Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Haiku

Jesus Bling and Tags,
Hair ripples like plastic grass,
On the field of ass.

lenny kravitz son
are you gonna go my way?
if so, i’ll punch you

— bcs

Brian Austin Green
90210 checks drying up
Initials B.A.G.

— marcos douchebagdatis

What is he wearing?
Is that Dice Clay’s old jacket?
Five bucks on eBay.

— mr. white

Mark of bag theory:
Testicles get chesticles
Teabag my head please!

— jonathan pompadour

Install tile all week
Pose hard with bartender hotts
Impress myself, Brah.

— bleethlvr995

In dungeon of douche
Gavin Rossdale wannabe
preys on mammaries

— jacques doucheau

Is that tobasco?
Also disolves forehead grease.
Go ahead, try it.

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

traveling salesman
heads of hotts stuffed in man-bag
send me leads Glenross

— the ‘bag apple

Skunk, dog tag and cross,
throat punch pepe ladouche please,
give hotts my bus pass

— scent of a douche

boy band reject thought
his myspace fans were the bomb
til best two want cash

— newman’s own balsamic douche

Hunting the Artbag

Your humble narrator in all things Ass/Axe, The DB1, is in San Francisco for a wedding, but also to hunt the elusive and wily Artbag.

Yes, that post dot-com former Z-3 Roadster owning internet baby hipster tool. You know the kind. The one who mocked your lack of technical knowledge and bragged about their stock options, 2000-2002, only to go into a burned out and dazed shell after the crash.

With little left to do but get a real job and bitch about how much they “almost” cashed out with, they turned from DSL to hair gel. From wifi to ironic t-shirts. That said things like Free Paris.

Artbags.

The kind with ‘Zines about the nuances of Swedish death metal. Or where to find the best ginger bread cookie in Omaha.

Artbags get their own category in my book. And deservedly so.

I plan to spend the weekend making fun of their facial hair from a reasonable distance, then hitting on their girlfriends when they’re in the bathroom.

The Mark of the 'Bag

People often ask me: “DB1, how will I know the Mark of the ‘Bag when I see it upon a douche’s forehead?”

And I answer: “Grasshopper, the Mark of the ‘Bag will make its presence known. Just look for the schlong-n-balls of forehead shine. The kit and caboodle. The beavis and butthead. Or, in some cases, a shlong-n-balls crossed with a Fender guitar.”

Even in cases where the ‘bag isn’t that douchey. As with Blue Satin Nipple, here, the Mark of the ‘Bag reveals inner douche.

Pouty Cheekbones can’t see the Mark of the ‘Bag. But we can.

She has the smooth polished skin of apple pie ice cream. I would drink her with a shot of rum and a confused Vegas car dealer named Tim who’s suffering from dementia and needs a place to stay.

The Jersey Paradox

Here’s my problem with Jersey.

Even the good guys are douches. By all accounts, Largy McBulge here appears to be a relative decent dude. He’s unassuming. Has his arm casually around his hott. No obnoxious possession gestures. No douche-face.

But then you realize he’s wearing a combo earring + matching necklace, a ridiculously exposed muscle-t showing off the bulge, and the ripped 1980s jeans left behind on the set of Bon Jovi’s Blaze of Glory.

And it’s Jersey in a nutshell.

Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell is Dairy Queen Blizzard sweet.

With sprinkles.

Freshman Girls

Tall, orange and douchey is no way to go through life, son.

Madame 'Baggerfly

Ah, the Oldbag.

Oldbags often achieve an anti-hero status simply for keeping their saggy scrote in the game.

There’s Far East Hott, a sexy cube of cute in which Puccini’s operatic high notes only begin to evoke the curvy pouty lips of Asian Delight.

But then ‘Baggerfly crashes in like a bartender version of the lead singer from one hit wonder Midnight Oil.

But is he threatening? Not really. More like Dad’s best friend from Thursday night poker. So go to it, Oldbag. Sing that Aria. You get a “nottadouche.”

Just lose the neutron sunglasses and fetch me a Johnnie Walker Black, stat.

The O-Head

It’s not nice to make fun of squashed skull heads that look like an elephant crapped out a football.

Therefore I will only say that feral overbite on the left makes me want to troll trailer parks in Mississippi in search of that elusive diamond in the dust.

And then Eliza her Doolittles with 19th Century aristocratic class patriarchies. And lots of shoulder sucking.

Fan Mail

—-
DB1-
You are such a loser.

But Christ, Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?? Do you think you’re God’s gift? Do you even have a girlfriend? … or do you prefer to swing the ball towards the crowd instead?
—-

When not dictating, I do prefer to swing the ball towards the crowd.

So I got that going for me.

Marissa Miller and a Cactus

Courtesy of WWTDD.com, Sports Illustrated cover-girl hott Marissa Miller is apparently married to a cactus douche.

But at least we know what the shape was that obsessed Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Wednesday Limerick

Three cutes went to party in style,
They checked out bikini night at the Carlyle,
Then Sven showed his abs,
And scratched at his crabs
And the place smelled like Patchouli for awhile.