Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Pinkbag

We’ve seen greased up orangebags. But pinkbaggery?

Neil Patrick Hairless needs to be hosed down by firemen then tossed into the Hudson wrapped in a carpet before Kendra, the sweet, plumpy sister of your best friend, gets polluted.

Random Saturday Thoughts

Random thoughts on a Saturday as I contemplate the tard factor of teeth grillz:

John Mayer, rocker, poet, soulful guitar player of complexity and depth, has stopped blogging. Apparently crappy writing defending Jessica Simpson’s breasts worked against the careful “deep thinker” construction of his record label persona.

The Ghost of Stevie Ray Vaughn laughs at your sorriness, Mayerbag.

Lifetime HCwDB Emeritus, The Gator, along with his giant scarf, has released a five minute video so filled with ridiculousness, I couldn’t post it without a NSFH warning (Not Safe for Humanity). There are no words to describe this uberdouchebaggery, and the entire country of England shares in this shame. To wit:

“Do you want the Lamborghini? You’re going to get the Lamborghini!”

“I’m not going to punch you in the face.”

And you thought the Gator achieved epic douchebaggery simply in picture form. Keep an eye on the hidden Grey Gooses at the 3:30 mark.

And finally, I really really like Chips Ahoy cookies. They’re tasty.

EDIT: For those in the comments threads slowly hypnotized by The Gator’s pull, I’d remind you that his background image on his laptop is a picture of his own abs. ‘Nuff said.

Sorority Slummin'

Holy sweet mutton chops, when did shirtless douchebaggery become this rampant? We’re talking 60% shirtless dudes.

That’s gotta violate at least one of the Geneva Conventions.

Someone please rescue Candice and Beatrice before their sorority sisters find out they’re slumming it over at Kappa Assa Douchebag.

And yes, I see you, Oscar De La Heya in the back. Put down them pop guns before you shoot your eye out.

It’s Friday.

Even Zebra Pants knows it’s time to start drinkin’.

The Sheik

Nothing beats passing silent film icon Rudolph Valentino through a 21st Century hip-hop lens, then tossing the remains through the refracted amplification of name brand simulacra until it deconstructs into a gray, hooded and overpriced turd.

There it is, coming out the other end of the hundred year pop-culture digestive tract, chewed, digested and repackaged.

Gangsta Valentinobag.

But I forgive.

Because both of the Hott Brunette’s shoulders are politely asking me to nibble on them.

And who am I to refuse a request for shoulder nibble? In pygmy culture, refusing the shoulder nibble would be met with ritual castration by the village elder.

The Douche Cacti

A douche cactus (plural douche cacti, scrote cactuses or poo cactus) is any member of the succulent plant family Cacataceae, native to the Americas, Europe and most of Orange County. They are often used as ornamental plants, but some are also crop plants.

Cacti’s sizes range from small and round to pole-like, tall and smells-like-poo.

Veronica

Veronica writes in with a ‘bag capture story:

—-
I was working for a magazine and this was one of the interns there. I was wasted and the guy from pub district asked to take my picture and he had to be in it too lol.

— Veronica
—–

Excellent work, V, the sleaze factor on this guys’ face is worth the price of admission right there. But what’s with your hand on his upper thigh?

Never encourage the douche. Never.

It’s like house-training a dog. Swat him with a newspaper on the nose, then feed him Alpo.

Friday Haiku

Asian droog hottie
Dates kung pow beef with cashew,
He’s an Easy Ride.

See the pasty choad
fondle gift of dong-taper:
Ben-Wa anal beads

— darksock

Noxious scrote odor
prompts look of abject disgust
from queen of pleather

— bagwagger

All work and no play
makes Nicholson wannabe
a greasy douchebag

— d. baggins

He ponders a move,
An American Reject.
“I’m big in Japan.”

— clementine of cappadoucha

headline reads like this
“Tila Tequila picks Douche”
that is a real shame

— sir lanceadouche

Tia Carrera
You’ve really let yourself go
No more schwing for you

— bcs

two caterpillars
rest on his sleazy forehead
and eat eye shadow.

— pfah

Ask DB1: Post-Human Douchery

PIC DELETED
—-
DB1,

jacques doucheau
—-

In anticipating a post-human evolutionary scenario in which a new form of homo douchebagus would emerge, you have to take a number of factors into account.

Which post-human global climate would most allow animals to begin preening, gelling up their scales/hair/feathers, and macking on the animal hotts?

I sent your question along to Doctor David Tennant at The Research Institute for Animal Douchery. Tennant determined that mating habits of the Kimono Dragon, Australian Douche Dingo and the Ab lobster off the coast of Maine are the three most likely areas for producing a dominant strain of animal douchery in a post-human evolutionary landscape.

But don’t count out the tree frog.

Those are some douchey-ass tree frogs.

The Diaper

Sometimes Baby Huey needs changing on the dance floor.

And yes, that may be the same hott whose lost breasts inspired a thousand poets to switch to decaf a few weeks ago. Submitter assures me this pic is by a different photographer and therefore a-okay.

For all of our sakes, but most importantly for healthy pale boobie’s sake, lets hope so.

Identifying the Stage 1 and 2 Bleeth

The early stages of Grieco Infection in a hott, or what we call The Bleeth, can be observed in two distinct forms.

On our left of Rocky Dennis ‘Bag is a stage-1 Bleeth. Still pure and unpolluted. A sweet smile and perfect humpable lickable lollipop body.

On our right of Sneery McBugglasses is a stage-2 Bleeth. Large sunglass growth, but still no hand gestures or annoying bling. A perfect tiny Phoebe Cates mouth. And the potential Quartasian factor is a huge plus.

The difference is subtle, but important to note.

When attempting to save a hott from douche virus infection, stage 1 and stage 2 Bleeths are still very much rescuable, so both of these girls qualify. It’s the stage-3/4 toxics that are much larger challenges.

And Spiky McClevershirt’s belt buckle sucks.