Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB of the Week: Boobs

It’s a mamtastic Weekly, with firm baby feeding gazangas of pure Poland Spring sparkling skinwater, matched up with three of the greasiest choadbuckets this side of a KFC waste relay station.

This really is a tough contest. I can’t figure out which’ll win. And so I’ll shut my yapping preamble and turn it over to our finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Bagwatch Nights

Beach scenes are harder to rank on the scrotal douche factor because, unlike clubs, dorms and restaurants, beach choads have a legitimate excuse to be shirtless.

But, in this case, the grease/tan factor goes up to 11. And so we find uberdouche.

He is a Jersey toxic waste dump personified.

Smug pout. Perfectly coiffed hair. Fake tan on a real beach.

And the flipside — boobs.

Succulent throw pillows whose gravity defying succulence provide hope for all those homeless thespians who flunked out of Juilliard.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Smearkat

What boobs this pic are the boobuousness of the dialectic between boobs, gender construction and boobs.

Cultural theorist Judith Butler often remarks on how the beboobsing of societal hiearchical boobuousness is boobsy beboobs.

It is important to boobs the larger cultural iterations, while beboobsing the boobs with a pancake and a large whisk.

Note her beboobsed boobsings, and also her boobuous boobosity.

Boobs.

Boobs.

Boobs.

Boobs.

Boobs.

And a huge douche.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Kelly Hott and The Paw

Kelly Hott is all that is All-American cheerleader Brundlefly spliced with all that is naughty stripper hott.

She is the two Marys, Virgin and Slutt. Ginger and Mary-Anne. All in one perfect, soft Downey Fresh cottony pillowy dreamscape of ginger bread cookies and velveteen fog.

He requires a massive ass kicking by a coked up Mr. T.

God damn, this is a power-packed Weekly.

All three of these pics pack that roundhouse kick to the synapses that make a great HCwDB combo.

Which combo of sexy and douchey wrong most makes you want to pour sulfuric acid into your eyes to stop the pain of cultural Fail?

That, my friends, is up to you. Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

The Mark of the Yank

What is with the Yankee Cap correlation to extreme scrotedouchery?

Did Reggie Jackson set off a chain reaction of events at Plato’s Retreat in 1979 that took twenty years to manifest as a global cultural douchenomenon?

Or was it the residual grease left behind by a Jason Giambi / Roger Clemens ‘roid pool party in the late 1990s that launched the “House of a Thousand Douchey Yankee Caps”?

It’s like this mysterious puzzle that I can’t unscramble. Why, the Yankees? Is it an arbitrary reappropriation of icon? Could it have been any insignia the ‘bags could have chosen to announce their ballsack fungery to the world? Say, the Brewers? Or an Ankh? Or a Sumerian sun god?

And if not, then why Yankees?

So is it bad that I can’t even see her face but I want to lick her cell phone like a confused marsupial?

Retro Douche: Jean-Claude Van Damme

Since it’s Memorial Day, your commentator on all things spectacle/cleavite, The DB1 is taking it easy. The Weekly will be tomorrow.

In the meantime, lets revisit and weigh in on 80s action star and all around shaven chest prototype, Jean-Claude Van Damme. Check him out getting his groove on here. Okay. Pretty freaking ridiculous.

But Bloodsport kicks serious ass. So he gets at least a semi nottadouche pass.

But still, to be sporting the Don Johnson Miami Vice duds in 2008? Sorry Van Damme Judi Dench, but you’re getting a scrote-stamp across the forehead like a jump-kick with badly pronounced vocal inflection.

Your wife looks pretty MILFy, though. Or GMILFy as the case may be.

Memorial Day BBQ-Scrote

I know it’s Memorial Day Weekend and I should post something profound and nuanced on the tragedy so many have suffered in wars past and present, on how we must always remember those who’ve fallen to defend us, and those who still serve.

And all of that is true.

But this is Hot Chicks with Douchebags.

