Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Smells Like Tatt Spirit

Yes, from the designers of the Ed Hardy body tatts comes: Ed Hardy Men’s Eau de Toilette, 3.4 oz. $75.00.

And no, this is not a joke:

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This fragrance was created with special effects and colorful sensations inspired by the dramatic and cool Ed Hardy tattoo art. Bright and tantalizing citrus effects of Bergamot & Mandarin are touched by the aromatic expression of Thuja and the sharp bite of Clary Sage for added zest.

The result is of super refreshing mint mixed with colorful bubbles that provides a provocative edginess. Sequoia Scent Trek brings a masculine woodiness to the fragrance that is embraced by sensual Musks and a touch of Black Amber. The final effect is of a masculine floralcy tattooed on to wood that lasts and lasts.
—-

Yes, our collective aesthetic bankruptcy is for sale at Macy’s, at $75 bucks a pop. Were this only a joke, I could sleep better at night knowing the future of culture and civilization doesn’t hang in the balance.

But how about some shout-outs to the highly paid Macy’s copywriter who came up with “masculine floralcy” as a descriptive term. I might’ve gone with “douchey and rank,” but that might not have helped sales.

Hmm.

“Masculine Floralcy.”

Kind of like running douchebaggery through the Polite Euphemismometer.

But I’ve always wanted to experience the “sharp bite of Clary Sage.” She’s that erotic masseuse from Memphis who works off Hollywood and Vine, right?

Make-A-Wish

Ah, how sweet.

The Make-A-Wish foundation includes up close breast exams on their list of wishes for hair tumor victims.

The L

Rarely do we capture a girl calling out a ‘bag with her own hand gesture at the same time the ‘bag is busting his “Westside.”

Now granted, Blonde Delilah got her “L” for “Loser” backwards.

But I think we can grant her a little leeway here. Because on the hierarchy chart of heterosexual merit, boobies trump dyslexia.

Seriously, I just checked.

HCwDB of the Week: Bob Edition

This was one of the toughest Weeklies in awhile to cull down to three finalists, as there were a number of sneaky time-delayed wretchedness bubbling up in some of the pics I had to choose from.

But sort, I must. Like Solomon, Judge Brandeis or the chick on Project: Runway, I must decide. Drop my hammer. Toss my Night Train.

So without further ado, I dedicate this Weekly to my hangover. Here’s to you, alcoholic induced corporeal dehydration. I name you Bob.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Torch

The Torch wasn’t properly celebrated the first time around.

And by celebrated, I mean clever metaphors for hair on fire.

Maybe Spanish Paprika Hott was too old to incite blood lust.

Maybe Torch has too much of a Gaybag vibe to inpire the proper mocking. And just to reiterate the rules of HCwDB hunting, Gaybags are usually eliminated for their lack of threat to the hott.

But I’m not sold on the Gaybag excuse.

Torch has that hint of “metro” that suggests it’s all part of his larger hair spiked plan. Maybe I’m being too generous. Or maybe I smell like a Caribbean whore house at 4am. Either way, Torch and Paprika get their shot in the Weekly.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Grenade Tosser

A second pic that incites more amusement than rage, which is definitely a negative.

But the power of early college hott with swollen hills that speak of well fed future generations certainly carry some weight.

And I mean that literally. Like 6 pounds each.

Grenade has black fingernails, a pink shirt with a grenade on it, and a punchable mug.

He’s earned his shot in the Weekly.

Finally as part of my empassioned defense, I close with these two words:

Boob. ies.

Latin for marry me, treat me like crap, cheat on me with the mailman, take the car, the house and the chihuahua, just leave me your bathrobe with which I can make soup and drink your essence while crying into my bowl of Lucky Charms.

Mmm… meaty suckable forearm.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Rosencrap and Gildenhott

Some say douche, it is a turbag, who smells, like week old fish…

Some say hott, it is exotic. With slopen nose, and really great boobs…

Yeesh.

I just cribbed a Bette Midler song.

I feel dirty.

Hold me.

No, not you, Rosencrap.

Rose girl with the perfect hips.

Yes you.

Come to me.

Love me.

Lick me like a lollipop.

Tell me I’m your viking captain and spank me with a rope of licorice.

(ahem)

Okay, them’s your three. All three will be crushed by either Millennium ‘Bag or Deathtongue in the monthly. But lets serve up that slaughter in style.

Honorable mention to House, The ‘Stralian Autopsy, and The Night Oranger, who just missed the cut.

Like Bill Murray, when he begged Anita not to leave in Stripes, don’t go, the plants’ll die.

Yes they will, Bill Murray. Drink that coffee straight from the pot, and vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Peaches Sunday

It’s true. I never get sick of making fun of this tool.

Peaches is legend. One of the first to practice and perfect a unique and signature douche move.

Peaches has it all. Consistency. Longevity. Douchefaceity.

And the ability to always have the cutest girl in the pic (in this case, the only girl in the pic) hovering closest to his somnambulant stare/point move.

Here’s to you, Peaches. You are ‘bag innovation personified.

Where's Peaches?

Somewhere in this Tiki Hut lineup of Miller Lite pounding fratchoads, I’ve carefully hidden Hall of Scrote legend, Peaches.

Look closely.

Can you point at him?

Flag Day

I love the smell of shaved body grease in the morning. It smells like something something.

Seriously. Put on a shirt. Enough all ready. Mein eyes can’t take much more of this.

It’s Saturday morning and my Cocoa Puffs, while still sugary and delicious, lose just a bit of that chocolate crunchy joy when I realize some beefed up Billy Zanebag is pawing a trashy bar hott’s hindquarters.

The Sarah Connor Scroticles

PIC DELETED

C’mon Hippie Sarah Connor Girl-Next-Door Cute, surely this TBag-1000 isn’t worth cyberneting his plasma rifles without crushing him in a metal press.

Yup, it’s Friday, and the DB1 is running low on analogies.

So it was either The Terminator or the trusty Mark McGrath reference. Couldn’t decide which one to go with.

The Boston Teat Party

I haven’t seen two southie townies mug a hott blonde and steal her watch this blatantly since the Funky Bunch were playing clubs in Dorchester.

Yeah, I just made a Marky Mark reference.

Because hey, Boston references. Like Pauling her Reveres while USSing her Constitution. Like Baked Beansing her Dukakisis while Dunking her Donuts.

Where's Waldouche?: Birthday Edition

Somewhere, buried deep within this lineup of Happy Birthday Bikini Hots, I’ve carefully hidden a landing strip chinned Perry Farrell waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?