Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Twin Kravitz

I want to get away… I want to smack these douchebags… away… yeah… yeah… yeah…

The ladies may not overwhelm like yesterday’s Yellow (although Saki Hottie’s got a great smile), but there was no way I was passing up on posting the Twin Kravitz ‘Bags.

They’re like a McDonalds double cheeseburger of cheese. The pink shirt that keeps on scroting. But it’s the matching ‘bag hand gestures that put the Twin Kravitzs over the top.

And thanks for that glimpse of upper groin there, Kravitzes #1 and #2. I needed that like a flyswatter to the face.

The Bloodhound Gang

I’ve got a headache this big!

And it’s got four club-soda choadbags written all over it.

This is like one of those wacky gangs of friends who solve crimes. No, not Scooby Doo. Different.

I’m talking The Bloodhound Gang. If you replaced clever kids who solve crimes using their smarts with douched up rayon wearing puddles of club grease who solve nothing but smell like Axe.

But, oh, the things you and I could do together, Purple.

We’d drive across the Kalahari on a stolen Vespa with only a flat bottle of Mr. Pibb and fourteen Fig Newtons to sustain us. At night we’d lie under canopy, swat the tse-tse flies and I’d rub your thighs with Crisco and a large rolling pin until their tender flesh revitalized my spirits.

Because that’s how I roll.

Friday Haiku

T-Pubes on the chin,
Flaming head bleach, cactus face.
Bullock Likes? I weep.

When he bedded her
It’s the day the music died
Only sports-talk now

— k-federbag

Crisp hair of sponge cake
plus flasher girl with man hands
equals puckered ass

— Duck Duck Douche

Sandra, oh Sandra.
Step away from neon hair.
Gamma rays harmful.

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

His blank stare tells all.
The slight twinkle in her eye
Will soon turn to tears.

— tricky dick

Jesus Tags

I’m not sure if we’ve officially categorized this trend yet, but one of the more disturbing douche accoutrement developments of the past six months has been the merging of Jesus Bling and the Douche Dog-Tags into what can only be described as “Jesus Tags.”

Note their prominent display on the groin shoving douchewank on the left.

I suppose one could dub these adouchrements “God-Tags,” but I’m not opening that whole can of theological douche-worms.

Instead I will simply sing Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes at these two balls of scrotal decay until they disappear in a flash of Broadway spectacle.

At which point I would suckle and fondle the libretto for Ballet Hott’s audition tape until she emoted Stanislavsky style and let me hump her leg like a shreiking rhesus monkey during the rainy season.

The Olive Loaf

Grab a table and hang on, folks. The Olive Loaf is riding into town. And he’s got his eyes on boobies.

What can stop the Olive Loaf Experience?

Hosing him down?

Taking away his hair braid extensions?

Having angry nuns forcibly remove the rosary from his neck at knife-point?

I do not know the answer to these perplexing questions. But I do know that I would oil paint her purse in day-glo 1960s colors just for the chance to drink her electric koolaid and fly over her cuckoo’s nests. Or into them. Or onto them. Mmm… nests.

That’s it. This pic put me over the edge. Where’s my bottle of J.D.

The Walrus

Here’s a classic example of sweetness and heaping grease scrote wrongness.

How did this coupling come to pass?

What cultural forces brought together Sexy Sadie and The Walrus? Is there any possible way to liberate her from the grip of pinky ring choad? Could she be shown that The Walrus offends our collective aesthetic?

Or is she cursed to drive down that dark New Jersey highway forever?

Alls I know is the furry collar jacket without t-shirt, is pure class, Walrus. Goo goo ga joob.

Twin Peaks

Is this one of the Twin ‘Bags that won the Weekly back in May?

Looks like a Halloween pic, which I normally don’t run. Except when it features a ‘bag who decided to dress up for Halloween as an even bigger ‘bag.

And naturally, find himself surrounded by Jenny and Sally, the Hott Sisters. Majoring in Fashion Design, but with a dream to someday be the go-to hair and makeup team on the set of “Gossip Girl.”

Don’t worry cuties. Your time will come.

Just ditch the Twin. Especially Jenny with the carnal gaze. I’ve never looked sexier, sitting in my floor on in my underwear, Jenny. So I can understand your lustful glances.

Afflicted

For those scoring at home, “Affliction” shirts are +2 when scoring douchestrological rank.

Two matching “Affliction” shirts in a standard ‘bag sandwich formation around a tasty ham hottie?

I don’t even have the tools to measure or rank the douche echo from such an event. It is off the charts.

Then factor in the combo hair spike, and I’m sent into a spiraling social decline.

In other words I make fun of them while enjoying a tasty Hostess HoHo snack cake.

Cracker Jack

I was wondering what would be a good look to wear out tonight.

Then it dawned on me. I’m going with the combo striped shirt, black tie, douche-face, sunglasses, mandana + baseball cap combo, and top it off with a Captain America Decoder Ring from a box of Cracker Jack.

Yeah. That’s the plan.

I will then gang tackle a drunk cutie in ski goggles, hook my arm around her, and repeatedly head-butt her ear.

Or would that make me a screaming uberchoad?

Why yes. Yes it would.

I see Paris, I see France

I see something something.

Although I’d rather I hadn’t.

Really. Please. Put it away.

You’re distracting me from curvy femme on femme cuddling. Which is also the name for a great early 80s thrash punk band.