‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy. ** 1/2 Friday, August 12, 2016 Completing my half-assed, mailed in, one-post-a-month “Shmegma” trilogy here at Hot Chicks with Douchebags, please enjoy this creepy emo tattmodel scrotechoad using alien superpowers to drain the purity of Victoria’s dropped-out-of-Bennington-just-moved-to-the-city-like-OMG soul. And racist stereotypes served as delightful comic relief. Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives? The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not? But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality. 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. Shove it up your ass like a week old slurpee stained dumpster outside a 7-11 in Sheboygan. 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. Douches ignore the larger world in favor of the narcissistic self. Participate in this collective shunning of those that deserve nothing but shun. Far too often, I witnessed my character pass through academia instead of slamming into it, fly straight up into the air as though he’d stepped on a French midget named Herve, or fall on the ground for no apparent reason. For this strange odyssey we call 2016 can at least be ameliorated by the shared experience. Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. J’d for Jay-Z by playing the Beatles’ Blue Jay Way. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis. Friday, June 17, 2016 If toxic hottie/doucheybaggery were jazz, this would be Billie Holliday’s first performance of “Strange Fruit” crossed with Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” and finished off by a Django Reinhardt flamenco riff. Furry mustachio twipples wander our post-‘bag landscape like so many brain eating culture zombies. After years of Hottie/Douchey deconstruction I have headed out on other vision quests. He calls himself ‘DJ Hand PAlzee.’ Because his hands.
The problem here is that grope is mapped to the same button as grind, and it can’t be changed.
Surreal efforts and externalization of value that previously privileged suburban masculinity had undertaken to make up for their loss of assumed cultural birthright. For example, the one major addition to your arsenal is a physically impossible grope move that sends your ‘bagger rocketing down to the hotts at the press of a button.
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. Sometimes Sammy Markowitz needs a break from his middle management job at Glen Cove Key Foods. Sammy’s just finished spinning a song by the Weeknd.
But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. Maybe he’ll get lucky and meet one of those wayward European au pairs being exploited by upper middle class Port Washington two income families under the guise of ‘education internships.’ And so, on this Tuesday, Sammy gets lucky. It’s her one day off after another 80 hour week providing childcare for ‘Brynn,’ ‘Kaelynn,’ and ‘Dylan-Hunterr.’ She’s entitled to a drink. For ours is a classy website replete with only original humor.
You never chugged a Bud Light Lime while calling a girl “bro” but voted for Trump? And yet you chose ignorance and hysteria over consciousness and thought. To the millions of us on the side of righteousness, I call on you to join me. It’s appallingly rife with alcoholism, bouts of inchoate rage, and a deep rooted hatred for one’s father, which are particularly noticeable in a game that’s primarily about how the human douchebag interacts with the hotts when traveling at high speeds. An experience writ communal through the bonds of empathy, communication, and tasty snack cake products made by underpaid and unamused assembly line workers. Now you know why I update HCw DB less frequently than a Hugh Hefner bowel movement.