Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Not Quite Shocked

I dub this hand gesture, the “Mild Surpriser.”

Velveeta Soul Crush

Anonymous comments on yesterday’s b-level ‘bag/hott pics in the comments thread:

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enough of the pseudo-douches already… DB1, you’re not even trying to crush my soul with this.
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Crush your soul? I was trying to give you a reprieve after the Monthly. But okay, you asked for it, Anon. Have some more Velveeta.

The legendary Velveeta ‘Bag, whom I just realized is not yet in the Hall of Scrote, demands satisfaction.

How have we overlooked his candidacy to date? His lineup of overdressed PTP hotts? His oily Swedish underfed visage?

What say you? Velveeta for Hall of Scrote, or what?

Fingerface

I can’t tell which is douchier.

The face on this guy, or the fact his friend taking the picture still hasn’t figured out how to keep his finger out of frame.

Mary-Kate Molson

Who knows what douchebaggery lurks in the hearts of men?

The Shadowbag knows.

Hott can billiard my eight-ball in the corner pocket while racking my Fats any day of the week and forty-two times on Saturday.

Which means, I’d, uhm, like to buy her flowers and ask for a dance at the pep rally.

The Wizard of Roz

Oh Dorothy, tell me that Toto didn’t grow up to become a greasy clubber wang.

If he only had some Grey Goose, the Wizard might see him now.

And by Wizard, I mean his friends on Facebook.

Happy St. Patricks Day!

Buy the Tongue Gaggle a round of shots, why don’t ya.

But always beware the hiding Cactus Plant with Ubiquitous Red Cup.

For he is very spiky.

HCwDB of the Week: Drunk Irish Edition

You know how they say to live each day like it’s your last? I spent yesterday scratching myself, eating HoHos and watching TV.

Here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Retarded Spider

Any ‘bag who invents a new hand maneuver while simultaneously looking like the lost Wilson brother, Douchey Wilson, deserves Finalist status.

Then we factor in the sexy furry hoodie look, with just that hint, that garnish if you will, of boobal perfection, and the dichotomy is perfect.

And where are these two?

It’s like a rustic 19th century schoolhouse in northern Minnesota.

I can almost make out the 19th Century graffiti on the wall. It reads: Jamison’s books smell like grout.

Because those rural Minnesotan school kids in the 1890s sure knew how to lay the smack down.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Small Package

Originally I titled this pic “Do You Know Why His Ego Is So Big?”

But that’s a bit unwieldy.

So I’ve come up with the incredibly subtle, linguistically playful “Small Package” moniker.

Because hey. Small package.

She is a delectible Swedish lemon drop of vacuousness.

A white shirt blank slate onto which I will project all my deepest, darkest fantasies.

We would play Parchezee until dawn.

Then munch on gummi bears.

Then she would crush me to death using her superpower thighs.

And I would like it.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Stamos ‘Bag

There’s something hilarious about this chin strap facial hair configuration. It peters out right around the jawline, only to regain confidence as it approaches the chin.

That, plus the bling, tie and eyebrow, give Stamosbag finalist status.

Daddy’s Daughter is out for a night on the town, and she has chosen the Greekbag.

She knows not what she does.

And that, as in any great HCwDB pic, is what drives our collective judgment.

So them’s your three.

Dishonorable mention to The Hangnail from Friday’s Haiku. Also I’m knocking out The Pro from consideration as professional douchebaggery just isn’t quite the same as amateur scrotitude in action.

Now stop yer bitchin’ that these three pics aren’t as powerful as last week’s Monthly. This is only the Weekly. Rare is the pinnacle vortex of hott/douche that was last week’s Monthly.

So lets bring it on back to reality and pick a winner. And by winner, I mean loser. Today, as we honor the land of James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Sinead O’Connor and uberdouche Colin Farrell, by drinking beer with green dye in it, lets vote, as always, in the comments thread.

The Eagle Has Handed

It’s a lazy Sunday.

Which means one and only one thing.

I’d spend the rainy season camped out under papaya leaves weaving tapestries out of straw to exhange for coin to ride a merchant ship heading for the Ivory Coast just for the chance to briefly meet the child laborers who helped sew her Victoria’s Secret bra in a sweatshop.

Which is my roundabout way of saying fantastic adult play pillows.

And lame wrist-strap, Eagle Douche.

The Pro

It’s not easy being a professional douchescrote. Having your very living dependent on a ridiculous hair style and a watch that is very, very silly.

Sure there are the perks. The PTP hotts. The free membership at CostChoad.

Now I know what you’re saying. And yes, we do grant certain exemptions to Musicians/Rockstars to douche it up. The general rule of thumb is if you’ve had a top 10 hit in the past five years and your last name is not Mayer, you’re allowed 3 Stages of Douchitude Without Mock. And rumor is this is a rock guy, so if true, perhaps there is some forgiveness.

Then I consider how I’d like to nibble on a Cuban sandwich with a side order of fried plantains lightly sprinkled by her sweat after a workout on the Stairmaster5000, and stamping choad on the dude’s forehead is requisite.

ITA

And by ITA, you mean GUI.