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This site may be no more, but I leave it up as an uncanny relic of time past and oft forgotten. For we do not go gentle into that good internight. We rage, rage, against the orange of the blight. The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness.

As our memory shifts and grows more distant. From factual present to recent past. And then, once again, another shift to only the vaguest sliver, the barest of thread left to tie us to what was once the real and present now rendered blurry, foreign. We say goodbye to that which we once abhorred but now we recall with nostalgia tinged affection and bemusement. Once a toxic smell of withered sweatsock recontextualized as the simple signifier of a more innocent and ultimately harmless memory. What once was and can never be again.

So where did all those rank stench pics that fueled the HCwDB run actually come from? A question I used to get a lot. I was and am far too lazy to do any real work on the internets. So I relied on the kindness of douche mocking strangers to fill my site with mock fuel. However, in a loaf pinch, there was one main go-to source if a pic of toxic cohabit was needed on short notice.

The always hot-or-twatriffic Spy on Vegas. That weekly smorgasboard of professionally photographed flop sweat and overpriced bottle service fueled many a rant on this humble corner of pop culture detritus oh so many moons ago. Sadly for Douche Mock, happy for real life, a recent visit to Spy on Vegas shows how much things have changed. Dress only in black. Make no hand gestures. Display only minimal peacockery to signal the females of the species that their alpha dog status remains hugamabob and grindular.

This shminky rends the space-time continuum with Spielbergian aplomb and apoop. All is wrong in Sheboygan, said the calico cat as it upchucked a half eaten squirrel outside Decatur. 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.

Or even the Orange Douchepocalpyse of yesteryear. No, not even the unholy Star Wars alien teat milk that is Crissmas Angel. A better world is not that far off. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. And the mock never truly dies. 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. We tried to warn the world of the dangers the Oompa Prompas represented. Even when off for some private quality bro time. Even if one is orange and spikey.

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. 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. They were a danger to all that is good and holy.

And we knew it. But I am not here to talk about our gawdawful present. Let just say Vegas is in my heart today.

And I am here to reminisce about a more playful era. In addition to the legends that are the Prompas, there was The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars , who made a second, less famous appearance here. And, of course, the condenced ballsackian mildew of Long Island: One month with enough scrotal display to keep a hundred pop culture historians unpacking inter-gender dynamics for a millennium and a fortnight. IF you were there with me back then, I salute you. Sadly, all the comments in the message boards from that era were accidentally deleted when the site was upgraded to its new servers.

But trust me in saying, the Mockers back then were glorious in their savagery and wit. By not giving a canary fling, he flings his canary. He bops his Bopeep. 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.

Megods, me-pantaloons, this buffonic douchetool chews scenery worse than Richard Crenna in First Blood. The Starblazer seeks sustenance. And, going solo, the Starblazer wears zebra pants and poses like a crispy mirrored twigwaffle. HCwDB wrapped up in or maybe early ?

Certainly not as we enter the political douchepocalypse that has enveloped. 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. Perhaps obvious douchewanks with hot chicks in tow have vanished like Rollo Tomase chasing Keyser Soze. You might presume that a faux tanned Ed Hardy disciple inappropriately cuddle-macking Svetlana is uberdouche precisely because of douche face.

Not so fast, you cracker! Even devoid of doucheface, Charles Von Cankersore retains a high degree of smelly poo. Thus proving my theorem that even in the age of Trumpocalypse, douche aura permeates beyond the performative signifiers.

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. The greatest gift you could ever give a friend or a loved one. Ol' Dirty Douchebag In memoriam: I do not know if this pic is recent. But it not matter. For this brief snapshot of toxic toe fung rejoinders to remind us.

Thanks for the reminder S. Monday, April 23, Boom Siss Boom Siss boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss… eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah — boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss… eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah — The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness.

Tuesday, February 27, Spy on Vegas: In checking my old stomping grounds, the Vegas Wonkery is still present. But far more muted than in its hair spike heyday. And so it goes in the age of post-postbaggery. Has it really been a decade? We did our best to sound the alarm. And lo, the Trumpocalpyse struck back. So let us reflect on October of HCwDB may be finished, but the mock will never die. We need it now more than ever. Ask not for whom the billy goat pukes. It pukes for thee. Saturday, June 10, Mr.

It has been awhile, has it not? And so is this ass tomato. The mock is never dead. It just takes on new forms. Thursday, March 16, Charles Von Cankersore Gives Ninotchka the Doucheface You might presume that a faux tanned Ed Hardy disciple inappropriately cuddle-macking Svetlana is uberdouche precisely because of douche face.

Douchelips , Douchepose , Weenus Roast 12 comments. 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 important. Potato-Chip Hitler 41 comments.

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We rage, rage, against the orange of the blight. The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness.

As our memory shifts and grows more distant. From factual present to recent past. And then, once again, another shift to only the vaguest sliver, the barest of thread left to tie us to what was once the real and present now rendered blurry, foreign. We say goodbye to that which we once abhorred but now we recall with nostalgia tinged affection and bemusement. Once a toxic smell of withered sweatsock recontextualized as the simple signifier of a more innocent and ultimately harmless memory.

