Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Budding 'Bag

Since we’re doing a mini exploration of the stage-1 scrote, the budding ‘bag, the toe dipping douche, here’s another example of a pud who yearns to ‘bag. Just as an early morning dew covered forsythia unfolds slowly in the dawn light, testing its stamen against the crisp breeze, so does young-douche awkwardly expose his early scrotitude. And just as every rose has its thorn, every young-douche sings a sad sad song. And by song, I mean peacocks his douchitude in a desperate attempt to gain hottie attention.

His awkwardness reflects in her blush. Fear not, hottie. Young-douche is just starting down the oily path of grease. He’ll get there. Oh yes. If there’s anything this site proves, it’s that he’ll get there.

She is honey slathered crisp glazed chocolate frosted Krispy Kreme perfection.

The Acorn

It’s like you can smell the stale pretzel breath from here. Wafting through the screen like a few too many cheap red-cupped vodka and red bulls. This tiny acorn’s a stage-1 ‘bag to be sure, but enough to toss in the scrote markdown bin and mark “half price.” Pumpy uses stage-1ers like this to pick his teeth with.

She is sweet and innocent and I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she doesn’t recognize the moldy douche fungus growing on the pud she’s with.

But do not underestimate stealth douche, Dorothy Hottie. From humble beginnings, an oak tree can grow. And by oak tree, I mean poo.

The Douche Twins

The Douche Twins wanted to congratulate Pumpy on his triumphant win in the HCwD of the Week contest.

As longtime readers know, The Douche Twins have mad a few previous appearances on the site, and I’m pleased to see them checking in to show off yet another hottie they’ve roped into the rarest of rare, the dual twin ‘bag headbutt.

Forming the Flag of Ireland with popped Izods is also pretty impressive. It’s like they’re invoking the Nationalist douche spirit of one of the heirs to the Grieco Crown, Colin Firth. Which would presumably lead to making a sex tape with this perky ivory soap girl. Which I don’t think I could stomach, try as I might, as she is quite delicious. But they are, how you say… not.

EDIT: Colin Farrell, not Firth. Farrell is next-gen douchebaggery in all its sleazy hottie scoring ways. Of course being a movie star don’t hurt.

HCwD of the Week: Pumpy

This week’s vote brought up an interesting debate about defining douchosity. Pumpy challenged convention through the sheer force of his douche-face, as other than his inflated shirtlessness and boob grabbing douchiness, he lacked the requisite bling, popped collar and assorted facial patterns to qualify as “classic douche.” While the creepy Stallone looking Rambag represented all that is the douche plague in classic form. His giant scary arm haunted our dreams for days.

And yet Pumpy crushed the competition. This suggests that douchitude is morphing from the physical world into the ethereal. From object to conceptual. This is not to say Pumpy lacked the physical spew inducing noxiousness of classic ‘bag, his boob hand grab along was ‘Bag Hand Gesture #29, only that his mauling of his hottie seems to come from a more spiritual place. And by spiritual, I mean spewitual.

Heh. Spewitual.

sleeperbag sums up the Pumpy love, and by love I mean ‘roids.

Pumpy wins, with his vacant expressionless look as he tries to milk the hottie. He’s almost dead to the world. It’s as if he’s asking himself, “How does being a shirtless muscle-bound groper fit into Jersey eschatology?” Or not. Either way, he’s embarking on the same steps that led another shirtless muscle-bound groper to the California governor’s mansion.

Nicely put, SB. joey buttadouchebag keys in on the boob grab + muscles combo as too much to overlook:

Pumpy. Anyone who lays a meatgrabber on a boob for a picture is a grade-A DOUCHEBAG. And the HC gets props, too. For hotness only, of course. Allowing someone to grasp your boob for a picture is douchettebaggery.

And Indiana Douche and the Last Douchebag keys in on just what sends Pumpy over the edge:

Pumpy is raw douche. He doesn’t have much in the way of the standard douche accoutrements. But he does have that one thing in common to all world class douchebags: total indifference to the hottie. Look at the way he casually grabs her tit, as if it were just another melon to be cupped. His indifference speaks volumes. Compare his indifference to the monumental indifference of Donkey Douche when confronted with the classic rack. They are the same. He knows he can have this tit and everything attached to it any time. And we can’t. Because we are not douchebags of the highest order. He wants to infuriate you with his casual grope. And he succeeds. Oh yes, he does.

Well said, Indy ‘bag. New ‘bag hunter sasquatch struggled with Pumpy and Harry but ended up casting in with the classic scrote of Rambag:

Pumpy is a complete gorilla. But I see little that is douchey about him. In fact, he almost looks like a Marine enjoying his 3-weeks leave, which might explain the 100-yard stare he’s got… while CLUTCHING A HOTTIE’S BOOB.

