Razor II
Lest there remains any doubt as to The Razor’s scrotal wrongness, nor the snowcap melting hottness of his lady friend, this pic should satisfy both counts admirably.
Her thighs are like desert wind blowing through the cackle reeds upon a dew drop morning.
Bra!!
Bra is about to say:
1. Bra!! Another Pepsi, Broheim!!
2. Bra!! You see this chick I’m bangin’ with, yo?
3. Bra!! Dig my star tat, bra!!
4. Bra!! Did Nietzsche really posit a Godless universe, or simply a universe of moral absolution?
Holly's 'Bag Tag
“Holly” writes in:
—
Hey DB1-
Love your site!
We thought this would be sufficiently humorous punishment. Yeah right buddy!
I’m the one on the left.
– You can call me “Holly”
—-
Oh Holly, I will save you from this mugging using my special movie powers of plot point intervention. Just let me get in my time machine and go back to twenty minutes before the picture was taken. I’ll wait outside the door, then grease tackle Muscles McCool here, allowing you and your delicious cupcake friend to exit undisturbed.
Then, presumably, you’ll go home and massage each other’s thighs with Crisco, while I awkwardly watch from outside the kitchen window until your neighbor, Mrs. Crabtree, calls the police on me. At which point, I’d yell out “Whooooaaa!” and fall into the nearby garbage can.
Wait, is this my fantasy, or did I just land in a mid-1980s teen sex comedy?
Excellent ‘bag tag, Holly. Now get to a small cabin near a lake with your three hott best friends, and engage in a giggling pillow fight.
Caption This Pic
Luckily, Cheryl managed to find Robodouche’s “off” button before any real damage was done.
The Iowa City High School prom quickly spun out of control once someone smuggled in a Sharpie.
(douche diggler)
Pablo suffered a type II neck sprain while trying to avert his eyes from the hottie/douchie train wreck in front of him.
(douchey mcscroterson)
Backstage at the Menudo Reunion Tour.
(pfah)
Although Cindy was told she’d be working with a bow tied Staff for the Mexican buzz cut festival, the look on her face clearly shows her disappointment when she realized what the promoter meant.
(anonymous)
Bif, tired of accusations of illiteracy, inked his favorite Shakespearean character’s name around his torso, “Sir John Falstaff.”
(mr. white)
Food Court 'Bag Tag
spencer writes in:
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Not the greatest capture (Lacks full-frontal hott), but this food court was crowded and I was trying not to look like a total creeper.
This guy just oozed douche. It’s hard to tell, but he was rockin’ the full orange glow, and the spikes + douche windshields were too much to resist.
Love the site.
—-
While the pic does lack verification on the hott, there’s a certain benign genius to this cohabitation of uberdouche and suburban mall.
To paraphrase Hannah Arendt, it has the banality of weevil.
Razor's Edge
Razor, your tri-vag facial pubes and silly hand gesture have the Lamar Latrell Popozaoed illogic of Alpha-Beta ennui.
Hmm. Something tells me that last sentence has been written before in literature. Perhaps it was Proust.
As to Pixie Hott, I haven’t seen thighs that firm yet gelatinous since the paddling scene in Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama.
And, no, that movie wasn’t even retro ironic good. But it did have paddling. So on its deathbed, it will achieve total consciousness.
Life Douches On
Give it up to the douchebag Corky. Not even fetal alcohol syndrome has held back his maturing double boob grabbing skillsets.
It’s a heartwarming tale of douchal triumph over limited means. Like Rain Man or Mask. Only with greasy tatts instead of genetic abnormality.
Let this be a lesson worthy of the Hallmark Channel by way of VH1’s Mystery. Anyone can achieve uberdouchosity with enough effort.
Windex
Monday’s selection of Hot Chicks with Douchebags is brought to you by Windex.
When your bathroom mirror fogs up from a mixture of Tag Bodyshots, sweat, spittle, hair gel, douched up wannabe rocker puds and unredeemable Bleethed out hotts, be sure to use Windex.
