Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Thumbs McGee Voted; have you?

Well, unfortunately, Thumbs McGee from yesterday’s Sunday Suite did find a use for his thumb: mashing the “VOTE” button for this week’s DoucheBag O’ The Week.

If this simian simpleton can manage it, so can you.

Keep mashing that vote button, Thumbs; as long as you’re doing that you can’t apply rotation to the sugar plum(s).

Because allowing such a douche/hott coupling would be the equivalent of  Osama Bin Laden pushing a warm corn dog into the butt of Lady Justice.

Not on our watch.

Not with our corn dog.

The Coping Cabana – A White Paper by Hermit

Zen BagHunter Supreme Hermit delivers this cold-ass take down:

If Vegas is a place where ’roided, tattooed Douchebags and lithe, nubile hotts go to see and be seen, why do they pay an additional $175 to $300 to hide in a covered canvas Boy Scout tent? Well, for this bunch it makes sense.

Phillip and Steve are far from the prototypical Vegas Douche, while Erma, Chastity (the wild one) and Stacey were sort of hot ten years ago. I contend that we can still find it in our cold, judgmental hearts to heap scorn and our collective derision on them because, quite frankly, that’s what we do.

When we sneak a peek into “The Coping Cabana” the stench of broken dreams, failing marriages and materialistic disappointment is palpable. Shackled by huge SUV payments, and upside-down mortgages, they come here as a temporary escape from the sterilized suburbia where they live month-to-month on lies and bank-owned status symbols.

They’re here hoping for a brief respite from their whining, obese children, clogged toilets and sagging bust lines. An ephemeral hiatus from disinterested sex partners, stretch marks, business failures and the mid-life crisis which is certain to come.

However, it’s only a short reprieve as they lie there among the dead skin, dust mites and bed bugs which befoul the cheap fabric of this sweaty, bacteria-infested Vegas sanctuary. The clock is ticking, the rented cabana must soon be vacated. Their furlough over, they must go home to their self-imposed prisons to finish out a life sentence of dashed hopes, harsh supervisors and the never-ending chore of cleaning out French fries and candy wrappers that those ungrateful little bastards leave under the seats of the SUV.

Also, make no mistake. With some alcohol and a little prompting, I still might rub Erma’s nipples with a plastic Wiffle Ball dipped in candle wax and canned cat food, her muffled giggles would erupt into a hoarse, smoker‘s hack, as I deftly slid the plastic bat up under her large, brown, corduroy bathing-skirt-thingy.

Maybe not.

HCwDB of the Week

Well, another week rolls by and still no word from DoucheBag1…looks like I got the gig for another week (maybe longer, if Big Al Pacas got to him…).

Let us take a moment to reflect what sent him on this quest for spiritual cleansing. Looking at the evidence found in his apartment, it would be easy to simply label this as just another sugar and fortified-wine-fueled alpaca fingering binge resulting in a desperate flight from justice and past due invoices.  Because who among us has not molested livestock?

But no, no…something tells me it’s more than just that.  I revisited one of the last emails DB1 left us:  “I feel myself being called away…penance for sins against my meditative and monastic hottie/douchey journey.  I have sinned.  For I have coveted the Bleeth.“

Well, hell…I reckon we need to be chartering a group flight to the Andes mountains.  And they better switch out the little airplane bottles of booze with pints.

Enough introspection; it’s time to pull our chins up, tape our dongs flat, and sashay out onto that runway, because the show must go on.  Note to self: shave next time before taping.

Here are your contenders:

HCwDB of the Week #1: Country Molestern and his Reversed Cowgirls

Long Time comments thread regular Mr. White showered his golden derision on this grinning woodchuck; yet he leers on. Which begs the question: how much pud would this woodchuck tuck if this pud-tuck could suck wood? And lawd ha’ mercy, look at those country fresh girls…why does HE get to butter THEIR biscuits?  If you are enraged by this corn pone-ography then scrote the vote.

HCwDB of the Week #2: Toolio Twice and Siam Suki

Another HCwDB comments thread lifer, Creature, puts the cheese grater o’ justice to the glistening forehead of club foolio, Toolio.  What is the backstory here?  Fivehead convention?  Class Action Lawsuit Seminar for Victims of Aggressive Forcep Administration at Birth? Elephant-Kegeling Victims?

It is not for us to know; we must judge with the evidence at hand.   Which would be Suki’s Siamese Twins.

HCwDB of the Week #3: U.S. Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team and Grecian Greta

Perhaps this phenomenon can be explained by science: perhaps we are witnessing Newton’s law of universal gravitation, which as you all know, states that every point mass in the universe attracts every other mass.

Separately it was shown that large spherically symmetrical masses attract other objects to concentration points at their very centers.

These choad’s empty pie cases are collectively bearing out this law of physics, being pulled inexorably to the large spherical symmetrical masses (with points on them) that are Greta’s nigh-perfect golden globes.   Yes, they are being sucked into this gravitational well of silky delight.  As are my eyeballs.  And yours.  Admit it.

Yes…perhaps this is what is going on here.

Nah, they’re just a bunch of room-temp-IQ Roxbury chicken-necking peacocks.

HCwDB of the Week #4: Larry the Lavender Love Lizard vs. The Doublemint Chins

Larry the Lavender Love Lizard (or L⁴, as I think of him) hopes to pull out a come-from-behind victory.

But Jan and Jenny Chin-Chin are prepared to take it on the jaw.

Will this dark horse trio pull off a surprise victory?

Does L⁴ have purple dander?

Will the girl’s Uncle Robert roll up and beat Larry into pieces too small for the pool drain strainer to catch?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Go forth, my friends, and vote as ever in the comments threads.  Alternate Universe votes count too for you serial picture-clickers.

