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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. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy. All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick. I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. Then codified with a Douchebag of the Month in 2011. 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. They deserve to be scrubbed off and flushed down the toilet as soon as possible. The pleasures of Cheetos and Chill polluted and infected the mind, replaced by primal sexual urges masquerading as identity. From unholy groin tendons to sheeny shades of orange to inflatable cloud-men that barely look human to stupid tatts and sideways neck-glasses , the stench of modern douchebaggery was a product of the digital media carnival. As witness to the victorious summoning of their most absurdist douche Svengali. Ridiculed on HCw DB as early as 2009 as the personification of hottie/douchebaggery pollution in all its amoral narcissism. We thought he was a crimson turd born from reality television and cartoonish lunacy. Instead, Bro Skater 5 leaves you to test your ability to chain together monosyllabic grunts, overpriced shots, and large hair spike, much like classic Hawk. At times, I found myself getting back into that familiar choadal rhythm that made me fall in love with the original ‘baggery.Perhaps obvious douchewanks with hot chicks in tow have vanished like Rollo Tomase chasing Keyser Soze. You sorry, pathetic milk teat on the taint of a toad. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race. You fall neither hither nor thither on the spectrum of ‘bag. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, each a differing shade of fecal brown. 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. 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. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you.
The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeance, to suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful. Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5 occasionally flirts with the joy of choadwankery and attitude that made the original four douche classics, but the gel quickly comes off.
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.
I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. But any of that nostalgia was quickly erased by Bro Skater 5’s frustrating job prospects, bland personality, and over-reliance on a trust fund.
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.
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: The ‘Bag Islander. One month with enough scrotal display to keep a hundred pop culture historians unpacking inter-gender dynamics for a millennium and a fortnight. But trust me in saying, the Mockers back then were glorious in their savagery and wit.