Thug Island and the Elf Hott
The Scrote Sleuth writes in with the tag:
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This husky vixen cannot resist the brutally sculpted biceps and imposing pecs of this alpha gorilla wannabe. Best case scenario that tat reads “Thug Island”, which ironically is where this throwback would be exiled if crimes against taste ever entered the criminal code. Closer inspection reveals the road in the background is slick with water: rain + shirt off + sunglasses leaves this unfortunate specimen in dangerously douchy territory. Bonus douche points for subtly flexing your triceps while posing.
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Ellen Tags the Kissyface
Okay, this site was never big on too much real world reality stuff, so lets get back to what we do best.
Appreciating Ellen mocking Ken’s Kissyface.
Yeah, it’s not superdouchey. But it’s a Monday. Gotta save the Vegas toxic stuff for the afternoon.
HCwDB of the Week: Dead Bin Laden and Evil Bert
Today’s Weekly is held in honor of celebrating the long overdue death of that unholy crapwit.
No, not Evil Burt. The other guy.
As a former New Yorker who was living in the east vil on 9/11, witness to the events of that day, I can only postpone this humble blog’s frivolity for a moment to say, Amen.
And while you may think Evil Burt does not qualify as a hot chick, for the purposes of today’s post, he does.
Okay, here’s some more Gal Gadot.
Angel Frolics with a Garage Door
As with most frolic videos, no hot chicks. But plenty of hair grease and minimal employment prospects. And serious doucheclownery.
So to make up for the lack of hot chick, here’s some tasty Gal Gadot, Israeli model, potential Semitic thigh bongo licorice slap, and confirmed, official future ex-Mrs. DB1.
EDIT: Turns out the previous pic may not be the lovely Gal Gadot, although it looks just like her, so here’s some more tasty post-Portman post-Kunis Hebraic perfection.
Comment of the Week: Dude McCrudeshoes’s Ode to Kelly
Continuing my new plan to highlight some of the genius in the comments threads, this week’s award comes from Wednesday’s Martin Expresses His Inner Child to Kelly thread, and goes to ‘bag hunter Dude McCrudeshoes:
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What went wrong, young Kelly? You were on the debate team, the pep squad, and your B average guaranteed you a shot at community college, though you knew tuition would be a stretch and you’d get no help from your unemployed deadbeat father.
So you took a night job, I’m guessing? The best paying night job in town, I’m guessing? And your dreams of healthcare management went whirling down the porcelain bowl just like the gallons of Coors Lite your patrons piss away every night. Spin on the pole, grind a little, tell ‘em how strong and handsome they look and how you need money for your mother’s heart surgery, lather, rinse, and repeat.
I’d tell you that I would take you away, and want nothing but to snuggle with you on the couch and watch late night vampire movies… but we both know that is a lie. You’d lie right back to me in the champagne room, and you’d tell me you are only doing this for one semester, and how you never thought you’d want to go home with a customer ‘cause you are not like that.
Then the bouncer would tell me I owe $250 for chatting with you all through “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and “Dream Weaver” while you sipped on a $25 soda disguised as a tropical drink. No, Kelly. I’m not falling for it.
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Friday Thoughts and Links
Rare shall we witness the unholy triumvirate of Douche Nipple Lick, Douche Hand Gesture, and Douche Kissy Lips all commingling in one overpriced Vegas shanty town.
Let us hope this image doth not pass before our eyeseth again.
No idea why I’m talking like I’m James Earl Jones’s flunky in Conan The Destroyer.
Here’s your links:
Your HCwDB Book Pick of the Week: “Feeling extremely foolish, the acting representative of Homo Sapiens watched his First Contact stride away across the Raman Plain, totally indifferent.”
The woo hotties from Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World debate why hot chicks date douchebags (starts 1:30 in).
Sure most movies have larger budgets. Actors who can act. Sets. Sound design. Catering for the crew. But where other movies lack in heart, inspiration, creativity and 80s era Dungeons and Dragons memory, The One Warrior pwns them all.
The brilliant Louis C.K. busts some Oldbaggery.
Speaking of quality comedians, here’s the late, great Mitch Hedberg at the top of his form.
For those of you keeping up with the story of the douchebag with the monster truck who killed someone outside of a strip club (and you know who you are), here are the latest updates from this breaking story.
‘Nuff of that link stuff. Here’s your pear:
Chomp. Fondle. Chomp.
For the weekend is uponst. And Adonai looked upon it, and it was good.
Ask DB1: Woo Hotts in Razorback Nation
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Greetings, DB1.
I recently made the move from douche epicenter Miami to the remote foothills of Fayetteville, Arkansas, where I aim to study the ancient pleasures of taught, barely-legal flesh.
My question stems from a problem inherent in Razorback nation.
A large part of the social life surrounding a small, secluded college town is sports allegiance, and a large part of showing one’s love for the Razorbacks is calling the Hogs.
One calls the hogs using an old war cry passed down from the nation’s founding fathers: “Woo, Pig! Soiee!” I’m sure you’ve already figured out from whence my conundrum stems. This makes every nubile female in the area a Woo-hottie.
Admittedly, the problem is merely an embarrassment of riches, for as King Douchuous has shown, all pretenses are cast aside when tiny-heinie is in striking distance. Or, as it says in the book of Doucherotomy, “Lo though I walk through the valley of the bag, I shall fear no autumn-scented vinegar dilution.”
I was hoping you might knight me, your subject, and strengthen me for my one-man war on bags so that I might scale Rapunzel’s enchanted thigh and bringing all that is holy back to my chambers for delousing.
I shall not fire until I see the whites of their tan lines,
Poppa’s Got a Brand New Bag
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Woo Hotties in small towns may cry “Woo!” for any number of reasons, as the Wannabe Gatorbag and his Woo Hotties pictured here can attest.
Nor is the Woo Hottie to be shunned. No not even when she utters the annoyingly shrill “Wooo!! Jager shots!!”
For whatever douchadox the Woo Hottie provides through her drunken mating call, the taut suckle thigh beckons. And potential savior status awaits a better tomorrow.
Friday Haiku
Pumped Vegas Doucheclown ,
Fondles double shots of pear,
Future turds abound.
What’s it gonna take
For me to get you into
A used butt today?
— saulgoode42
Got one pear, two pear
Red pear, pooh pear. Now me need
To get protein drink and ‘roids.
— Wedgie
Here is an Abstain.
And while he may refrain from
voting, I vote Choad!
— Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifelt
Captain Ben Dover
inspects troops for proper hygiene.
Snorts off butt nuggets.
— Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche
Four round cheeks, one turd.
Somebody get me the Vim.
The bowl smells of Roids.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Why is it he lord?
Who gets to fondle the pair?
I have camouflage?
— Claude Douchenbagger
Manny Grabassky
Manny’d only be a stage-1 Cholobag, or even earn a nottadouche, if he didn’t have a tatt of a naked woman, or maybe that’s Jesus with breasts, bound and gagged, on his left wrist.
Tattbaggery. No excuse.
Granted, the grabass move by Mr. Grabassky is probably an inevitable byproduct of expectations brought about by the meaning of his last name. Kind of like how Shelly Givesamazinghead has struggled her whole life.
But oh, sweet curvy Bikini Katie.
We needed some freckle taut red-head suckle thigh on this Thursday. And so we shall perceptually imbibe.
