Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Blaze of Glory

Johnny Blaze says, HAVE A DUCHE WEEKEND!

The DB1 is finishing up his time in New York and off for an East Village pub crawl. But I’ll be posting over the weekend, and back to lala on Sunday.

Fantastic comments all week from the usuals, as well as some hilarious newbies on the site. The limerick thread was pure genius, I will definitely be doing more of those. Maybe even another Epic Poem next week?

Regardless, Monday’s HCwDB of the Week looks to be a doozy. Still not sure whether Johnny Blaze should compete, or simply be held up as the singular douchetacular that he is. Hmm. I’ll ruminate on it like a two ounce dollop of Sassoon hair gel.

The HCwDB Guarantee

If you see a more punchable douche-face in the presence of two glorious golden globes this weekend, I’ll give you 10% off your next HCwDB pic.

And by 10% off, I mean boobies.

BjornBag

When skeezy Eurodouche start fondling that cute girl from down the street, it’s time to break out the electric flyswatters and play whack-a-scrote.

He’s not even actual Eurodouche, he’s some wannabe who watched too many Bjorn Borg tennis matches back in the day. Don’t make me backhand your double faults, BjornBag. The DB1 is still pissed about purple towels.

Purple Towels

Smirk it up, douchebag. I don’t care if you have two hotties looking to rub lotion on you. Because you have purple towels.

And purple towels are lame!

So… uh… take that.

Yeah.

sigh

That’s it. It’s Friday. Time to crack a Thunderbird and ponder the eternal mysteries of boobies.

EDIT: Reader tribag posits that Purple T here is a member of the Douche Platoon. Is he right? Take a look.

Buble Lips

PIC DELETED

Recently I’ve become convinced that Michael Buble’s lips are one of the markers of the impending global apocalypse. It all happened one night when I dared to wander into the E! basic cable wastelands. There was this singer I’ve never heard of being interviewed. Even his name suggested Beelzebubic nature. The Buble. The Lips of Satanic Rue.

Suddenly I realized. The lips were a creature that had taken over Buble’s face. Perhaps alien in origin. Certainly mutant.

It was a moment of clarity. The invasion had begun.

Like the number 23, I see Buble Lips lurking behind corners waiting to destroy civilization itself. Tearing at the fabric of the universe with scrotey spew. Threatening our fragile sanity with the consumptive powers of lip smacking douchebag primal horror.

Okay, maybe I hurl invective at the Buble Lips with a tad too much hyperbole. But they do creep me out. Spying them reappear on this douchey choadbag suggests my initial concerns of mutant spread were not entirely unfounded.

Doe Eyed Fawn has that wonderful glazed doughnut stare. And is there anything more promising than the hint of low IQ + fantastic boobies? And yet Buble Lips remains, tasking my soul with fears of psychological cheese melt.

Friday Haiku

An owl howls,
Three luna moths flock to him.
The owl’s a douchebag.

“hotties” kind of blah –
douchetard still pisses me off
cuz he is alive.

— oscar de la douchea

The fact you still live
After your flipping me off
Proves therapy works.

— anonymous

This is a sports bar.
Is being a douchebag sport?
Hell no. Now get out!

— anonymous

seth green punk douchebag,
you flip the bird to my soul.
wimbledon kicks ass.

— douche of earl

Johnny Blaze

It would perhaps be simplistic to simply say that Johnny Blaze is the new Joey Porsche. Clearly the singularity that is/was the JoeyPorsche experience is something that will never be truly replicated in our lifetime. And by replicated I mean purged from our collective memory by way of a psychoanalytic bleach. Words themselves can not fully encapsulate the joy of “Acapulo,” the “tm,” or wut his dic did.

Johnny Blaze is his own person. And by person I mean flaming bag of scroteundae. A Halley’s Comet of douchebaguous doucherific douchosity.

Oh sure, I can search through my lexicon of terms to describe the Johnny Blaze Experience. But, as with J.P., words will never do it justice.

I’ve considered whether these MySpace pages are setups, and they may very well be. As with JoeyP, the absurdity of the pics argue that in no natural universe can such atrocities sprout organically. But as far as I can tell, these ‘bags is real.

So without further ado, turn up your speakers and get ready…

buckle up…

I give you…. The Johnny Blaze Experience.

LiFe iS What U MAkE iT — Johnny Blaze (or Sartre)

Separated at Birth?

Reader darksock finds VelveetaBag’s long lost twin, out there in the Douche-Cosmos.

The Tongue-Baton Relay

Watch the Grieco Virus get passed via tongue-baton in the relay race of ultimate douchebaggery.

I think we may be seeing one of the qualifying teams for the 2007 Scrolympics.

Blade Doucher

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Greased foreheads on fire off the shoulder of a Hottie. I watched Tag-Shots glitter in the dark near my leapard print sweater-vest. All those … moments will be lost in time, like sleaze… in a bar. Time to douche.