Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Chopstick

Oh Exotic Beauty of the Far East, how have you come to embrace this Genghis Corn of midwestern fast foodery?

What has brought you to this deep dark corner of American turdlicious asstastery?

How can your smile be so sweet with arms locked in metaphoric struggle with all that is smelly poo?

I know not the answers to these questions.

I ruminate on the wrongness as I watch Disorderlies on HBO. And I realize that of what little I do know, I do know this: The Fat Boys were never very good.

Eraserhead Friday

Eraserhead knows it’s Friday.

Jenny McHott looks lovely. And she even brought her mom.

Yup.

It’s gonna get freaky tonight. I can tell. Like a perturbed woolly mammoth fighting over a Twinkie.

I don’t know what that means. But I like Twinkies.

The Superego

I believe it was the father of psychoanalysis himself, Dr. Sigmund Freud, who once remarked: The chin pube douche-smirk is a sign of great turmoil within the subconscious of an utter tool-scrote.

Freud knew what was up.

But not as much as tiny Karen from White Plains, who has the angelic back arch of swans in summertime and boobies pressed against window, making that lovely smushing effect.

Eraserhead

When your hair follicles are larger than a ficus plant hopped up on Miracle-Gro it’s time to dedouchify.

I hate it when my ficus plants get all hopped up and go loco. They borrow my car, 50 bucks, then disappear for three days in Tijuana with a stolen credit card and a suitcase full of tequila and blow.

Stupid ficus plants. They need to lay off the Home Depot growth spray.

Oh sweet Jenny. Do not suckle at the cheek of ficus taint. You will only get dirty.

Friday Haiku II

(that last pic was too ambiguously tranny, so I’m deleting it and lets Haiku this ‘bagling instead)

Suburban gangsta.
Top button only, so cool.
Sue thinks, “frat rebel.”

he affects this look
studies mirror; adjusts just so
“Look how cool I am.”

— cleopatra

Who you tryin to
get crazy with Esse? Don’t
you know I’m loco?

— pfah

bangs bitches. Re-read.
tough, unchewable steak
bangs bitches. Re-read.

— jonezy

Mandana hides grease
Cannot hide the fact that he
Still lives with parents

— anonymous

southwest slim shady
poses with a hott next door
at the baptist church

— newman’s own balsamic douche

Batman producer
Hired to take this snapshot
Why on an angle?

— ol’ dirty douchebag

He rules his kingdom
The Short Hills Mall parking lot
I got da juice, yo.

— mr. white

Rarely caught on film.
See the rare suburban breed?
Honky nerd cholo.

— douche vader

No Snoop Dogg “G” here
No Sensual Seduction
You are ludicrous

— vacuum cleaner bag

'Bagger Green

PIC DELETED

Once again I must invoke the Rule of Clevershirt:

If you need a clever statement on your shirt to prove you have a personality to the ladies, you don’t have a personality.

Thank God Aqua Richard Simmons is in the background, ready to take down Green by Sweatin’ to his Oldies.

Brothabags

Shahbaz writes in about his fellow Brothabags:

—-
DB1,

— Shahbaz
—-

While P. Diddy is definitely uberscrote, he’s more the old school douche. But I have gotten a number of email complaints from both the Brothas and Nubian Hotts that I’m not featuring enough Brothabags on the site.

Let me be clear. Unlike Sal’s Famous, there will always be room for Brothabags up on my wall. I just don’t get enough submits of Nubian douchitude to run.

But I hear ya, Shahbaz. Here’s the best I could do. Sadly, it may be a Guido in Orange-face who accidentally ended up looking like a cross between Tupac and C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man.

Oh, the unintended clashing of offensive historical cultural representations within one singular body of wrongness.

But yes, if anyone has any good Brothabag pics, send ’em along.

Douchebaggery, in all its manifestations, must be cataloged. And by cataloged, I mean throwing pixelated spitballs at their oily-ass pictures, then laughing maniacally and wandering off to watch Zapped! on DVD.

The Meatrix

Keanu Pimp’s got that assploding hair, ‘bag hand gesture and wristdana, all certifying him FDA Choice Scrote.

But that doesn’t tell the whole story. The true distortion of reality that allowed him to pull Blonde Real Doll (and her two best friends).

It’s gotta be the power of the Meatrix.

Hang up the phone, 80s Penthouse Hott. This red pill isn’t worth the trip.

Tarzan the Brick?

Is this January’s HCwDB Weekly Winning couple, The Brick? He of the Yellow Spandex, she of the curvy port wine legs?

I can’t tell. He’s in disguise.

And by disguise, I mean has the landing strip chin pubes that is now, officially, the de facto douche facial hair pattern of 2008.

She remains drinkably pure, in perfect segmented soft serve ice cream chocolate dipped goodness. I would sacrifice an Osmond to Ganesh just for the chance to dye her silks for trade on the Italian prosciutto market in Lintz.

Trail Bait

Seriously Trail Baiter, step away from the Sultry Brunette Who Wants to Rub The DB1’s Upper Shoulder Blades with Melted Twix Bars, or as I like to call her, The Twix Rubber Melter.

Because I’m crazy with the ladies and the Twix.

Take your goofy best friend Kyle, who has no game, and even worse, follows you around because he thinks you’re rocking the stylin’ retro Gabe Kaplan look, and follow your own Freedom Trail back to the land of orcs, gnomes and crabs.