Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

White Chocolate Milks On

One of the first truly odious international doucherstars to emerge on the site, the wigga taint and hallowed Hall of Scrote member White Chocolate first made his mark with suburban homeboy aplomb back in late 2006.

In internet years, that’s about forty generations of fruit fly. Way back when the Grieco Virus was just reaching critical mass.

Today’s pic is proof positive that White Chocolate carries on. A Typhoid Mary of Taint. A swill of Swine-flu. A lip herp on the face of God.

Even if his lady friend may not be up to standards, she does offer unbutton jean-shorts and wonderful flesh gozangs. And it’s W.C. So I’m going with it.

And don’t whine about the “nott” in the threads. Or I’ll kick a puppy. This is White Chocolate. Respek must be paid. And by Respek, I mean, of course, drunkenly inspired mocking.

Mandana or Head Wound?

Okay fellow ‘bag hunters, time to play another round of the game that’s sweeping the nation:

Mandana or Head Wound?

Take your best shot in the threads.

Kegger Dogs

Fratbags to the left of her,
Wankstas to the right,
there she is, stuck in the middle with poo…

The Topographic Arm

I’m just saying, when your arm begins to resemble a tactile topographic map of the Andes Mountains, it may be time to rethink the artificially enhanced pumpitude.

On an unrelated note, lemon sherbet is tasty and good for you. And has boobies.

Steve Peterson’s Night Out

PIC DELETED

Oh, Steve Peterson. Everyone in Accounting loves when you come by the water cooler and do those wacky impressions of Frank Caliendo doing his wacky impressions.

And when you wear that Hawaiian tie on Fridays? The V.P.s in Business Affairs just think you’re a card and a hoot!!

So who are we to judge you for heading to Vegas, corralling a sad PTP Hott, making a deformed “Shocker” hand gesture, and busting the 1980s Jams shorts?

Not I.

For your existential crisis is palpable.

But yer still a douche.

Steve Peterson's Night Out

PIC DELETED

Oh, Steve Peterson. Everyone in Accounting loves when you come by the water cooler and do those wacky impressions of Frank Caliendo doing his wacky impressions.

And when you wear that Hawaiian tie on Fridays? The V.P.s in Business Affairs just think you’re a card and a hoot!!

So who are we to judge you for heading to Vegas, corralling a sad PTP Hott, making a deformed “Shocker” hand gesture, and busting the 1980s Jams shorts?

Not I.

For your existential crisis is palpable.

But yer still a douche.

HCwDB of the Week: Waxy McBrow

The power of Brows compels you!! The power of Brows compels you!!

What more can be said about this coupling of greasy taint and boobie hottie suckle thigh? And don’t forget the rest of the series, Waxy and Goose and Waxy and Co.

The voters speak:

Luke: Understated douchebaggery is the most insidious form of douchebaggery. It holds the greatest potential to ruin mankind by appearing benign enough to coax others into the fold, thereby shifting the social norm slowly but surely into its choad. For this reason, Waxy McBrow must be mocked. Why must the permissible division of a unibrow transmogrify into the this, befouling the name of an otherwise benevolent hygienic product in the process?

ehcuodouche: Waxy and Rachelle FTW. It’s been awhile since we had douchiness that oozed rather than spewed out like vomit. And Rachelle’s smile was enough to keep me from focusing on the rack…for a second or two. Now if you excuse me I need to clean my shoes.

End the Haberdouchery: Waxy and Rachelle FTW. I want to spend a summer backpacking across her bosom. He is wearing a sweater vest.

BillDouchiest the Wild Swine: Waxy and Rachelle. Rachelle is all kinds of curvaceous yummyness, and waxy not only waxes his brows, but it also appears that he waxes his hands and wrists. Probably his back. Probably his balls. Waxy for the win.

ozymandius: Waxy and Rachelle. Because I am the weeping poet, the speeding cheetah.

Anonymous: Waxy and Rachelle FTW. Waxy’s weirdly hairless hand and wrist, combined with his smug train-wreck of a face, asinine rosary beads, ill-fitting smock/vest, and half-assed pointy hand gesture make him Weekly worthy. Rachelle is made of plastic but still causes embarrassing spills and minor car accidents by wearing that tiny black cocktail dress.

Emma G: Waxy McBrow FTW. Who the hell does he think he is fooling with those Robin Williams arms? Mrs Douchefire indeed.

teh abominable snowdouche: Waxy has what we call the ‘Douche Essence’. He doesn’t need to show off mystical hand formations. For he IS douche essence. He lives and breathes the expressionless face. Waxy FTL.