It’s also good for spraying in your eyes to remove the pain of cultural decay.
Windex.
For that de-douchificated shine.
HCwDB of the Week
Coming off a strong Weekly last week, we have another choice selection of hott/choad offered up like the Sunday buffet at HoJos. Last week, the vile Turd Flush rode the power of dual slutt-hott energy to a grown up fecal triumph. Over Dog, no less.
This week? Who knows which of these three couplings will rise to victory and book a spot in the HCwDB Monthly. That’s up to you.
Here’s your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Johnny Pirate
Originally titled “Why There is No Hope for Mankind,” this Malthusian vision of a world where our food supplies have run out and godlessness reigns in the form of uberdouche paints a dark future for all of us.
But I needed to identify this Red Bull swilling choad, and so I knight thee “Johnny Pirate.”
And let us not forget innocent Neve Campbell sweetness. And no, I will not make the standard “Party of Five” masturbation joke. Because this is not 1999. This is not my beautiful car.
Ambiguously Asian Pixie displays her wonderful underarm shaving technique. That thing is smoother than a rabbit’s ass after being microwaved.
What, like you’ve never microwaved a live rabbit before.
Come on. 10th grade? What, you blocked it?
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Miami Scammy
There’s such an incoherent miasmal stench to this pic, that I had to give it its shot in the Weekly.
Yes, “miasmal” is a word. Google it.
That smug, DeVry Technical Institute douchal expression. The double freaking belt, fer chrissakes.
As to the girl, I dispute with anyone that, underneath all that garishness, she isn’t a cutie. With arching back and sweet face, hers is a sexy young plaything buried in a mountain of brandname douchery.
And if we’re not here to find the essence of genetic hottness buried under a mountain of scrotal layering, then I don’t know what.
Because we are a shallow and petty people.
And the boobie does not lie. It just misleads, like a shifty numbers runner from the Bronx named Benny Blanco.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Pippy
Even though I got a takedown email from the brunette in that last Pippy pic, I refuse to admit defeat for this choad. While it is true that the ‘bag hunters in the comments thread felt Pippy may not feature enough adouchrements to qualify for finalist status, I’d argue otherwise.
I give you the douche-face.
And yes, my undying humpty hump for Sultry Ski Bunny of Perfection (SSBP) is a factor here. Large forehead? Perhaps. Uncanny resemblance to a young Drew Barrymore? Mayhap.
But I would still juggle koala bears in Rhodesia just for the chance to meet the Shaman who once removed the evil spirits of a Tiki hut occupied by her great aunt.
And I refuse to back down on Pippy. He is choad.
But choad enough to win HCwDB of the Week?
That, my friends, is not up to me. It is up to you. Honorable mention to Cowpoke, who just misssed the cut.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Vegas, Baby
There’s gonna be a party in Vegas.
Oh yes. There will be party: Saturday, July 19th.
Why, you ask? To celebrate the release of my book, coincidentally titled Hot Chicks with Douchebags and scheduled to officially be released on July 8th from Simon & Schuster.
If you’ve enjoyed the site as either an occasional or longtime ‘bag hunter, now’s your time to pony on up and buy a book. And if you’re the truly intrepid HCwDB fan, fly your ass to Vegas and celebrate with The DB1 in person. Buy me a cheap drink and I’ll sign your book.
Yeah, you. Join me. To celebrate, we will party.
There will be hotts. There will be douches to mock. There will be a one legged firespitter named Ned. Yes, your humble narrator in all things boobie/scrotey will be there, drunk off my ass and drooling on the cocktail waitress’s boobs while I pretend to care as she tells me about how much she hates her daddy.
Details of the day of celebration, libation and scatological procreation are still being worked out, but if you’re interested in joining me to celebrate, drop me an email to get more information.
And if you live in Vegas and know how to promote a party (and I know you guys are readers), drop me a line ASAP and help me figure out how to make this circus happen. Only two rules: No annoying pedestaled DJs. And no Goose Running.
