Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Link II: Punk Douche

Oh Link, you naughty naughty fellow.

So punk rock. Yet so douchey. Behold this new aesthetic, “Punk Douche.” It is trendsetting and cutting edge. Like a scrotal piercing with a dirty fork.

And I would still juggle hamsters while gargling lighter fluid just for the opportunity to unicycle over her high school yearbook.

Uncle Remy

You still got it, Uncle Remy.

You still got it.

The Lobster Trap

Ab Lobster haunts our collective dreams and plagues our societal nightmares. He is the manifestation of our Jungian anxieties rendered horrifyingly real. He is Freudian id poo.

Then again, at least he’s found something new to point to.

The Hambag

The other day I ate a cheeseburger. It was good. Juicy and sweet.

Then I drank a 16 ounce Dr. Pepper. It was tasty.

I sat for awhile and contemplated life.

I stared out at the rain.

It’s a big world out there, I thought.

Filled with many types of ‘bags and hotties. Mingling and commingling in infinite permutations and refractions of human specificity among the larger abstract mass of humanity.

I contemplated the uniqueness of the individual. I contasted that with the army of ‘bags, the millions of wanky scrotes that trawl the earth like so many hungry bark beetles. The confused hotties being overrun by their instinctual herding.

I contemplated the individual and the group. And I was serene.

Then I saw this pic. This hambag.

I tasted that cheeseburger I’d eaten earlier in the back of my throat.

It didn’t taste so good the second time around.

Toxic Bag

It’s hard to say exactly when hazmat suits became the go-to playah move for chin pubey wanks. This pudgey douche is either a DJ, a club promoter, or enriching plutonium.

I do love these three identically dressed gazelles, even if they’re in that awkward “I’m 19 years old and still dealing with last year’s growth spurt” phase. You know the type. They clump around in high heels crashing into things like they just learned how to walk.

But god damn if they aren’t three slices of tasty cheesecake. Lets hope the medical facility where DJ Toxic works uses ammonium bleach. We’re gonna need the hard stuff to scrub that scrote clean.

Bananas

Not sure where this pic falls on the HCwDB scale.Probably just a coupla Arizona State undergrads drunk on fermented hops.

But I sure do love girls who love bananas.

Link

True uber-bags have no need for paltry puka shell necklaces or simple regular sized mandanas.

The true uber douche intuits three fundamental concepts:

1. Mandanas only signify scrote when occupying the forehead land mass of Rhode Island.

2. Plastic chain necklaces eat puka shells for lunch.

3. Shirts are for baglings and aspiring scrotes only.

I would stuff broccoli up my nose and dance the Macarena on the 405 dressed in a spandex Batman suit just for the chance to face the hemisphere she occupies for ten minutes.

Hacky Sackless

Look buddy, I’d tie strip steaks to my ballsack and go swimming in the pirhanna infested Araguari river just for the chance to clean hottie’s Payless shoes with a rag, but even I have my limits. Letting a cutie place beefy magazine cutouts over my chest and my shirt?

Too far.

I can’t tell which disturbs me more, an oily forehead with a bizarre tanline next to the hair, or a lime green trucker cap hanging from the ceiling.

Either way, this pic just feels creepy. I’m gonna go gargle with some listerine.

HCwDB of the Week: Runts

The DB1 had one of those lost weekends where you’re up all night, drunk, disorientated, and haunted by images of Lobster Abs, Douche Lee and Purg Hottie dancing in your peripheral vision like so many Wu Li Masters. Each apparition helping to form the outline of a giant spectral Pumpy. And if that sounds like an all night party, be assured, it was.

As to this week’s contest, coming down off the sinus disrupting intoxication of both The Lobster’s weekly victory and The Rooster’s triumphant ascendance in the Monthly douche-off, is no easy thing. The good news is we have three sweet candy mint flavored HCwDB pics up for processing and judgment. So it is to the greatest candy of my pre-teen years, Runts, that I dedicate this week’s contest. On to the finalists…

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: 1-800 Got Bagg

Got Bagg is one of those sneaky HCwDB pics that grows on you over time even if you might overlook it when it first appeared on the site.

She’s sneaky hot, not the type to knock you over the head with an Apple Martini chick drink, but the covert, sipping beer until doing shots with you at 2am type.

And that smile is fantastic.

Slender, soft beanstalk bodies like hers speak to a universe ruled by a kind and benevolent deity who loves all of us. Positioned next to Got Bagg Scroad, and the universe is empty, cold and barren.

Either way, I’m eating a bowl of corn pops.

HCwDB Finalist #2: Club Douche

Fantastic hottie. Fantastic douche.

Last month, after extensive debate and discussion on the site, we made an official ruling that gaybags do not officially qualify as douche for the simple reason that their various affectations are not douched up in the act of pursuing the proverbial hottie.

But that should not influence voting on this pic. Without overt confirmation of gaybag status, this pic must be considered under the existing heterosexual douche rubric.

And besides, look at this guy.

Club him. Now.

HCwDB Finalist #3: Purg Hottie

Some people say I have an unhealthy obsession with Purg Hottie. If building candle lit shrines out of wax, body hair and newspaper clippings in your basement is “obsession” then I’m guilty as charged.

It’s not just that I want to carry Purg off, cover her in marshmallow peeps and microwave her into a juicy candy burrito of melting love. Well yes, I suppose it is just that.

But it’s also her ability to attract rogue choad, as I observed prior. Other than H.B.T. herself, few hotties have demonstrated such a multitudinous rainbow coalition of scrotraction. She makes my happy places want to sip on gin and juice, laid back style.

So them’s your three. Remember to weigh both sides of the scale before voting. The hotness of the hottie. The desire to punch through a plate glass window due to the wrongness of the ‘bag’s charmless spew.

Weigh each pic. Then vote, as always, in the comments thread below.

Stage-2 Xenu

Young Xenu disciples have been popping up all over douche-town lately. They show their dedication to removing Thetans by enrolling in reasonably priced auditing classes, and, of course, by popping collars and scroading all over the hotties.

Note the DNA mutant grease sprout emerging from Xenu Jr.’s head. He is well on his way to reaching “bag clarity.” And to think, it will only cost him twenty years of future salary.

I would write lousy sci-fi books just for the chance to romance Mrs. Purple while explaining human behavior using alien creatures and warmed over Freud.