the Trump Voter.
You hot to pick up a girl for Trump? You deserve no forgiveness. You deserve no retrial. You are hereby cast out. You appear as human. There is only one course of action left. They rejected the modern world. Categories: HCwDBThoughts and LinksWalkabout. All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future. For ten years, I thought we were winning the war. And so enter President Orange Buffoon. That was five years ago. Boy howdy were we wrong. The douchebags have won.
We did not mock hard enough. Categories: portalfinanciero.info then he woke up. Categories: HawkHCwDB. Categories: EurobagEvil Yellow Sunball. Politics Got You Down? Shmegma McWankpuddle and Clarissa Might Have Your Cure. Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives?
You are not alone. Take solace, my friends. And so here it is. My humble offering of digital solace. Categories: HCwDBTechnicolor Douche.
Which is to say a unique amalgam of improvisational choadnuttery. Which is to say, not. This is our world. Wait, what was I saying? DJ Hand Palzee Rocks Au Pair Krista. Sometimes Sammy Markowitz needs a break from his middle management job at Glen Cove Key Foods. And so, on this Tuesday, Sammy gets lucky. And all is copacetic in friend seeking sites echo chambers of suburban youth confusion.
Email to learn more Closet of Poo. Mooby Dick Purg Hottie. Bill Hicks Hall of Mock.