Benzino and carly dating
I can’t count the number of times I intended on continuing a grope with a grind, only to accidentally slam down to the ground and end the being prosecuted for roofies.
The problem here is that grope is mapped to the same button as grind, and it can’t be changed.
All ye glorious ‘bag hunters and hott lusters of yesteryear, it’s been an entire ten sun circles since we first discovered the legendary Hottie/Douchey suburban Jerz High School melted orange Julius that was the Oompa Prompas. We cried like canaries in the fist pumping club mines, screaming our warnings of the toxic man-children of privilege raging, raging, against the dying of their birthright. Tuesday, August 8, 2017 Going through the ole’ HCw DB archives one day and I stumbled into an assortment of unholy steaming ferret load of a toad pimple from way back in the dark days of Hottie/Douchey defenestration in 2010.
We saw the signs of imminent decay all around us, fraying, shredding at all that we had built up in the latter decades of the twentieth century. There were stench art legends like Douche or Dali, The Leprechaun, Captain Jack Spackle, The Armpit of America, The Ass Pimples and Aqua Brunette, Tony with the Car Dealership, Night of the Living Bed-Head, Vince Vaughnbag, Queen Bee and the Power Chord, Willy Wanker, The Velvet Helmet, Cuisinart Carl, The Olive Loaf and Yellow Dress Hott, and the brilliantly named Thornton Mellon Stewie Head. HCw DB may be finished, but the mock will never die. And I still plan to see all of you when my genius is finally acknowledged at the HCw DB Art Show at the Guggenheim in 2023.
Do not dispair, fellow hotts, ‘bag hunters, and those that traverse the socially constructed gender binaries therein. But your humbs narrator is still kicking his ubiquitous red cup o’ Night Train, munching on tasty Hostess products whenever possible, raising two little HCs, and staring at the world cockeyed and bemused, or maybe more bleary eyed and vaguely nauseous. I don’t just mean this pic of Zach and his Bro, K-Whizz greasing up on Marissa as if her derriere is hosting a bake sale featuring a trenbolone sandwich. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads.
Those legendary crust warriors of Jersey Prom infamy live on today on internet search engines and in the hearts and stomachs of millions. Just as this humble website was reaching its ascendant heights in those halcyon days of the mid aughts, along came the crystalline distillation of all that had gone poo-licious in a rotting, fetid societal dump on the face of good taste and decorum. This simmering simpering simian shreds any sense of societal dignity and post-Nietzschean respek by pretending he doesn’t care about the very optic gaze for whom he seeks refractive corporeal validation. The Starblazer seeks sustenance The Starblazer orange-u-tans Kelly-Lynne’s tonsils And, going solo, the Starblazer wears zebra pants and poses like a crispy mirrored twigwaffle. It’s like an X-Games Windex gargle in the clogged arteries of life. I’ve been spending so much time practicing nerd chants in school cafeterias I haven’t been able to summon much strength to keep posts up these days. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society.
In 2002 Moore began her acting career starring in the title role in the movie “A Walk to Remember”. Currently plays a major role, Rebecca Pearson in the TV series “This Is Us”.
“Hot Chicks with Douchebags” calls for a complete and total shunning of all Trump voters from every aspect of respectable life. You are to be held in utter fucking contempt by all that value anything beyond the navel gaze. Frustrating moments pulled me out of my groove far too often.Wednesday, December 20, 2017 May you and yours cuddle by the fire and enjoy a hearty cup of Egg Noggin, or whatever it is the Christians are drinking these days. But I am not here to rant about the current angry, white Christo-douchepocalpyse that has taken hold in our country. No, not even the unholy Star Wars alien teat milk that is Crissmas Angel. We tried to warn the world of the dangers the Oompa Prompas represented. By not giving a canary fling, he flings his canary. An inversion of a mystery wrapped in a riddle, surrounded by Enigma, all not changing the delightful life force that is Kelly-Lynn after Pilates class. Saturday, June 10, 2017 Well hello there, ye fellow ‘bag hunters, hott enthusiasts, and lovers of the mock! I am honored, humbled, and filled with the tingliest of shmeg tickle to see that this ole’ web relic of the late aughts and early 10s still gets a little foot traffic in the age of internet Borg control and hive mind Chris Hardwick faux nerd blankness. Certainly not as we enter the political douchepocalypse that has enveloped. Thursday, March 16, 2017 You might presume that a faux tanned Ed Hardy disciple inappropriately cuddle-macking Svetlana is uberdouche precisely because of douche face. Even devoid of doucheface, Charles Von Cankersore retains a high degree of smelly poo. I expunge you with every ounce of my soul, my shmeg, and my spirit. And you are certainly not invited to my next birthday party. For this site would be a mere flicker in the darkness of the storm that soon must rage to restore a more balanced and equinimical world not only betwixt ‘bag and hott but human and fellow human. I am here to wish you a Happy Holidays, a Happy Hannukah, a Merry Christmas, and a Scientology Xenu Day. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. Megods, me-pantaloons, this buffonic douchetool chews scenery worse than Richard Crenna in First Blood. If, at any point, you found the hottie/douchey mock to entertain, enlighten, enrage, or another adjective that begins with “e,” I am grateful. Kinda hard to find joy in the assinine foibles and bad taste of youth dating when the world is toking a shmeg pipe filled with rat poop and pumpkin seed. Thus proving my theorem that even in the age of Trumpocalypse, douche aura permeates beyond the performative signifiers. Monday, January 16, 2017 What a flaming Slouvakian dumpster fire. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition. But I am not here to talk about our gawdawful present. And I am here to reminisce about a more playful era. But still keepin’ on as best I can in a world of too many Aryan crypto-Nazi movie stars named Chris and not nearly enough Madchen Amick. In four days a tangerine uvula will spittle across our collective national identity like an angry, castrated llama gnawing on a Jolly Rancher. You have given in to the dark forces of greasy pec butt fondle spikewank. But the time for mock has never been more important. It’s like a fourth grade purple nurple delivered by Timmy Flynn to poor Gavin Mac Garninkle mated with a greased up Arizona cactus and then that hybrid being vomited up a Poltergeist II tequila worm, only to see that purple cactus worm vomit hybridity coalesce into human form just to pinch Victoria’s tooter.
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All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future.