I give Rambag my vote.

As sasquatch notes, the hirsute Harry Beaver’s hipster irony ultimately served to defeat him, proving that true douchitude knows no self reflexiveness. Although bmt makes the case for the Beaver, using the brilliant term, “The Oberlin Strain”:

Alas, I’m voting for Jason Lee bag, aka Harry Beaver. He has shown us a new kind of douche, one free of traditional markings. Like a virus mutating to adapt to new drugs, the douchebag is not limited to sleeveless tees and dogtags. I call this new substatum the Oberlin Strain. Part hippie (the true self-obsessed douchebag), part hipster, this evolving sub-species tries to sneak past us and into the panty realm by communicating to women through dress and grooming modes that he’s safe, he’s sensitive and he’s got an ear for music. This disgusts me. Instead of clubbing hotties in the head and dragging them back across the briges and tunnels in SUVs, the Oberlin Strain takes the opposite approach.

And 23 Skidouche sets up a smackdown, Stallone style:

I think that Pumpy is the Ivan Drago to Rambag’s Rocky. The former is a chemically-enhanced Aryan douching machine. Everything he hits, including this Tara Reid hottie here, he destroys. He must break you. However, the latter appears to be a working-class, slow-witted Italian greasebag. I think Rambag’s blue-collar work ethic wins out in the end. Rambag is not human: he is a piece of iron.

But as the always present anonymous sums it up:

Pumpy in a landslide. No really can somebody please push Pump into a landslide?

Indeed, Mortimer. Indeed.

Vienna Sausage

Far be it for me to make fun of short bus riding Austrian exchange students, but Dieter’s choad-like mesh shirt requires a fair amount of pixelated venom served up like a steaming Bratwurst.

It’s not the hair highlights. Okay, yes it is the hair highlights. But it’s not the wire rimmed glasses, the chin ant colony or the fact his boobs are perkier than his cutie’s. Okay, yes, it’s all of those things too. But it’s that shirt. Not since the Ottoman empire has chainmail so perfectly captured douchitude. Because everyone knows of all the occupying armies of Vienna, the Ottomans were the douchiest.

Hottie’s going to crack the V6 vertibrae if she leans any furher back from Gunter’s oily presence. Her Ringstrasse’s stadt makes me happy.

The Wifebeater

One of the classic visual signifiers of the bar crawling douchebag, perhaps the clearest way to announce “I am scrote!” outside of the full removal of shirt, is the “muscle-t wifebeater + bling” look.

Harkoning back to the Holy Grieco’s early 1990s heyday, this classic ‘bag look is simply the most overt announcement of greasy douchebaggery there can be. As Saussure noted in his study of semiotics, the visual codes of the wifebeater operate as “signified,” they suggest a meaning structure of pure douchebaggery outside of the visual mode of the cloth itself. Seen anywhere outside of a rerun of COPS, the muscle-t codes a ‘bag as a Rocker Greaseball wannabe who thinks his oily shoulders will help him score hotness.

Which is simply absurd. What beautiful hottie who could snag anyone in the world would fall for a greased up oil generating machine in a Kid-Rock blinged out wifebeater?

looking at pic again

I will now hang myself.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

So what’s the verdict on Dance Dance Revolution here? Frosted tips and caught in a ridiculous pose, but not really attacking the cutie. Is he a shlub who got lucky at a wedding?

Or is that chinny, greased up facial pubed mug enough to cross over into true douche status?

Baby Bird Bleeth

Oh, young busty,
Baby Bird Bleeth,
So new to the ways,
of the Long Island Iced Tea.
With hint of red silk bra,
you say ‘Challo,’
to my little friend.

For you will be too far gone,
Little Baby Bird Bleeth,
to find your way back home,
to the nest.

Stay

I think it’s kinda hot that this bright eyed, dark haired vixen in red is dating Lisa Loeb.

The Pogo Stick

Mmm… Nordic, aryan, scandanavian hotness. And one douched up Anakin Skywalker ‘Bag nibbling on his hand. Use the force, douche.

He’s like a cross between Sting, a young Peter Frampton and a chocolate eclair.

These two sisterly blondes have the perfect cheekbones and curvey natural wonders of the grape feeders at a Calligulan bath orgy. If they were a pogo stick, it would be a sexy pogo stick. I don’t know what that means, but I’m going with it. Because I like pogo sticks.

There appears to be various comments written in on this lei’d Caesar’s jacket. None of which seem to read, “Please roll me in a rug and toss me down a San Fransisco side street.” Which is what I would write. Because I’m clever like that.