Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Gangsta Bag

One of the dangers of observing the Gangsta Bag, aka Hip Hop Scrote, in their natural habitat is the off chance that you’re actually mocking a real life gun toting homie. As the designer brands and legit hoodlum looks converge, distinguishing between the various phases and stages of the douchebag impresarios and the real bust-a-cap-in-DB1’s-ass homies becomes an arduous task indeed.

Is this one of the many wannabe Miami Beachites cutting porn star patterns in their facial scruff and home-made alien landing strip acid wash clorox jeans in a desperate attempt to pull hottie tail with embellished stories of “Scarface” inspired drug deals on the south side? Or is this dude about to put a contract hit out on my family?

It’s hard to tell. When the various branches of douchebagus scrotae and gangsterus badassus converge, we are left only with chaos. We face confusion, anarchy and existential crisis left in our muddled wake.

The same goes for the heavily makeuped hottie. I can’t tell the hotties from the trannies anymore. I’m like Joe Buck lost on 42nd Street. Is she a sexy wild thing? Or a man, baby? Either way the matching furry bracelet and leggings are choice.

Friday Haiku

Smashing Pumpkins ‘Bag,
In the Matrix? Or just Westside?
Hottie clutches water.

Why wear two watches?
Irony is turtleneck
On no-neck douchebag.

— douche vader

Scrotey Shield Boy Blows
HC trapped in chair.so does
Vodka on the rocks

— voiceboy

Creepy West’bag scum.
Gross, your whole head is pasty.
It’s called sunlight, man.

— Amerigo Vesdouchey

Indoor sunglasses
can’t hide the fact that you’re bald.
you smell like Old Spice.

— .pfah.

Truman Capote,
The 80’s called and they want
their turtleneck back.

— baron von goolo

Less Cowbell

Nothing strikes the cutting edge of the avant garde like t-shirts quoting dated Saturday Night Live sketches.

You are nothing but class, Fatty McChoad. That better be your daughter, your daughter’s au pair, or your colonic facilitator.

Either way, you’re a giant surgically removed section of the inner lining of the…

eyes moving downward… rage against Fatty receding…

Mmm… cleavite boobies.

The Racoon

I don’t know what primal trauma led The Racoon to the sorry state of douchebaggery we find him in today. Maybe as a young child, a vision of Douche Lee came to him and told him to work hard and someday he’d achieve scrote transcendence.

Either way, those black painted fingernails should not be pawing the rack of abs I plan to spend most of Thursday hypothetically suckling like a hungry whelp in the Alaskan wilderness.

New ruling: Chinese lettering tattoo on Caucasian Wank’s arm? +2 uber-bag on the scrote scale.

Where's Waldouche: Lost 'Bag Edition

Degree of Difficulty: Double Jumpsuit.

This one is going to be hard. But I have faith in you.

Take your time.

Somewhere hidden in this pic I’ve placed a lost and confused Waldouche. He’s about as hard to notice as it gets.

Look carefully. He’s in there somewhere.

Keep looking.

Still stuck?

HINT: You’re looking on the wrong side of the pic.

Lobster Vs. Pumpy

And while we’re busting photoshop goodness, here’s a reader’s ideal DB smackdown headliner.

Now there’s an event I’d pay to see. I gotta think Pumpy would crush Ab’s unbuttoned shirt inside of thirty seconds, but you never know.

Who’s your bet on?

Courtesy of The Daily Pube.

Cow Tongue

Ah, faux brick paneling.

Ah, a ball of cookie dough scroad giving me the finger.

Mmm… two hotties playing handsies.

Sure, it’s hard coming down off the genius ‘baggitude of The Link. But I’d still like to microwave his tongue on the “Popcorn” setting.

College

Ah, College.

A time when young men and women journey forth into the world to seek adventure. To broaden horizons. To make new friends. To pursue the joys of academia, art, culture and higher learning in all of its manifestations.

And, of course, a time to get wrecked and celebrate the fact that your pimply skinny broke ass is pulling hotties you shouldn’t even be in the same solar system with.

