Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Stage-1 ‘Bagling? Or Stage-2?

Kevin the Party Pud is pretty low down on the douchal scale.

Sure he’s jumped into a gaggle of Woo Hotties who are doing their best to ignore him. But seriously. Does Kevin really rankle?

Sure he’s got a silly camo hat. And a hang gesture. And he drinks Keystone when PBR is just as cheap and plentiful.

But wait… is that “chin strap”?

I’m going stage-2.

And I see each of you, Polkadot Bikini Baby Hotties. I will playfully tweak your ear, then run and hide. But you won’t come looking for me. So I’ll go home and watch TiVo’d Breaking Bad. And eat Malomars. And tell my roommate you weren’t that hot anyway, and I don’t care.

Stage-1 'Bagling? Or Stage-2?

Kevin the Party Pud is pretty low down on the douchal scale.

Sure he’s jumped into a gaggle of Woo Hotties who are doing their best to ignore him. But seriously. Does Kevin really rankle?

Sure he’s got a silly camo hat. And a hang gesture. And he drinks Keystone when PBR is just as cheap and plentiful.

But wait… is that “chin strap”?

I’m going stage-2.

And I see each of you, Polkadot Bikini Baby Hotties. I will playfully tweak your ear, then run and hide. But you won’t come looking for me. So I’ll go home and watch TiVo’d Breaking Bad. And eat Malomars. And tell my roommate you weren’t that hot anyway, and I don’t care.

Philip’s Got MAD Game

It’s like Philip told his “Bro Posse” in the background. When you got the mad game, you just can’t help being the “gangsta” at the State Fair Picnic in upstate New York, near Ossining.

Sure, the ladies may be classic “Paid to Pose” promo girls, getting 10 bucks an hour to wander around in short-shorts.

But when you gots the mad game, they’d be posin’ even if they weren’t gettin’ paid, yo.

Philip's Got MAD Game

It’s like Philip told his “Bro Posse” in the background. When you got the mad game, you just can’t help being the “gangsta” at the State Fair Picnic in upstate New York, near Ossining.

Sure, the ladies may be classic “Paid to Pose” promo girls, getting 10 bucks an hour to wander around in short-shorts.

But when you gots the mad game, they’d be posin’ even if they weren’t gettin’ paid, yo.

HCwDB of the Week: The Krackenbag and Candice

After an early surge by the Swiffer, the slow-and-steady Krackenbag pulled it out. A solid win for the deep-sea creature of Greek douche-legend. The voters speak:

The Douche of Earl: The Krackenbag. Simple as that. His orange ora and the vibe of I am better then you because I wear my silk shirt half way on. But more importantly his gaze into the cosmos; Flashbacks to earlier in the year when a man named Crimson Ted forever ruined life as I knew it. Even without “the point” he has CT’s gaze into space. Krackenbag.

Anonymous: Krackenbag. Classic self-important douche expression, and his hott is the hottest, IMO.

Douchetros Douchetros Ghali: Krackenbag FTW. Because he looks like the “Douchebag” exhibit at Madame Tussaud’s. And because he makes me want to read Russian lit in a dark, dank basement with a bare lightbulb swinging over my head.

Anonymous: Krackenbag. His aura of douche is so powerful that you almost don’t even notice poor Candice. That kind of power can’t be denied. Plus, he’s spawn of Porsche. A metastasized nugget of rectal cancer that has migrated deep into our collective consciousness.

Bob Vila: Krackenbag FTW. I know HCwDB recognizes choad-slinging in all its vile forms, but I’m a sucker for a traditional, Grieco-ed out douchescrote. And with the chinstrap, blowout, tweezed brows and muscle-pose, Krackenbag is that.

Anonymous: im voting Krackenbag. his use of the rare “too distracted by something else going on in the distance to even realize im being photographed” pose suggests a true mastery of the douchal arts

Medusa Oblongata: The thousand-yard, pretty-boy “deep” stare. The shirt thrown open in carefully orchestrated “careless” abandon. The chin strip. Anime villain spikey blowout. I’ll blame the orange hue on the shitty phone cam pic, but I’m sure he’s an unnatural orange hue anyway. Delicate tweezed eyebrows. And the worst part of all…his mediocre abs are being caressed by a sultry brunette whose huge doe eyes remind me of my beloved Anne Hathaway. For that, the Kraken must pay

Well said panel, some righteous smackdowns for the Flabio of Wankscrotery and his sneaky-sexy Long Island Iced Tea Hott. But coming in a solid second was the hawkbaggery of The Swiffer:

Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche: Swiffer FTW! Krackenbag + 1 mild hott does not equal Swiffer + 2 much hotter hotts and 1 horse-mouth hott. Kracken isn’t good for anything. At least with Swiffer, he can sweep away his own poo as he walks and can scrape the ice off my car in winter too.

