Hot Chicks With Douche Bags
PICTURES OF HOT CHICKS WITH TOTAL AND COMPLETE DOUCHEBAGS. WITH COMMENTARY.
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Hall of Mock
- Pfah
- DarkSock
- Baron Von Goolo
- Troy Tempest
- Steve L
- Wheezer
- Medusa Oblongata
- creature
- Crucial Head
- Mr. White
- Archidoucheis
- Mr. Biggs
- Vin Douchal
- Sergeant Scrote Stain
- boatbutter
- Captain Bringdown
- Whoop-di-douche
- Jacques Doucheteau
- massengill
- Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche
- Mr. Scrotato Head
- Deltus
- The Reverend Chad Kroeger
- mr.reeve
- Wedgie
- Et Tu Douche?
- Eliza Douchcoo
- dbBen
- soy bomb
- DoucheyWallnuts
- I R A Darth Aggie
- jonezy
- Hermit
- Chris in ‘Baghdad
- Douchble Helix
- the douche is alright
- Choad the Douche Sprocket
- Stephanie
- The Dude
- Dude McCrudeshoes
- Sir David Douchenborough
- Il Douché
- Bag A
- douche equis
- Capt. James T. Douche
- Charles Nelson Douchely
- THEONETRUEDOUCHE
- Merle Baggard
- ehcuodouche
- Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifelt
- Charles Douchewin
- FredN.
- Ol' Dirty Douchebag
- In memoriam: bcs
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odd, after a satisfying morning movement, I too do the ‘hooky hook’ dance
the world needs plenty of bartenders
His tatt says in Arabic:
death to the mind.
He needs to pop into his local CVS and grab a box of JUST FOR MEN to tame the grey in that faux hawk! Sheesh what happened did someone punch Olivia Wilde in the face?
@ Troy
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Doesn’t that make his tatt a little redundant?
steve jobs lives, yaaaay!
Steve Jobs had kids? I always thought he was gay.
She’s giving me The Mayan Eye of Sexy Midget.
If you’ve got gray hair, its time to hang up the faux hawk and all the lady products you use to maintain it. And damn that table is too high for me to render a decent composite sketch of the suspect.
Gray hair? Looks more like dry, hardened jism.
Ugly chic with muslim bag
Looking at this chick and can’t tell if she’s hot or not. Is her face contorted from both being pulled into this choad’s greasy skankface aura against her will and trying to remain pleasant to the strip club whales?
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Let’s not try to overthink this but this place is definately a strip club, right? It’s not Mr. White’s math class…… or is it?
@Vin^
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Has to be a strip club. And my guess is Charnelle is on stage right now shooting hot dogs hands free into a bucket 15 feet away.
Porn bleeth. Amai something.
Carla Tortelli’s 4th daughter (Barbara) decided to follow in her mom’s footsteps by getting a “sweet gig” in a local nightclub. She was never serenaded by the mental meanderings of some know-it-all postman, not even the one who always blings twice, but she had a panache for friendly customer service her mom never quite grasped.
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For instance, here we see “Bahston Bahbie” getting cozy with some perpetually unemployed local lout who always claims he has a “business degree” of some sort, but never leaves this particular club with out greasing himself against the staff. This is “Worm,” and yeah, everybody knows his name, though no one’s glad he came (except Worm himself). He’ll occasionally try to pay his bar tab by washing a few drink glasses, but he always gets distracted by the female visitors and decides “Dis is a drag; I want some action, yo. Hey Danny, y’know I’m good f’r it, ya nome sayn?” But within 5 minutes of the usual failures, he’s bellyin’ back up to the bar for more Goose.
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Guess who’s enjoying Cheers reruns perhaps a weeeeeeeeee bit too much?
@ Scrotato Head:
“…my guess is Charnelle is on stage right now shooting hot dogs hands free into a bucket 15 feet away.
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Little known fact: Charnelle’s trick hot dog move provided the sound effect for the scene in “The Empire Strikes Back” where Vader’s helmet is put on. Listen carefully…
Sadly, Lucas edited out the part where Vader was being a dick in this scene.
Mr White peers pensively over his shoulder at the spectacle that is unfolding before his eyes. It was bad enough that they chose to have the meeting in Vegas that year but the fact that they wanted to come to this very bar sent shivers up his spine. “Why? Why did I come? Could I have been so blinded by the allure of getting a Fields Medal (even though I’m over 40) that I let my guard down and now I’m here. Again. In THIS suckhole? What was I thinking?”
