Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Flip

Of all the many permutations and combinations of Douchebag hat tilt, this may be a first.

The 180 Degree Z-Axis Triple Lindig of ‘Bag Hat Tilt. Impressive, Creepy Toad. Most impressive.

His doughy shaven chest makes Calcutta Nuns rend their garments and convert to Scientology.

She is goofy Long Island Iced Tea with lemon goodness. I’d order her with my steak and popcorn shrimp at the Sizzler.

The Quitter

I reiterate the following guideline for all douche classification:

Those who purchase shirts with annoying crude statements on them as a means of demonstrating humor and personality, have neither.

State School Douchefodder

It’s not so much that the state school douchewanks piss me off. Although they do.

It’s watching them scrote their scrotey wares while being totally and completely clueless to the level of outrageously unbalanced hott that God has seen clear to bless them with through their four C+ years of business school malaise.

You just don’t deserve that, Az State Wank. Not even remotely.

Although Mia Sara Hottie does seem to have one ginormous leg. A Ferrari stealing school skipping Rooney embarrassing thighosity.

But I would still crash Cameron’s car just for the chance to secretly watch her change by the jacuzzi.

Stardouche

In an impressive display of hair carving ability, Stardouche has qualified for ‘bag status with neither hand gesture, face gesture, tatt nor giant goiter in the shape of the letters “D” and “B.”

Instead, he’s busting what appears to be either the Bat Signal or a shamrock. Shaved into his head. And unless you’re a rookie linebacker getting hazed on the Cincinatti Bengals, that’s some douchey-ass hair.

Smirking Lip Gloss cutie is all sorts of trouble. And trouble happens to be my middle name.

Okay no. My middle name is Bernie. Stupid Bernie. Why aren’t you Trouble?

The White Shadow

Some ‘bags are hard to spot.

Their scrotey wiley charms are hidden. Covert. They must be parsed out using only one’s cunning and a small Malaysian boy as trade.

Other douchewanks hit you over the head with a large polo mallet.

Like 10 Degree White Shadow ‘Bag.

Thwack.

Ouch.

Is White Shadow the legendary Fish Slap? The chin says possibly.

But all I do know is that Bustier Hottie is a tiny bouncing ball on top of the closed captioning sing-along words of my heterosexuality. Words that say boob.

HCwDB of the Week

To celebrate the joy that is the Dunkin’ Donut, I’m dedicating this week’s Weekly to the creamy honey glazed goodness of the greatest East Coast donut chain this side of Winchells.

Sure, the Krispy Kreme fans have their upscale high rent classy ‘nuts. But the true hero of the working man is the Dunkin’. With crackified coffee and surly high school counter employee, nothing quite says “New England Repressed WASP Dysfunction” quite like the Dunkin’ Donut experience.

And no, this isn’t a sponsored ad. I just loves me the D.D. Living in L.A. has its shortcomings sometimes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The ‘Bag Islanders

Don’t understimate the sneaking gut-punch pain of this perfect curvy schooner and Miller Lite Fratchoad.

At first it seems a relatively benign hottie/douchey coupling.

She’s adorable. He’s annoying. But there’s nothing too nauseating about the combo.

At first.

But then you notice it. Like a chocolate frosted donut, its afterburps lingering in your esophagus. Long after your initial consumption.

As we’ve learned in the past six months, the sailboat is the new Long Island. The place where pudgy doughboys score hotties simply by their proximity to water and an expensive boat.

What puts the ‘Bag Island into the finals is the look on Grimace’s face. His winking nod to his buddy. Ignoring the hott in favor of the “We rock!” gesture.

And the two Island choads in the back engaging in intensive debate about the merits of “The Hills” versus “The Real World” don’t hurt neither.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dante’s Assferno

There’s an utter genius to this satanic otherworldly swirl of unholy monstrosity.

It is arousing, sickening, and makes me hungry for a pop tart.

But there’s also the vaguely “porny” drawback.