Froggy: Waxy. His total unworthiness to be in the vicinity of the hott makes me want to tie him to the bumper of my truck and drag him face down on the Vegas strip.

Vinny Scumbaglia: Bunny’s bunnies notwithstanding: Waxy McBrow and Rachelle FTW: this scrote-strosity appears to have spilled something in his silken crotch. It doesn’t matter if he did or not, it looks like it: so I have to throw Bunny an HoH nomination bone, because it is…

Archidouchies: I’m boobing for Waxy Mcboob and Rackelle because boobs and breast and sexy female minx boobies and oh yeah, he’s a hairy douche bag and I’m angered by the fact that his Sasquatch ass is grabbing up on her. Boobies.

Douche Mengia: Hate them all, but gotta go with Waxy due to his delusions of self-worth.

Matthew: Waxy McBrow and Rachelle… That eastern bloc eurotrash IZOD wearing taint-wipe has no business even being in the same county/nation-state as Rachelle.

Excellent deconstructions all around, fellow ‘bag hunters. Good work. But White Boy and Bunny Lebowski definitely found some Eagles haters:

Count Douchekevitch: Whiteboy and Julianne Moore’s evil-vivacious step mother, because he appears to be Paul Reubens’ love child from that career-ending day in 1991. Also, he uses body ink to distract from his obviously wee pee.

Xenu: Scrotian Princess: Anyone with “Whiteboy” tattooed on his stomach should be ridiculed as much as possible.

Tony Ventresca: White Boy, because anyone who has his nickname across his belly is simply wrong, and his hott is hot in that hot way that makes a hott hot.

Filthy McBaggin: White Boy and Bunny Lebowski – I hate this tool. I would love to drop him, sans his Ed Hardy, into a real ghetto in Detroit, South Central L.A., East St. Louis, etc., as a version of my own “Surviving the Game”. With or without this Bleeth, he’s clearly the worst piece of taint around here in the last couple of weeks. White Boy FTW!

Excellent slaps at the rank Vegas whiteness in presence of fading Bunny’s career. And Herp Salad came in a solid third:

give bleeth a chance: Herp Salad for the win, simply for bringing classic Scrote to the forefront when all these young’ns are tryin’ to reinvent the game. The guy in the background is a douche, and considering the camera guy was probably shirtless as well, it’s obvious this man bathes in a cesspool of choad poo. All the while Pointing. At. His. Abs.

The Douche Abides: Herp Salad for the win. Waxy is douche-lite and White Boy is douche with a big helping of white trash mixed in.

All good points, and the voting was tight all around. Tighter than a lineup of albinos at a Nike factory. I have no idea what that means. But while both Herps and White Boy put up a valiant douche-fight, Rachelle’s curves and McBrow’s brows were too strong of taint to overcome. Shamespeare the Magnificent brings us home:

I wasn’t going to vote for Waxy. Then he pointed out Rachelle’s cleavage to me.

I vote for thee.

And M agrees:

Are you kidding? Waxy! Rachelle! Head for the mountains of Doooooouche…bag!

I base this on the fact that, even with their crude ab-vandalism, these chodes can’t match the nuanced ‘baggery of a weak bladdered simian hybrid cloned from an Iglesias nosehair, hastily Nair’d and fitted with a tracking rosary, and sent on a mission to seek out and infiltrate the Mountains of Madness, where the spectral orbs of funbaggery were hidden by Vatican officials in an attempt to… BOOBIES.

That last sentence made me very happy. Waxy McBrow for the last spot in next week’s Monthly. Leave the gun. Bring the baboobies.

The Party Pud

It’s not the shrug + iPhone pose that bothers me so much.

Nor the spikey blowout and Tom Cruise jacket.

Nor the blocking of the lineup of multicultural hott.

Well, okay. That last one does task me like a leech to the groin.

No, it’s the white belt that renders the Party Pud a plethora of pedantic putritude. That kicks me in the cosmic nads like a metaphysical jack boot.

For it is very, very pooey.

Brothabag Willy

Willy’s a Brothabag to be sure, but only a stage-1 or stage-2. Because he’s just so damn happy.

Good on you, Brothabag Willy.

Now take off that silly bling and you can have a nottadouche pass, and go in peace my brothabag. This place is dead anyway.

And I’ll take Rainbow Brunette in the bottom row up to the Rain Man Suite, baby, for a little of the ole’ In-n-Out.

And by In-n-Out, I mean burgers.

They got some good burgers, Walter.

Where’s Waldouche?: Arizona State Edition

Somewhere in this pileup of Arizona State Woo Girls, I’ve carefully hidden a standard issue Fratbag.

Look closely.

Can you find him?