What once was and can never be again. So where did all those rank stench pics that fueled the HCwDB run actually come from? A question I used to get a lot. I was and am far too lazy to do any real work on the internets. So I relied on the kindness of douche mocking strangers to fill my site with mock fuel. However, in a loaf pinch, there was one main go-to source if a pic of toxic cohabit was needed on short notice. The always hot-or-twatriffic Spy on Vegas.

That weekly smorgasboard of professionally photographed flop sweat and overpriced bottle service fueled many a rant on this humble corner of pop culture detritus oh so many moons ago. Sadly for Douche Mock, happy for real life, a recent visit to Spy on Vegas shows how much things have changed. Dress only in black. Make no hand gestures. Display only minimal peacockery to signal the females of the species that their alpha dog status remains hugamabob and grindular.

This shminky rends the space-time continuum with Spielbergian aplomb and apoop. All is wrong in Sheboygan, said the calico cat as it upchucked a half eaten squirrel outside Decatur. 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. Or even the Orange Douchepocalpyse of yesteryear.

No, not even the unholy Star Wars alien teat milk that is Crissmas Angel. A better world is not that far off. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. And the mock never truly dies. 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.

We tried to warn the world of the dangers the Oompa Prompas represented. Even when off for some private quality bro time. Even if one is orange and spikey. 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. 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. They were a danger to all that is good and holy.

And we knew it. But I am not here to talk about our gawdawful present. Let just say Vegas is in my heart today. And I am here to reminisce about a more playful era. In addition to the legends that are the Prompas, there was The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars , who made a second, less famous appearance here. And, of course, the condenced ballsackian mildew of Long Island: One month with enough scrotal display to keep a hundred pop culture historians unpacking inter-gender dynamics for a millennium and a fortnight.

IF you were there with me back then, I salute you. Sadly, all the comments in the message boards from that era were accidentally deleted when the site was upgraded to its new servers. But trust me in saying, the Mockers back then were glorious in their savagery and wit. By not giving a canary fling, he flings his canary.

He bops his Bopeep. We are facing a serious challenge at the global level. This will require severe medicine. Friedman could have produced a better book by recognising this fact with greater determination. Audio CD Verified Purchase. Worth a listen to the abbreviated audio book edition, LOTS of useful facts, but Friedman skews the topic politically, very much.

Making up a term to describe his view-point: His basic premise, about an impending crisis, is correct. He subscribes to the theory that the government has to knock heads and trample on people to fix the problem. Do whatever you can do to conserve energy, go solar, whatever, set a good example, share all your findings with others.

View this book as a rich source of facts that gives you a broader world-wide perspective. Don't buy his political argument - bunk. I like "Hot, Flat and Crowded" even better. America got off track under Reaganism, which taught us that government is generally wrong, while private enterprise is more likely right. But what we found out was that what was good for General Motors short-term was not always good for the United States. Bush came into office bound and determined not to ask the American people to do anything hard when it came to energy," says Friedman.

And, quoting a poet: Today, there are more than cities of one million or more. And, the world's current total population is about 6. As for "flat," the potential bad news is that more and more countries feel entitled to live the "American Dream," which may lead to an impossible demand for dwindling energy supplies. And, as for "hot," he tells us that global warming in for real, but that we humans continue to increase the amounts of carbon dioxide we are sending into the atmosphere.

When flat successfully meets crowded, another part of the world moves toward for the "American Dream. Others are entitled to it every bit as much as we are," he says, adding "To tell people they cannot grow is to tell them they have to remain poor forever. And, in India, there are already gated suburban communities with golf courses, big homes and all the other amenities.

Currently, of course, Americans are by far the biggest energy hogs, consuming 9-to times more energy than average folks in China or India now consume. And we are doing relatively little to curb our addiction to oil. We send hundreds of billions of dollars per year to Arab states for the stuff. Going green, per Freidman, "is now a national security imperative. He underestimated the importance of his message. Today, says Friedman, we have three varieties of those who deny global warming: First, those who draw a paycheck from companies with a vested interest in the status-quo; second, a small group of scientists who really believe that global warming is not true; and, third, those who see the issue mainly in political terms, hating government intervention and controls more than any possibility of global warming being for real.

So, where are we today? China is building another polluting coal-fired power plant every week. Forests are disappearing as we speak. Safe drinking water is a scarcity in many parts of the world. Twenty-five percent of the world's population has little access to electricity. Per Friedman, "Our environmental savings account is empty It is pay now, or there will be no later In a flat world, everyone can see what everyone else is doing, and the harm it is causing.

It's a better system. We are not going to regulate our way out We need 10, innovators, all collaborating with, and building upon, one another to produce all sorts of breakthroughs in abundant, clean, reliable, and cheap electrons and energy efficiency America needs an energy technology bubble just like the information technology bubble. See all reviews. Most recent customer reviews.

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