As with any great HCwDB combo, what we look for is the amateur. The clueless choad unawares of the hott he doesn’t deserve. The authentic that renders the curvy/hairy combo so intoxicatingly infuriating you want to splice your eyes with an egg cutter.

But this boat pic appears “pro.” Can the zombified soulless trolls truly compete on the hottie/douchey rage factor?

To answer this question, I can only say ass.

Ass.

Lovely, lovely ass.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Warthog

There’s something ethereally and otherworldly captivating about this pic. Maybe it’s The Warthog’s bizarre shade of orange.

Maybe it’s the sweet Dutch Girl Hotties, one of whom has her finger in the dyke.

And yes, I just made the worst joke ever.

But putting aside the lameness of that absolutely embarrassing and shameful pun, there’s something incoherent and wrong about this pic that I couldn’t stop staring at.

The middle cutie is Reese Witherspoon club tramp sexy. And the Warthog’s “Kill” t-shirt and douche-face are enough to up anyone’s blood pressure before their morning coffee.

Is it enough to take out the Assferno? Or the ‘Bag Islanders?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

The Velvet Smog

How’s a little Velvet Smog with a candy cane chutes and ladders Pink Hottie to counterbalance the fumes on a lazy Sunday.

Mmm… this pic has just the right ratio of hottie/doucherot. A Tiny Dancer with a perfect smile and shoulders of saltwater taffy I’d nuzzle like a lost dairy cow at 2am in Nebraska, and a heaping pile of ‘bag hand gesturing frog intestine.

It’s enough to make me want to get down like that Groovy Dude in the back left. Shake it don’t break it, Groove Man.

Retro Douche: Willie Aames and Heather Thomas in "Zapped!"

I think an argument can be made that 1982’s Zapped! is an underexamined nexus point for the emerging pre-Grieco douche revolution that led into the 1990s scrotal grease plague.

Watching this clip has that wonderfully innocent early 80s teen douchebaggery/hottie action. It’s like quasi student film teen parody. It’s got the form of a teen comedy, only somebody forgot to add actual jokes. And it’s paced slower than something involving quadriplegics and running. Like a marathon.

Yes, that slow.

But oh, Heather Thomas, you saucy blonde minx, you. And watching a pre “Charles in Charge” Baio/Aames douche-teaming is like witnessing Hope and Crosby in their prime.

If Bing Crosby was a choad. And Bob Hope was a douche nozzle.

Still, there’s something genius about “Zapped!” And by genius, I mean dated.

The Panda

This isn’t even doggie stylin’. More like Panda Pawin’.

G.I. Choad is rockin’ the military haircut like he’s storming the beach at Harrah’s Hotel and Casino. He’s paradouching in to the Strip to take out some hotties, Green Beret style. And by Green Beret style, I mean Panda ‘Baggin.

No real bling to up the obnoxious factor. But the sunglasses and cell phone stylin’, as well as that pucker lipped douche-face, qualify for State Trooper Fratchoad.

And of course, the Tri-Budlite bendable hottie with Kung Fu Grip. She’s all sorts of slutty tablecloth raunch.

The kind you never, ever, under any circumstances, introduce to your mom. Instead you rent her an apartment on the upper east side and keep the whole thing quiet.

But even paying that $2200 a month rent is worth it. Every penny. No doubt about it.

Toothy McChip

There’s not a lot of obvious signs to give away the scrotal scrotundae of Toothy McChip here. Well, there is the Corey Hart (sunglasses at night). But otherwise, fairly low on the douchological spectrum.

And yet his Douche Aura pervades the pic like a glowing otherworldly apparition of sackless eunuch song.

Swan Hottie is the perfect drink of water for a friday night. I would hug her blue satin curves like a 2004 Mazerati Coup on a windy road. I would sail her America’s Cups around the shorelines of Australia.

Which is to say I would, uhm, enjoy cohabitation for at least 23 awkward seconds of fumbling and groping. And then gasping for air and nearly passing out.