So I’ll do what little I can do. Which involves posting a wholesome southern peach getting molested by a white trash uberdouche in some creepy-ass trailer park. All while Ubiquitous Red Cup watches warily.

It’s not much.

But I like to think I make a difference.

Fish Slap Sez…

I know it’s Memorial Day Weekend, and I shouldn’t toss some fauxhawking Fish Slap at you. Especially not when he’s flexing with a lithe popsicle blond who doesn’t seem to mind being fondled by a pile of, how you say, douche.

But I had to.

For Fish Slap says Bra and Tighty Armani aren’t douchey enough to carry his hair gel. And when a legend steps in to reassert his scrotal dominance in the poo chain, who am I to stand in the way?

Looking at this atrocity of a disaster of a scrotacalypse, I’m inclined to agree.

Classic HCwDB: A Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars

Originally appearing on the site last October, our little four collar pop with Cherokee Indian Princess quickly made the viral rounds.

Who knew The QuatroPop would become legend? Unlike the Prompas, this is one I didn’t target for making the leap.

But god damn, if that ain’t a dude with a lot of popped collars then the rash on my sack doesn’t itch like the bejeebus.

Stupid rash. That’s the last time I run naked through Dallas.

Loopy Saturday

It’s true that your humble guide through our dark cultural nightmare, The DB1, was a little loopy yesterday.

Maybe it was my newest discovery — Malomars and Mr. Pibb. So tasty. So sugary. So chemical.

Or maybe it was having a picture like this emailed to me that pushed me over the edge (warning, no HC in that pic).

Last night, your humble narrator wooed the hotts away from the multipiercing red cup drinking uberdouche that patrol this fetid swampland like arthritic tse-tse flies. I did my best. Because that’s what I’m here to do.

And every time a boobie hott is saved, our culture shifts ever so slight back towards the sunlight of golden glow.

So it’s Saturday, and it’s a three day weekend.

The bluebirds are singing and the DJs deserve a kick in the nads. Because seriously, assfaces, you play records. That’s all you do. You’re an ambulatory iPod. You’re a shuffle play that can walk. With stupid sunglasses.

Friday Thoughts

So I was buying my usual lunch today in Larchmont; deer, avacado and fluff sandwich with a large tapioca boba. When suddenly I looked up at the sky and, in a moment of alcoholic clarity, it struck me.

The boobie hottie suckle thigh congregates with douche because of spectacle monkey dance.

So I turned to an old lady walking her dachshund by me on the sidewalk.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“The boobie hottie suckle thigh congregates with douche because of spectacle monkey dance.”

A long moment passed before she spoke.

“Excuse me. I have to go now.” It was all she said.

She walked away. But I knew right then that I’d saved another old lady walking her dachshund from eternal damnation.

Yes, I’ve said this before. And I’ll say it again. Because the doucheface is poo. And the hotts need saving. Those are my words of wisdom on this Friday’s eve.

Take them and bear them into the real world, my friends, fellow ‘bag hunters and compatriots. And they will lead you to truth.

Rare-Ass Yellow Cup

We have seen the Ubiquity of the Ubiquitous Red Cup (URC) make many appearances on the site.

But pictured here we have the extremely hard to find Rare-Ass Yellow Cup (RAYC).

Long thought extinct, the Rare-Ass Yellow Cup was recently snapped infiltrating a boat party in Montauk, Long Island. When asked to comment, Rare-Ass Yellow Cup had the following to say: Just giving URC a break from all this scrote.

It was then quieted when shaved head douche poured in a shot of Jager and yelled, “Woo.”

The Spy Who Mohawked Me

There’s a back-story here involving Cypress cargo transport, Slovakian thugs, digital codes and a hairdresser named Ramone.

Maybe it’s the hole in the wall of their basement torture chamber. Or maybe that John Deere tractor reconfigured to inflate boobies.

But something tells me this story begins and ends with a whole lot of wrong.

I just feel unclean.