Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Eraser

PIC DELETED

HCwDB Supreme ‘Bag Hunter Pfah submits this pic to help us ride into our Friday nights with a tasty sampling of beauty, and a putz that can only be described as an Eraser.

Two utter balls of hott, youth and baby feeding mammaries. And a dude wearing a tie + sweatsuit coat.

So wrong.

So alcohol inspiring. And really, isn’t that what we need for a proper Friday afternoon HCwDB pic?

As to your humble narrator, a busy week sitting on my floor and scratching myself has given way to a busy weekend sitting on my floor and scratching myself. Although I have been hitting up the New Beverly for the Edgar Wright “Wright Stuff” festival. Wednesday night brought the absolute comedic genius of Top Secret! Tonight, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and Head.

EDIT: Email request from the Eraser to take the pic down, alas. Boobies lost to the ether.

King Douchuous IV's Gettin' Ready

The King is getting ready for The Douchies. Are you?

Asbreastos

Say what you will about that hair, but a little in the attic and you’ll save over 30% on your heating bills this winter.

The hotts are scrumptuous. I would dip them in melted peeps and munch on them sandwiched between two nutter butters.

The Physics of the Doucheface

That smirk.

It haunts me across the spectrum of hottie/douchey variation. Dallas, Chicago, Vancouver, even the ‘bag pics I get from overseas, from England, Australia and Germany.

So many douche-faces.

Different. Yet interconnected. Part of a larger whole.

Spread across the ether like scrotological dark matter. Like Chaos Theory neutrinos of four dimensional interweave. Like Dancing Wu-Li Masters or a metaphysical pendulum swinging across time, through superstrings and that spinning spiral cone in the opening credits of the Twilight Zone.

Surely they’re joking, Dr. Feynman.

Or can the douche-face be proof of Kabbalah’s God Shard? And if so, why does God mock us with the douche-face?

Can I find solace in stripey boobies? Are they enough to smother me in reassurance? It’s worth finding out.

Friday Haiku

Blonde Riding Hood fears,
The wolf in douche’s clothing.
“What bright hat you have.”

Playboy reject hott
wanted to stay at mansion
settled for greasebag

— d.baggins

Arching of the eyebrows
A clear tell that she’s posing
Because of lost bet

Frodo Douchebaggins

look into my eye
starving artists are waiting
for you to pass out

— the bag apple

Dirty trucker hat
Smells like feces and man love
Giving me herp sore

— ‘bagavad gita

Ask DB1: Nature or Nurture

Tripping the Lights Douchetastic writes in:

—-
DB1-

I must know.
—-

In grappling with this question, TLD, I’d have to side with “nurture” as the key formative influence in early douchal development. While it is true that some are inherently douchey no matter their time and place, by and large it is about environment.

Learning how to acquire the key cultural signifiers to attract the hott to his oily pecs and overly quaffed hair, the young ‘bagling must become indoctrinated within the larger codes of habitus.

As I’ve remarked many times before, each of us, male or female, contains the inherent force known as The ‘Bag Within. It is not dictated by genetic design, nor even extensive Red Bull and Grey Goose consumption in Cancun. The young ‘bagling must be guided down the dark path through the causality of douche attributes (douchetributes) and the attainment of the boobie hottie.

Only whence learning these lessons, does ‘bagling harden into fully formed ‘bagscrote.

The Troll Doll and the Tri-Hotts

I don’t quite know how far up the ‘bag scale Chia Pet Troll Doll goes. He’s got a little of the lip fung, but no real hand gestures and only the faintest “Mark of the ‘Bag” on the forehead.

And yet, I want to fling Arkansas roadkill into his face with the inchoate distrust of an inbred banjo player.

The tri-hott Alpha Betas appear to be smelling something.

Could it be?

It could.

Douche poo.

Ringu Lipsatsu

Be warned.

The ancient Japanese Legend speaks of a Ringu Lipsatsu, the legend of the Kissy Lips.

Seven days after viewing those lips, you’ll turn into a herp sore.

Just as these two Bleethed Jerseyites have fallen.

Those lips.

They haunt me like Brechtian theater. A spectacle of hyper-reality within a false structure that finds truth. Like smelly cowpie on a farm in Vermont. The odor of poopie as the means of refracting my own psychoanalytic absence.

Nope. The coffee did nothing.

Clint Asswood

Something about Porkpie’s gaze looks like Clint Eastwood somewhere after Dirty Harry but before he was driving cross country with an Orangutan.

Hang in there, DJ Clint von Petty. The small brushfire behind you should take care of things in a moment.

Maria von Hott has a bit of that stern taskmaster look which always sort of scares me. The type who would psychologically tear me down until I went all Stockholm Patty Hearst and robbed a bank in a ski-mask to pay for her Botox.

Dammit. I’m making no sense today. Time for a coffee.

Choad Salad

Pass the Oil and Vinegar.

Here’s the Choad Salad pic I had up last nite when Blogger was crapping out.

Now that’s a quality and well balanced serving of the Rubber Band Chow Yun Fat in Bullet in the Head Lips Douche, your standard issue Stubble Vegas Turd, and two delightful servings of vino.

Note ubiquitous red cup stopped by to say hi.

As did requisite hat tilt and dog-tags on the one-pack.

Also, after the punishment Leelee Sobieski took in the Orange pic, I’ve remedied the situation as best I could.