Anonymous: Gotta go Swiffer, that’s a lot of hotts, and a lot of not.

Margaret Gweed: I’m gonna go with the Swiff. He has a bit of a gaybag vibe, but even if he was, he’s so much of a tool he can out-douche the others in a hot second. He reminds me of American Apparel ads. He’s like a walking advertisment of “youth culture,” which makes you realize how vacuous and dead the scene really is. Swiffer Head is the logical end of counter-culture.

doucheifex Maximus: I vote Swiffer, for one simple reason: When he went to the barbershop/salon/bathroom, he told the person cutting his hair, “I want you to shave off 2 inches above the ear, except shave a wicked sweet star outline in it. Then, I want you to put the rest in a fauxhawk so big it can be seen from the space station.” Oh, and attractive females. OK, two reasons.

Solid arguments for the Swifster, but even three girl-next-door hotts and a late second pic couldn’t pull out the victory for Starhead. Coming in a sad and distant third was Melvin and Laura Mars Zebra Hott:

Count Douchekevitch: Melvin the Zebra and Laura Mars Hott. Because there are way too many hip bones showing (someone feed them both a whole NY cheesecake) and Melvin looks like he smells like ganja and fritos, while sipping bongwater through a straw.

It seems the sad white-boy status of Zebra didn’t bother the voters as much as it did me. And Laura Mars Crazy Eyes is delightful. But not enough to win, alas. The Bag Queen takes it home:

I vote Krakenbag. His vacant stare will haunt my dreams forever. He’s posing for the camera either pretending the camera isn’t there in an attempt to capture a look of “naturalness” or he’s staring at his reflection off in the distance. Either way, DOUCHEBAG.

Indeed, Bag Queen. Indeed. Excellent work all around to the voters, and lets chalk up this Douchemance Novel cover photo for the Monthly. His shaved chest and vacant stare will haunt our nightmares and curse our hopes for a better tomorrow. And Candice’s boobs remain underappreciated. C’mon people. Those are some quality boobies.

Reader Mail: Franco ‘Baggin’

—-
Dear DB1,

Enjoy!
Monsieur LaDouche
—-

I’ve always had deep respect for French academia. From Foucault to Baudrillard, French intelligentsia has reconfigured 20th and 21st century philosophy, culture, art and politics. Which are all, of course, intertwined in neo-modern critical discourse.

And by discourse, I mean glorious French ass pear. Brigitte Bardot. Catherine Deneuve. Sophie Marceau. Emmanuelle Beart. Mmmm. They are curvy, squishy, soft critical discourses of linguistic deconstruction.

And by critically deconstructed, I mean by me. At length. With cocoa oils and a large, vibrating egg.

Reader Mail: Franco 'Baggin'

—-
Dear DB1,

Enjoy!
Monsieur LaDouche
—-

I’ve always had deep respect for French academia. From Foucault to Baudrillard, French intelligentsia has reconfigured 20th and 21st century philosophy, culture, art and politics. Which are all, of course, intertwined in neo-modern critical discourse.

And by discourse, I mean glorious French ass pear. Brigitte Bardot. Catherine Deneuve. Sophie Marceau. Emmanuelle Beart. Mmmm. They are curvy, squishy, soft critical discourses of linguistic deconstruction.

And by critically deconstructed, I mean by me. At length. With cocoa oils and a large, vibrating egg.

Sleeve McQueen

There’s no shortage of mockable pattern-clashing loudness on Sleeve as he macks on Kimmy.

But it’s the Sleeve Tatt that is particularly noteworthy. And by noteworthy I mean poo. The only thing worse than garish tatts are fake garish tatts. Whomever invented the sleeve tatt needs a leeching of the scrotum, Spanish Inquisition style.

Kimmy needs a soft butt paddling. I would oblige using a ping-pong paddle, a small bramble, and a cotton swab.

Got Milky?

Looks like Milky’s hott from yesterday’s Milky McMuscles pic has found another bro to party with. And yet more trouble here.

This serious downgrade in human merit warrants a deep thought from your humble narrator. And that thought is this:

When the blue tailed robin chirps upon a tree branch at the first rays of the dawning sun in earliest morn, it is for Squishy Boobie in Black Bustier that the robin sings.

Stu?

Is this Stu?

Is Stu macking on the Miami Latina Hotts?

Are Stu’s pecs stuffed with a mixture of polycarbonate and foam?