Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Live Strong Cowboy

Sweet Ophelia, how now? Betwixt your Cowboy’s shirtless uberdouchery, lies a rose by any other name. It smells like poo.

The Mole

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What does this pic feel like a Brighton Beach Russian Mafia wedding from the late 1990s?

And if The Mole is Russian Mafia, let me just say that he is not a douchebag, I heartily respect his culture, his people and his family, and beg them not to Viggo my Mortensens.

Stamosbag

It’s not the chin strap that sends Stamosbag over the top. It’s that eyebrow.

That waxed furry thing, arching every so slightly as he leans in to kiss the Dazed Cutie who Knows Not What She Does, or as I like to call her, The DCwKNWSD (pronounced “Decweknowsed”).

Hands off, Stamosbag, before you get your silk tie caught in your necklace spiral.

Fan Mail

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WOW!!!!! UR THE BIGGEST DOUCHE OF THEM ALL!!!!…I HOPE U RECOGNIZE THAT….U OBVIOUSLY HAVE WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS AND R PRETTY F@#KIN SALTY ABOUT THAT FACT THAT U DONT EVER PULL HOS!!! GET A F@#KING LIFE!!!!!!!!
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If there’s anything I R, it’s salty.

My Grammy's Glasses

I felt bad when my 82 year old grandmother, living in Ft. Lauderdale, lost her glasses while eating at the Early Bird Special at a diner in Margate.

Grammy was very upset. She loved those glasses. She wore them to every half price movie theater in town.

Little did I know they’d turn up on a wristdana’d white scarfed Ricky Martin tool, livin la vida scrota.

Sorry, Grammy. But it’s best to let the glasses go and buy another pair.

I hear Rite Aid is having a sale.

HCwDB of the Week

Another tough Weekly to cull down our finalists to be the last Winner, and I by winner I mean wrong, before what’s shaping up to be an epic Monthly.

Your narrator on our philosophical/scatalogical journey, The DB1, had fondue yesterday, and so in honor of my bloated insides, here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Private School Hott

I’m fairly certain late 1980s Penthouse Forum Hott has appeared on this site before, but regardless, this pic was too good not to give a shot in the finals.

We have your standard Floridian Douchewank, tonguing it up with hat tilt and hand gesture.

And you have a sweet, slightly befuddled cutie, possibly taking the pic.

Rare is the pic taken by the hott of the ‘bag in action.

For her unintentional ‘bag capture, PSH gets major props. He gets major fish slaps.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks

HJBBAD is a troubling finalist in that our usual barometers of douchery lie in the visual, but now we have significant textual information to back up his case for uberscrote.

A second problem is the lack of visibility of the girl.

I was on the verge of bumping HJBBAD completely and putting him up for the Hall of Scrote directly, but then I thought we’d see if he can win a Weekly first. Like Ricky, I’m not sold that he’s HOS material, even for his epic genius in describing taint length as a disqualifier for a girlfriend.

Did HJBBAD’s scat-poetry raps drive you to distraction enough to pull that lever for him in the Weekly?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Unnecessary Point

Sometimes the title of the pic just says it all, don’t it?

There’s a fratbaggery that is more annoying than the sum of its parts on Pointer.

And Pointee is everything you want in a state school sexy can-can of delight.

She is Sweet and Hott Pork. Innocent, yet drrty.

He is AXholic.

So them’s your three. Honorable mention to The ‘Bag Oilwich, and The Dripper, both of whom barely missed out. In fact I’m still not sure HJBBAD is a true Weekly contestant, but my insides are clogged and I drank too many PBRs last night.

So them’s your three. Three enter. Only one coupling of wrongness ascends.

Which will it be? That’s up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Ubiquitous Red Cup

Ubiquitous Red Cup was one of the first icons we discovered here at HCwDB that helps to mark the hottie/douchey coupling. The URC’s frequent appearances, some obvious, some hidden, serve as the unifying force that pulls all spiritual hott/douche yin-yang polarity into one larger cohesive whole.

To understand the philosophical implications of Ubiquitous Red Cup, one must first understand that image signifiers are not literal, but connect to a larger conceptual meaning structure.

In this case, that star-boy is an uberdouche and boobies like to say “Howdy!” because they’re very, very friendly.

Promsta Trippin'

Somewhere between Michael Corleone, Tony Montana, Al Capone and the Macy’s Labor Day sale with all Alfani 50% off (an extra 10% if you open a Macy’s Card with your purchase), lies this guy.

Yeah, I’m clearing out the pics.

It’s Saturday. I’m hung over. And Velvet Elvis is annoying me.

Saturday 'Bag / Not a 'Bag

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This one’s a toughie.

Other than the presence of Ubiquitous Red Cup, a key signifier of Fratbaggery, there’s really nothing to pin douche upon the head of this dude.

She is bright eyed perfection.

But is he ‘bag? Maybe the unbuttoned shirt is enough? The earrings are a key. Maybe the Don Johnson stubble?

I can’t decide, and so I turn it over to you. ‘Bag? Or Not a ‘Bag?

Render your judgment in the comments therad.

Primo Levi on Hat Tilt

The great Italian poet and author, Primo Levi, once wrote:

What a very few are acquiring in knowledge of the physical world will perhaps cause this period not to be judged as a pure return of barbarism.

Oh Primo, finding optimism in a world gone scrote. I wish that I could agree with you.

But then I see this. And even the curves of thigh on the hotts are not enough to validate the worth of humanity.

So I crack open a bottle of Night Train I bought from a surly old Korean Deli owner near Wilshire. And I snack on some tasty Hostess snack cakes.

And gradually the dissonant noise of global club culture, the shouting of woos, the pollution of the boobies, the garish garb and shaved chests, all slowly begin to fade and defocus into ambient background noise. Spectral wash. Meaningless abstract detritus to be tuned out and ignored. Like construction work outside your window. Or the joyless rituals of American Idol.

The chaos recedes. The skies open up. And a rain comes and washed the hair gel away.

Like Primo Levi, I find joy where I can.

Because there’s always hope to be found, even in a world of hat-tilted designer White Sox caps. There’s bluebirds and boobies. Sunshine and suckle worthy thighs. Classical music that transforms the spirit and uplifts the soul, and fantastic butts on 19 year old coeds.

I sip my ‘Train, and stare at the setting sun, and all is right in the universe.