Lord of the Liprings
It took awhile to decipher the actual Elvish translation of the tattoo on this Hobbit’s upper chest, but it reads: One Lip Ring to Drool Them All.
Not the cleverest reference on a Thursday, but your humble narrator on all things douchey/sexy, The DB1, is battling a killer Night Train hangover. So Lord of the Rings references it is.
Reader Mail: Big Sarge
Big Sarge writes in all the way from his furlough in Iraq to weigh in on the use of army gear in the clubs:
—-
DB1 —
As I sit here working towards tomorrow’s PBR-induced hangover, I feel the need to once again reach out to you in an unsuccessful bid to stop the pounding in my skull.
I happened across today’s offering… and I find it deeply disturbing that douchescrotes world wide are beginning to increase the amount of military paraphernalia they wear and bear. First, it was the camouflage. Then, the dogtags. Now, witness the retard in today’s photo wearing a cocked hat bearing the stripes of a non-commissioned officer in service to his nation. Woof. If I hadn’t already spent Sarge Jr.’s college fund on this flamethrower laptop, I’d have punched the screen in.
Perhaps, on Memorial Day or some other suitable occasion, you could feature a special photo layout of douchebags who add to their scrotiness by wearing military gear… just a thought from a faithful reader, AS WELL AS a prompt pre-orderer of your forthcoming douchebag tome.
Yours in service,
Big Sarge
—–
Well put, Big Sarge, and glad to hear they hook you guys up with PBRs over there.
What you’re describing is another horrifying facet of the douchescrote’s attempt to construct his masculinity through store-bought image construction rather than authenticity or grounding in “the real.” Appropriating military icons devoid of context are simply another option on their palette of douchal selection.
It could just as easily be 80s punk insignias like mohawks and bomber jackets as it could be military dog-tags made by Armani, or stylized crypto-fascist jack boots — to the doucheface, it’s all just grist for the mill.
Simply recoding the charged icons of authenticity into media-age performative spectacle in the hopes of landing the boobie hott.
Get back here safe and sound Big Sarge, and I’ll keep mocking the scrotewanks over here trying to use your insignias as a marketing strategy to cash in and score some tail while you’re away. And when you get back, punch one in the nads. For me.
The Eurobag
Ah, the Eurobag.
That greasy Austrian hair gelled scrote with the annoying boutique hotel lobby accent.
That awkward friend of a friend you’re forced to talk to at the party who smells vaguely like Tuscan butter cremes and leaves oil stains on the sofa.
That creepy club-going “tourist” who hasn’t had a job in two years and spends his nights trolling for American hotts who dig his accent and want to go back to his place and listen to selections of German techno band, Luftwaften, mashed with the Norwegian death metal stylings of Gorgoroth.
But what’s that?
Is Amelia smuggling something out under her dress? Are the Cossacks invading, looking for Prussians?
Punchable Douche-Face #29
I haven’t seen a douche-face that smugly mockable since my last trip to Uruguay.
Stupid Uruguay.
No More HSTD
High School Tongue Douche (HSTD) writes in:
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Hey man,
I’m not gonna bitch about your site because honestly I think it’s funny…however, I would like to respectfully ask that you take down the “HSTD” picture with my friend and I in it.
It’s not that we can’t take a joke–it actually made me laugh–it’s just that we recently both got internships with a local advertising company that is well-known for prowling the Internet as a way to monitor the extracurricular activities of its employees.
Additionally, the marketing director of this company is a personal acquaintance of mine so it would not take much for him to stumble across this picture, as many of our mutual friends view the site regularly.
Thanks in advance for your understanding and cooperation…keep up the great work with the site.
Sincerely,
— (HSTD)
——
Fair enough ‘baglings. Go in peace.
And put on a shirt.
Name That 'Bag
We’ve examined many categories of the ‘bag/hott. But here’s one that is tough to pinpoint on the douchestrological spectrum.
There’s a sense of Trustfundbaggery at work in this Vegas nightmare. But is he your standard Trustabaggian? Or perhaps greasy Eurobag? Or classic Waspy inheritance flaunting Hamptonsbag?
Alls I know is I would lead a large hiking expedition led by a team of Canadian Huskies in search of the softest spot of right Brunette’s posterior flesh mounds. When asked why I spent six months of my life exploring her hindquarters of fleshy perfection, I would simply respond, Because it was there.
Then, after a long pause, I would add, And because it’s a really nice butt.
But the reporter would leave that last part off.
Where's Federdouche?
Somewhere in between these two sultry Red Bull hotts, and their limo driver, Kal, I’ve carefully hidden none other than KFed-douche itself.
Look closely.
Can you smell the sweat, Axe, and minute 14:59 ticking away?
Speaking of KFed, isn’t he pretty much the Tom Arnold of Generation Douche?
The Smearkat
Alls I know is if sweet, wholesome Anya can escape from the greased up kissy lipped douchemulleted clutches of The Smearkat, she could feed an entire army of hungry babies.
I’m talking thirty, maybe forty hungry infant orphans desiring to suckle at her teat for nourishment.
And by forty hungry infant orphans, I mean me.
The HSTD
PIC DELETED
Ah yes, the High School Tongue Douche (HSTD). These ‘bagling denizens of Senior Skip Day are hard to spot, even by the experienced ‘bag hunter.
If you are hunting HSTD, simply camp out at Bobby’s weekend house party, position yourself near the Ubiquitous Red Cups, and wait.
Eventually a shirtless underwear sporting skinny-ass ‘bagling will come running into frame, stick his tongue out, and run off.
Be ready to snap a pic. Like the Hoverdouche, the HSTD disappears as quickly as they appear.
Poor little Jenny. She knows not what she licks.
Wednesday Limerick
Sven dreamed of being a 1980s Bad Guy,
Like one of those Aryan dudes in Kobra Kai,
Shouting “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”
Sven was born too late to party,
So instead he’ll rub scrote on Vicky’s thigh.
