Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Haiku

Gangsta Marilyn,
Hollywood nightmare for Cindy,
Should’ve stayed in Maine.

The Seven Year Itch
is what this bleeth will contract.
Crab infested faux

— the douche is alright

Rebellious punks
Wearing their designer clothes
Then listen to Pink.

— Crucial Head

“I boned JFK,
and I all I got was trapped on
some douchebag’s T-shirt.”

— Mr. White

Birthmark on temple
Target for the poison arrow
Slumps to ground in pile

— Douche Wayne

Jude Law photographed
Researching role as Glenn Plake.
Palm tree, please fall down.

— boatbutter

The Rooster chief douche.
Squawks at Ginger Spice hottie
Hides shame behind shades

— Vacuum Cleaner Bagg

Monroe wife beater
screams classy next to bleach bleeth
his mole burns my soul

— Roscoe P. Scrotestain

Chason Takes a Break

Because maintaining the Fauxhawk Spike is hard work.

Sometimes ya just gotta kick back with the cocktail waitress who works the midnight to eight AM shift on a Tuesday.

This may or may not be Brothabag Mason, but I’ve already started drinking, so I’m calling him Chason until the regs weigh in.

Punchy McGee

Okay, I can tell that this stage-1 ‘bags in presence of hott experiment has failed to inspire the creative wordsmithing from the regulars.

So here’s Punchy McGee.

If this clown don’t fire up your synapses, thereby channeling cultural dissatisfaction into creative productivity, then I’ll spank a lemur with a lemon wedge.

And by spank a lemur with a lemon wedge, I do not mean a euphemism for masturbation. I mean a euphemism for blumpkins.

Flonzie

Flonzie isn’t doing anything too offensive in presence of sultry brunettes.

But do not be fooled. Flonzie is “Average Choad.” Stage 1 maybe, but Average Choad nonetheless.

Pouty Tammy on the right, oh how I would lightly but with great emotion powder your bare bottom. With bosco sauce and epsom salts. And a dash of baking soda.

I would powder each cheek whilst in deep repose and pensive thought. I would meditate on the subjective limitations of the mortal coil and the crisis of modernity as I powder lightly but with persistent firmness.

And I would not forget your BFF, Patrice. She, too, would receive butt powdering. For I am egalitarian like that.

Freddie Hustler

Freddiy’s a perfect example of the stage-1 Hustlerdouche. Bordering on stage-2 offenses, but with no hand gestures, and no garish tatts/bling, Freddie’s still safely in the 1 zone.

You go with your unvarnished wood paneled studly self, Freddie H.

Suzanna’s working the double shift, and her tired eyes betray a world weariness, that, if you ply her with enough drinks Freddie, you might have a story to tell the bros.

Then again, probably not.

Stage 1 Douche Thursday

Maybe it was the microwaved pizza bagels I had last night before I went to bed last night. But I decided that today we’re going to feature some examples of minimal douches.

The stage-1 ‘bags.

The not-quite nottadouche douchebags, but not quite uberscrote scrotewanks neither.

That vague middle ground of average schlord.

Like David here. He’s not doing anything really douchey. Yet you know he’s not nottadouche. Thus, stage-1. Like the “low” setting on the microwave. Or the “beginner” level on Halo 3.

As such, the hotts will also be purer. Cleaner. Fresher. Less exposure to the Grieco Virus means less descent into douchebaguette.

Like the perfect smile on Carlita here. She makes dachshund puppies whine for the mother they never knew.

HCwDB After Dark

Brothabag Mason says “Yo, faux-peak ain’t just for white dudes! And neither is ass pear!”

Maybe so, Brothabag Mason.

However, your douche-hair is making an important contribution to the canon. Therefore we need a name for it.

I dub thy hair Fro Faux.

EDIT: Other names in the comments thread:

Wheezer: ‘Fraux

scrotum pole: bro-hawk

Massengill: Blackhawk Up

The Lonely Purple Balloon

Seriously, this is the saddest birthday party ever.

One purple balloon.

One pink neckerchief’d potential gaybag.

Two delightful homegrown all-American tasty samplings of lapjoy in the foreground. One long necked lickable swan in the background.

Yup. I got nothin.

The Three Bromingos

Where’s Western legend Tom Mix to teach these boys a thing or two about manners.

The Prophesy of Poop

In a bizarre event predicted in both South American Astrology texts of the 19th Century as well as ancient Kaballah texts found in a cave in Ozark, New Jersey, this commingling of Rockerchoad, overtanned Jerz Bleeth and Bouncer Guy marks the coming of the “Poop Days.”

What say you? Is there anything redeemable in this pic?

Is the Douchebaguette saveable?

Should we give Bouncer Guy a pass?