Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

One More, For the Scroad

Okay, since that last pic lacked the Je Ne Sais Quoi hott/choad dialectic that fires up the synapsis and enrages the sternum, here’s one more perfect HCwDB wrongness to fire you up for a Friday Night.

You see this monstrosity?

Now get off that couch, down some PBRs and get out there, fer chrissakes. The hotts need saving. Or, if you’re a girl and saving the hotts isn’t your thing, go knee a choad in the balls.

Don’t do it for me. Do it for Vishnu.

Miami Friday

As I contemplate the manifest cultural violations that patrol the greater Miami area, I can’t help but recall the explorer Ponce De Leon’s first words upon arriving in Florida all those years ago:  

Damn, no Fountain of Youth, but there’s gonna be some serious greased up douches wandering through these woods a few centuries from now.

At least that’s the rumor of what Ponce de Leon said. According to his wife, Sally Ann Cavanaugh de Leon.  Or perhaps the pastiche of pop culture poo that clogs my brain on a daily basis is confusing me. Stupid childhood HBO. It’s a wonder I learned anything.

So we drift off into another Friday, and I contemplate the simulation and the authentic. Douche in the age of Mechanical Reproduction. Tatted up, inflated spectacles and the cheesecake they acquire as proof of their societal worth.

I contemplate, and sip a PBR that I didn’t refrigerate long enough, so it’s only semi-cold. But it’s PBR.

So it’s all good.

Ten Hair Spikes, One Cup

Rare do we see the Holy Trinity of Douchery in action. Each of the three visions that came to Sister Mary Bleethy in the late 1890s in a convent in far off suburban Orange County, all on display in one singular cheezed up form.

The superspiked hair, the chin fungus and rarest of rare, the combo ‘bag hand gesture involving Ubiquitous Red Cup. So give it up to Trinity.

Let go of the OC Slut Hotts? Not by the hairs of his Chinny Chin Chin.

Low E.Q.

Fratbags.

I get older.

They stay the same doucheyness.

Mimi

Friday Haiku

Wanker Mail

Wiley’s Friend writes in:

—-
okay, so keep in mind that my friend wiley is a serial masturbator, but he leaned over to me this morning and confessed: “Dude, I beat it to hotchickswithdouchebags last night. I was just going through all those pictures, and the girls in the leis got to me.” I don’t know if it was a new high or a new low for him.
—-

I feel dirty.

Socrates 2008

Changin’ with the times, Soc. New stylin’ Chii hat, same old black ‘beater.

Keep on keepin’ on, learned scholar of douche antiquity.

Swifferhead

It’s not that I want to make fun of the model for the official Swiffer Junior Dust Remover ™, which you can get now for three easy payments of just $19.99.

It’s that I have to.

Because this perky Quartindian with the cherubic cheeks calls out to me to read her Rushdie novels by candlelight while massaging her upper neck area with chicken fat and drooling on her boobs like a brain-damaged arthritic Nun.

The 'Bag Vortex

When ‘Bag and ‘Baguette merge, we get what is called the Douche Singularity.

A blazing nuclear pinpoint supernova that rends the fabric of space/time, destroys universes, and drinks Zima.