Good on you, stripey college choad. Have another half empty bottle of discount vodka from CostCo.

Purg Hottie Loves Me

Purg Hottie loves me. She wants me to drive her around in our Ferrari, eating chocolate covered strawberries and sipping champagne, and then retiring to our pimped out Boca beach house for extensive lotion rubbing while listening to John Denver’s Greatest Hits.

Of course, I can’t run pics of my fantasy girl by herself without violating the dictum of my site. So I had to toss a little Club Douche into the mix. Because no dream is complete without the flip side. The gruesome underbelly. The primal chaos below. Or in this case, douchey headlights.

Besides, after the Weekly, I knew these two icons of the site could live together in harmony.

Yeah, that’s right, DB1’s got the mad photoshop skillz.

EDIT: Sadly, Club Douche’s Headlights had to be removed.

HCwDB of the Week: Club Douche

PIC DELETED

A remarkably close horse race this week, and by horse I mean Ab Lobster’s momma. After an initial surge by Club Douche in what looked like a runaway landslide, Purg Hottie and her Rogue Choad built a slow but significant comeback. Led by andre the giant douche, Good Will Douching, baron von goolo and rip van wanker, the case was made that the hotness of the Purg and the ‘bagginess of Rogue Choad were enough to overcome the fantasmo-grease of Club Douche’s overwhelming iconography. Even Got-Bagg began to gain, behind dog the douchebag hunter and lower case bag. Finally, at the end of last night, Purg pulled even.

So there it was, all tied up. Until it came down to one last anonymous vote, cast at 2:44 am:

Anonymous said…

no contest, Club.

And boom, Club Douche pulls it out by a spiked hair follicle. Someone voting twice anonymously to tip the scales? Maybe. But don’t you fret your pretty little heads, The future ex-wife of DB1, Purg Hottie, will always have a place on the site. And by place on the site, I mean frosted mini wheats. Mmm… frosted mini wheats.

Still, let us not mourn Purg’s loss, because Club Douche and his ambiguously Persian hottie, is a worthy winner indeed. As Indiana Douche and the last Douchebag puts it:

Club Douche is such an unforgettable scrote. He reminds me of the Donk, though Club Douche does know how to smile. It’s true, he’s not making any gestures or douchey facial expressions like the other two contestants, but it’s not a requirement. His douchosity stands alone, much like his hair. 1-800 Got Bagg and Purg Hottie’s douchebag are really lower class douches compared to Club Douche. This douch could hold his own against many of the pantheon of great Douchebags of the past. He may be a gay ‘bag, but he’s still a ‘bag. Sitting next to a Hot Chick. Makes it a Hot Chick With Douchebag.

Agreeing with the DB1’s unhealthy obsession with Purg Hottie, Vinny Scumbaglia casts in with #3:

Purg Hottie. “Activating Douchebag Tractor Beam….” microseconds later, *clang* as the scroad’s hull is pulled in. The shirtcuff treatment is a plus, full douche-mug in play… oh, nevermind: what an utter, f@#$ing turd.

My vote goes to Purg Hottie’s catch of the day (and *ooogh, sigh* what times are the services held at the basement shrine?)..

But, as danny bonnadouchey sums it up:

Club Douche. Even if it was just a tiny thumbnail pic of his hair and forehead, and nothing else, not him or the hottie, I would still vote for Club Douche.

Either way, going up against Ab Lobster in the monthly ain’t going to be easy for Clubby D. That’s a hottie/scrotey smackdown of epic proportions on the way.

Once again, excellent analysis, deconstruction and denigration of the hottie/douchey wrongness of this sick society we call home. The regulars seemed to go more for Purg Hottie, so I may have to dig around and see if we might need to install a weighted voting system, with anonymous only getting half a point on a vote or something. But that would require the DB1 to pull out his slide ruler and bust the serious higher math. Which doesn’t work so well with the Wednesday morning hangover. So for now, it’s Club Douche for the win. And Purg Hottie for my heart. And by heart I mean happy place. And by happy place I don’t mean heart.