Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Smuggler

Yeah, The Smuggler’s not the worst we’ve seen. More like your rich uncle right after the divorce, but before the liposuction/facelift.

Some argue oldscrotes still in the game deserve props. Others mock the aged ‘bag with the same aplomb they do the ‘bagling. Depends on which side of the Oldbag debate you fall on, I suppose.

Alls I know is I’d flay silk out of luna moths while chanting Aerosmith lyrics with the clicking language of the Bushmen of the Kalahari just for the chance to lick her retarded cousin’s special ed bib after feeding.

Ew. I think I took that one too far.

Krapwerk

Seriously. Germany. Stop it.

Yes, you make a great car. And yes, you occasionally start world wars.

But putting all that historical baggage aside, how do we account for this? Lime green jumpsuits, red glasses, and a black sweater-vest thingy.

Stop it. Before a loud pounding synth bass and strange dance moves attempt to cover for the fact that your sense of humor is as finely honed as an Egg McMuffin.

Meanwhile, Maria Von Trapped’s hills are definitely alive with the sound of something.

Melvis

Ladies and gentlemen, Melvis has douched the building.

Speaking of Chicago, not that we were, your humble narrator in all things douchey/boobie will be interviewed on tomorrow morning’s Mancow radio show. So tune in, and let me know how I do.

Reader Mail

Laura writes in with a double ‘bag capture:

—-
Hi DB1!

Laura
—-

There is nothing greater than when a girl writes in with a ‘bag capture story. Laura, you have done a service to your Nation. I award you the Orange Heart for bravery in the line of fire.

Wednesday Limerick

In clubland lurks Emo Design,
With facial patterns meant to entwine,
and confuse with dog collar,
And buy that with a dollar,
A Fraulein just back from the Rhine.

Yup. I’m still coming down from the Monthly.

HCwDB of the Month: Deathtongue

An epic Monthly, indeed. With nearly 250 votes, the people have spoken, and the power of the Deathtongue combining with Sloane Peterson Hottness was too much to overcome.

And this is how it should be.

The toxic wrongness of innocent sexy perfection being mauled by the latest in club culture douchitude. It’s the imperfection, the absence of logic and coherence that force us to take stock and reevaluate reality itself. As infallible puts it:

But we come to my choice for the winner: Deathtongue. My hate for you has only grown stronger since voting for you to be a weekly winner. The overwhelming audacity to have that filthy thing within 50 feet of a hott such as she. Her beauty is that which sends men decending into madness, haunting them night and day with her unparalled wonder.

But seeing Deathtongue accosting such a thing of marvel sublimates that madness into a psychotic fury. A fury that causes one to lash out in anger at all that come near, and to brutally maul those who dare to cross is path who bear the mark of the douche.

Exactly. That is the proper reaction to the wrongness of an HCwDB Monthly Victor. As talayatu dreams up punishment for this crutch bearing hott molester:

As for the Tongue himself, I go to another theorist of medieval society and recommend Foucault-style monarchial punishment. In this case, I say we take a dozen of those 80 lb toddlers one sees on Maury and starve them for a few days. Then we take Tongue, strip him, and cover him in BBQ sauce. Then we put him in a room- a small one- with the hungry hungry little hippos. And then we let nature take its course, while the public watches it all on public access television.

Let us not forget, as we see in Pic #2, Mia Sara Hott is enjoying his company to the point of friskiness. As filthy mcbaggin’ puts it:

While not always a purist, I’ve gotta go with Death Tongue. Rivaled only by the Peaches Point, The Tongue’s lick has to be one of the all-time, most douchtastic gestures ever. And it’s employed not once, but twice. That means it’s signature.

His Hott is most definitely that too. How hot? She allowed him to take down both M-Bag AND HJBBAD in the same contest…’nuff said.

Coming in a crimson second was the Android Disaster, Robot Boy, the Millennium Douche himself. Offering the female perspective, lisa m makes the case:

I’m voting for Millennium ‘Bag aka The Android aka The Fembot. He reminds me of a really bad dating incident years ago…and my enduring dislike of boys prettier than me.