EDIT:  Also, some shop-keeping:  If you are a reg sitting on a pic, your deadline is Wednesday to slip me some wool or let someone else have a crack at the tool whose fate you currently hold in your inbox.  Or else I’ll be force to fill the latter part of the week’s posts with nothing but Ass Pear.

Somehow, I think the Ass Pear filler threat may be counterproductive…

Rock Star Leniency Rule – Metal Edition

The lifeblood of this site are submissions by you, dear readers.

Photographs serendipitously snapped by you of that tool at your cousin’s wedding mackin’ on all the chicks whilst sporting an ant-trail chin-strap beard…

The Thick-necked gym troll whose image you clicked at a bar whilst he was distracted displaying full pee-cockk regalia, hoping to incite a coma-level call-and-response by yayo-fluttered labia, making their soft pink forced-air hum, like dying earthworms on a hot plate…

Or more likely, harvested at a club website, filled with endless frames of douchey party goers whose images go right into the Mock Hopper, its unmoving pig-iron grey lips dripping with yellowy chicken-fat and still-writhing veins; out of the other side come small-format tidy pictures, with a terse write-up from The Boss, and we’re off to the races…

Well, I see here that a well-meaning reg caught a tiger shark in his casting nets.

Better walk on by, Boy…

For this is Vinnie Paul, drummer for Pantera, Damage Plan, and several other side projects we’ll not bother to buy anytime soon.

Much respect to Vinnie and his poor late brother DimeBag, whose death, while about as metal as it gets, was tragic and in the end crushingly random, meaningless and too damn soon.  That kid that shot him, who himself wound up wearing his lungs for a vest shortly thereafter courtesy of an off-duty cop and his scatter-gun, took from us a primal force.  But Dimebag and Vinnie, who clearly have been mistaken by a valiant but novice eye, ain’t EVEN no douchebags, Hoss.

When you see tomorrow’s tool shed filled with last week’s preening and clueless contenders it will center us all, from these nottas and the pale scurrying wannabies.

It shall FOCUS us like the projector in a junior high school Sex Ed video that no one really wanted to watch but did.

For tomorrow is your last chance to vote before The Boss is Back next week!!!

EDIT:  Astute readers noted that my headline “pardoning” Vinnie P was redundant, and repetitive, with the Rockstar Leniency Rule; hence redundant.  So I retitled the post to purge all posted redundancy from this post.

–DS

Sunday Pear: DoucheyWallnuts Crypt Sweeper Edition

Alert HCwDB comments thread regular DoucheyWallnuts gifts us with this Pear breakdown:

“This is a promo picture from the direct to DVD movie, “The Crypt Keeper’s Pear; When Good Things Happen to Bad Mummies,” and not a photo of Steven Tyler and one of his groupies taken backstage at American Idol.

It also isn’t a picture capturing the tender moment when Steven Hawking’s nursemaid removes the catheter from his pee-pee and cleans him up.

Nor is it Keith Richards engaging in role-playing with one of his teen-aged daughter’s friends.

Actually, it’s not even a photo from the outstanding “Crypt Keeper” series of films. I made that up.

The owners of this Intellectual Property had the good sense to quit while they were ahead, and let the 1996 classic, “Bordello of Blood,” starring Dennis Miller and featuring douchebag-for-life Corey Feldman, speak for itself.

But I digress… While I can’t imagine any reason for this photo to have been conceived and then set-up and taken, ultimately it is a picture that proves the point that no matter how ridiculous and haphazard the juxtaposition of the elements are in a photo, that men will ultimately focus in on the ass pear in question.

It’s all about the ass pear;  not the Benjamins, the ass pear.”

Sunday Football Pear

This image just in from alert reader and uber-ubiquitous commentor “Anonymous”, appropriated from one of the many crumbsnatching “HotChickswith*****” rip-off sites:

Pig Skin Pear.

I’d like to put one between her uprights…but I fear it will be Lock Out for me.

Still, one can dream of a touchback…

The Ballad of Hal E. Tosis and Jenny Talia

Hal’s poor eye wear choice makes him look like the demented love child of Jimmy Fallon and a bleached KarmaKaze pilot.

Jenny’s poor choice in hook-ups make her look like Mariah I-Don’t-Carey – complete with twins.  For her, I would gratefully write out palimony checks while extolling the virtues of vitamin E for her lovely creamy and supple epidermis as I gazed zen-like into her uncaring gum-smacking visage, like a doomed cockroach crooning to the uncaring anthropomorphic face of a vintage 30’s  wooden Emerson radio.

Damn, a splash of single-barrel Kentucky bourbon and a teenie-tiny Ambien pill chewed slowly with malice like it was the fiery nipple of Mother Anger, and these after-hours soliloquies just write themselves.

Wait…After Hours…but…it’s the weekend…Ummm….carry on.

Thumbs McGee

Ayyyy! What has one thumb, and is ruling the Corn-Fed Convention tonight?

Dis guy!!!

Poor Man’s Kate Hudson in the center is, of course, sporting the correct hand sign for this situation…

As the Temp In Charge, I welcome any and all suggestions for the use of his thumb.

Together we can make a difference.

‘Bag / Nottabag

Is Kareem here encroaching into stage one ‘baggery? Or does he exceed the height limit for douchebags??

Will he and his woman be forever doomed to 68’ing one another (she does him, and he owes her one) due to incompatible sexual modularities?

Did I run this photo on the flimsiest of excuses just to showcase naughty-sweet Greta, who looks like a young Margot Kidder done right?

You must answer these questions in the comment thread  as always.  As I type with one hand.  If you know what I mean.

Saturday Ass Pear: Beach Comber Pear

Aw, jeez. Looks like another whale-tail has washed ashore.

For once, I’m saddened that it is not covered in oil.