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The music boomed. The dancers shimmied. “I need a drink” thought Mr. White as a kaleidoscope of images whirled in his head from the events at the last American Mathematical Society meeting held in Veags. Just as he was about to order his water (straight up with a twist of lemon) he saw his arch nemesis appear before him like a sewer rat crawling out of a discarded Arby’s bag. Mr. White started to order, “I’ll have a …” and then his face went ashen. There, in the very flesh, was Amir.
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When they first met, there was no hint that they would ever become rivals. Quite the opposite in fact, they were good friends. But as each gained more knowledge, their mathematical powers grew. Mr. White recognized his responsibility to keep his awesome power in check but Amir had an insatiable desire for more and more. It started subtly at first. Some hair gel here, some bling there. Then it was deriving theorems at the clubs. It became a heady game to compete in and it was then that Amir started to become ruthless. He vowed that after his 9,463,875,012 ass-whipping by Mr. White that he would get him back someday. He would pay dearly…
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One day Amir just left. Mr White asked around but no one had seen him nor heard from him. It seemed that Amir had faded into obscurity like any number of mat geniuses before him. He couldn’t handle the pressure and cracked up. He wouldn’t be the first nor the last. Mr. White had mixed feelings about this because he knew Amir was his greatest competition who pushed him to his limits but he also was glad that he was gone so that his secret remained intact. “Now just a few more inverse Fourier Transforms and I should have the Riemann Hypothesis finished before lunch” thought Mr. White…
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It was a cold October morning when Mr. White got the letter in the mail. “Meet me at the AMS meeting in Vegas this year. We have a lot to talk about. I’d hate for the Fields committee to find out about your little “secret” if you know what I mean. Amir” His mind went blank. “Oh shit, that little fuccker is trying to blackmail me! Well, two can play at that game. I’ll see you there. Bitch.”
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It didn’t take more than 20 minutes for them to find each other. Pleasantries were exchanged and then Amir suggested they head to a bar not far from the meeting. “Sure, why not?” thought Mr White guardedly. The bar. THAT bar. “Let’s cut to the chase” said Amir. “I have a picture that will destroy you and your career forever. No Fields medal, no illustrious teaching gig (BWAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA; sorry personal edit from the author), no money. When I get done with you, you won’t be able to get a job teaching Lebesgue integration to snotty inner-city 15 year olds. Tell everyone, right here, right now about your secret and I’ll walk away forever. Don’t, and you’ll live to regret it.” He could feel his heart start to pound. His palms were getting sweaty. Swallowing became difficult. Everyone in this room knew and respected him. He was to be the next big name in mathematics. “Fucck! Think of a plan. Think of a plan. NOW!”
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The escape wasn’t pretty or manly but it worked. And his secret was still intact. Who knew a Shirley Temple could be so devastating at close range? It didn’t matter anymore, it was all behind him now. That was until this very moment. A sneer creased Amir’s lips as he turned to announce to all the AMS participants at the bar “The coward Mr White returns. Please tell us why no one could track you down for that Fields medal and, by the way, however did you solve the Riemann Hypothesis? I heard you had some help!” The room went deathly silent. EVERYONE turned to stare at Mr. White. Was it true? “The jig is up” thought Mr White, “I’d better just come clean.” With great trepidation Mr White slowly began to unbutton his trousers and pull down the zipper. His pants fell to his ankles. Shocked and confused faces littered the room. He announced “Yes. Yes, I have a secret that I want to share with you all” as he slid of his underwear. Audible gasps could be heard and several women fainted. “I have a secret that I’ve been hiding these many years and it feels good to get it out in the open (pun intended) for all to see. Indeed it has been my talking Klein Bottle penis that is the source of all my mathematical powers. Judge me if you must.” It was then that the first sound of what seemed like bacon falling from a third-story crack house window was heard. Then again. And again until it seemed like machine gun fire. Everyone in the bar was taking turns at beating the shit out of Amir. Fists, table chair, whatever people could get their hands on strating pelting him. “How dare you, you fuccking douche” could be heard over and over again. And the just as suddenly the violence stopped. John Largeman came out of the bathroom, looked at Mr. White, looked at the bloody and beaten Amir and then knew what he had to do. The bar rumbled with belly flop after belly flop until Amir’s corpse had to be hosed off the florr the following afternoon just before the opening of the bar.
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So the moral of our story: embrace your inner geek and any outer ones you know too. “Cause who else has weird fuccked up shit like we do?
Sure ^ , Ya give one little mention of Mr White in passing …..
I cannot stop watching that shampoo commercial. With super awesome hooooook!
They should get in back and refill the ice like their job description says.
Bathroom full of Lady Products. But no tampons. He has them all shoved up his ass.
He looks like Jesus in that bowling movie.
She looks quartasian, and nobody mentioned it.
Klein Bottle Penis! That was one fucking great story.