You dated an android, lisa? Very disturbing.

A solid third, with fervent support from the poets in our midst, was the eloquent folkloric shaman, He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks. As butch cassidy and the douched out kids puts it:

HJBBaD for the win…reread…HJBBaD for the win…reread…HJBBaD for the win…reread…HJBBaD for the win…reread…HJBBaD for the win…reread…HJBBaD for the win…

And the everpresent anonymous makes the case:

For pure douche you have to give it to bangs bitches and drinks. The man has elevated douche to an art form. He has removed the blinders of bandanas, bling, and man tan and given douche a voice. A drunken, disjointed, pubescent voice. He has turned douche into a heart pounding, scrotum-tightening, libido-liberating slam poetry festival. He is the avant-garde douchebag – a man before his time.

That’s exactly right, everpresent A. Someday HJBBaD’s poetic genius will be revered in true Dada spirit.

And even in fourth place, The Grenade Tosser found support for his tiny, douched out grope. the toledo scrote face killer puts it best:

tosser FTW! for he is a bit of a tard, like me

And walt doucheman makes a solid argument:

The Tosser. Simple. There is a GRENADE ON HIS SLEEVE.

All his aforementioned crap aside, the sheer polarity generated by his douchiness and her immaculate hotness is the highest of the monthly. There is a GRENADE ON HIS SLEEVE.

But this is Deathtongue and his Quartasian’s moment to ascend to the plateau. As johnny scrotten aptly puts it:

deathtongue gets my vote. that pic still makes me want to set a litter of kittens on fire every time i see it. just the look on dude’s face is enough to inspire primal rage, followed by the need to hurt/break something.

she is a carmel delight. the antidote to his megadouchiness. she could make the hulk turn back into bruce banner in an instant.

That being said, HJBBaD and Millennium ‘Bag are going straight into the Hall of Scrote, along with Deathtongue. So congratulations are due all around. And by congratulations, I mean pounding a rusty nail into my temple while drooling on leopard print sundresses.

I’m not ready to admit The Grenade Tosser just yet. Because we have high standards for our Hall of Scrote here at HCwDB. And by high, I mean boobies.

Now you might ask youself what the “win” therefore means, since three went to the Hall? It means that only Deathtongue gets to compete in the Yearly. Which is appropriate, since he proved victor in such an epic month.

So lets give it up to Deathtongue. There’s your Monthly winner, people. And what an epic Monthly this was.

Pat yourselves on the back for excellent dissection and eviceration in the comments thread, and we’ll see three of these entries in the Hall of Scrote, and Deathtongue in the Yearly in December.

Bear Back

Watching this mugging is like seeing my sweet innocent Freshman year college girlfriend getting mauled by a bear at Yellowstone. On Youtube. With mocking sound effects.

If the bear smelled like Aqua Velva, Cheetos and a discarded packet of ketchup.

But what’s really confusing me is the bikini-at-the-bar look. Is this a shots girl? Or did she wander in from the next-door set of Saved By The Bell: The Unemployed Beach Years?

The Orange Wasp Stings Again

Wasn’t that the title of a Roger Corman exploitation flick from the 1960s starring Jack Nicholson and Pia Zadora?

The Cruise

Look, it’s one thing to paint your room dark blue.

It’s quite another to get your vests at the Tom Cruise Scientology yard sale.

Twizzler Hotts

Vegas trampy hotts are the Twizzlers of the T&A universe.

Tasty, licorice treats to be sure, but lacking the far more filling chocolate and nugat based complexities of the Mars Bar, The Twix or the highly underrated Milky Way.

This is not to say Twizzlers aren’t filling. They just talk in a whiny high pitched voice that sounds like upstate New York.

Wait, I think that metaphor just broke down.

And then there’s these four tubs of lard. They’re that small dirty pile of Doritos refuse at the bottom of the vending machine. The type you accidentally touch when you have to do the awkward reach-through-weird-metal-doorflap move to get your purchased snack.

But you suffer the Doritos refuse. Because, hey. Twizzlers.