Hawk Friday
Here’s a classic case of what happens when cuties commingle in the presence of faux-punk suburban wanks.
First come the hand gestures. Then the giant sunglasses.
Then they’re greased up with one boob hanging out as they stumble around at 2am clutching a bottle of Goose like a phallus substitute.
That’s the path of Bleeth.
And it’s up to you to stop it.
So I sit, dazed and bemused, I sip my PBR and enjoy a tasty Hostess apple pie, and I bask in the sun. The douches grow, but so does societal consciousness about the plague of scrotal wrong. So there’s that.
Turd Flush
Once, when I was seven or eight years old, I crapped a turd that had a face on it.
No, seriously.
I looked down into the bowl, and my turd had a weird little face on it, staring up at me.
In the lunch room the next day, I told everyone about the turd face I’d seen the previous evening. But the other kids just laughed. They didn’t believe me that I’d crapped out a turd with a face on it.
But now I have proof. My childhood turd grew up to be a club going slut-hott fondling log of fecal matter formed into Golem-like human corporeal form.
I’m still figuring out how it survived the flushing process, though. Maybe it’s like that old b-movie Alligator. Flush it away, only to have it return to haunt us all.
Sorry, world. I had no idea it would survive the flush.
The Gator's Dad
Who knew The Gator’s Dad was into the whole S&M thing?
It’s one thing when young douches sport the sunglasses at night Corey Hart wrongness. But when the old ‘bags start sporting their late 1970s heyday aviator shades, it’s time to call in the Ghost of Burt Reynolds to Cannonball Run this monstrosity once and for all.
And yes, little pouty bikini hott, I see you too, you naughty little daddy hating girl.
Your winsome smile suggests that of a 19th century Charles Dickens Liverpudlian bar wench. Fetch me some mead-wine before I call in the bobbies.
Friday Haiku II
(for those who need more to work with)
Red Riding Hood, no!
The Big Bad Douche Wolf , danger!
What big hair he has.
I miss basement shows
So many reasons to fight
God bless punk rock girls
— clementine of cappadoucha
Matching hair patches
New strain of Greico Virus
Immunize: pointless
— don choadle
Racing stripes look fast,
Aerodynamics are key,
To catch fleeing hott.
the alpha douche
This hott is sporting
A rack to cool grandma pies.
Nicely framed in grey.
— “old ‘bag eyes” frank scrotnatra
Friday Haiku
PIC DELETED
Don’t Look Now, Vinny,
But ants are climbing your chin.
Sister Hott too close.
Not-a-bag status
was one razor swipe away
clean that chin ass-wipe
— anonymous
Hunting for douche-prey:
young Werewolf Angelina.
Porsche-friend wears more blush.
— john edward(s)
Spikes grow, hair recedes
Cannot hide plucked unibrow
Hott’s eyes cry for help.
— Whitebread
Guido with Will Smith’s
College girlfriend from Fresh Prince
Oh, how she’s fallen.
— massengill
Persian Princess seeks
Douchebag with Chinstrap buttchin
Buckle up smiley
– husker douche
K-Mart Western shirt?
The Far East meets the Old West:
It’s BrokeBack Kharma.
– darksock
Da Boyz
Da Boyz are clearly back in town.
Buy why are they crushing Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle?
What? You’d prefer a reference to Maria de Medeiros in Henry and June?
As to our mystery “Name that ‘Bag” pic below, it is none other than Weekly winner Tighty Armani.
Fresh from Spring Break. And by fresh, I mean stanky. Congrats to readers burnsy, charles bagkowski, anonymous johnson, and the everpresent anonymous for getting it right.
King Douchuous the IV: Hall of Scrote
The votes have been counted. The arguments made. And while there were ample arguments on both sides, and by ample, I mean lots of boobies, The King is In. Long Mock the King.
In spite of his generally friendly demeanor, and a likely “pro-douche” status (club promoter, DJ, etc.), The King was not to be denied.
The everpresent anonymous makes the case:
kind of a cross between don king and the burger king. and that chin pube looks like some kind of scientific test, like try one conditioner on one side, something else on the other.
Nicely played, anon, Don King and the Burger King pretty much sums it up. But runaway douche makes the argument for amateur hott/douche combos to pack the true societal gut-punch:
I gotta give a thumbs down; the HoS should be, much like the olympics used to, for the purest of competitors: the amateur. Once a bag turns pro, the grace, majesty and pure competitive bag spirit withers under the harsh sun of sponsorship.
But dunkterdouche retorts:
Absolutely he should be in the Hall of Scrote. He is an absolute douchebag. Closely cropped and manicured chin pubes, studded belt, mandana. And every hott is smokin hott.
The hott factor must be included in any HCwDB pic, and what puts King D over the top is his quality of hott pull. Yes, he’s goofy and generally unthreatening. And I’d probably want to have a beer with him. But douche is douche. And it cannot be denied.
Prince Choadstool agrees:
This is very hard. I do hate him enough to get Medieval on his ass, yet he’s a pro… But, in the words of author Frank Herbert, “The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.” Just because we don’t understand the pro-douche we like to call King Douchuous IV, doesn’t mean we should count him out. After all, someone who chooses to do this for a living can be argued to be just as hateable and worthy of a good poo-flinging than someone who knows not what he does. Hall of Scrote for KDIV.
And Mahatma Gandouche quotes scripture in voting “yea”:
In the matter of HOS for the King I vote yes,and refer you to the following passage in the royal chronicles of his father Doucheous III written in 87 B.A.(before axe) by Pliney the Elder:” Behold a pale horse comes and upon him rides one who shall be known by his crown of grease and mandana and will be called King by some and Scrote by the rest”
For consistency of assclownery, the King of Douchetown, who wears his crown of hair gel proudly, has earned his place in the Hall.
I also bumped the Future Ex-Mrs. DB1, as my obsession with brunettes in librarian glasses need not take up space in the HoS.
Vegas Kurt
Proving that the spew of a sexy girl on the arm of an uberdouche is more rage inducing than the 28 Days Later virus, here’s Vegas Kurt.
He’s finally found a girl to appreciate his puka shells. And he wants the world to know.
Or, at least the guy working the 2am concession stand shift at the Glitter Gulch.
Where's Waldeeshe: Butts Edition
Somewhere in this lineup of mostly firm and luscious coed hindquarters (there’s always one saggy pear in the bunch), I’ve carefully hidden not one, not two, but five Jersey Douche.
Can you find all of them?
Name That 'Bag
This is a pic of a recent, highly regarded, scrotal infection posted to the site. And by highly regarded I mean caused a collective desire to stick our tongues into a lightsocket while singing the Nepalese national anthem.
Can you figure out which hott/douche couple this is?
