Tony With the Car Dealership
Yes. You won the lottery, Tony with the Car Dealership lot on Route 9 near Framingham. You know it. I know it. The only one who doesn’t know it is Sunny Perky Hott.
You light those candles of thanks the next time you’re at church, Tony With the Car Dealership on Route 9 near Framingham.
Because her body is divine. Her face is angelic. And you’ve got shoulder pads the size of Wisconsin.
Rollin' With The Bottled Water
Exploding Frosty McTennis with the sideways peace sign and douche everything needs someone to go back in a time machine to 1978 and punch his father in the nads.
And this perfectly tanned Spanish Tamale makes me want to Bilbao her paprikas. She is a mojito of perfection.
But most of all I’m just pleased to see Alfonso Ribeiro, “Carlton,” is keeping busy since The Fresh Prince of Bel Air went off the air.
Good on you, Carlton. You keep rollin’ with that bottled water.
Not my Daddy
At first I wondered if my daddy could really be an apron wearing chin fungused shaved chested tool in the douche woodshed.
But then I said, nah. My daddy looks nothing like that.
I do, however, see mommie boobies. The kind that make lambs go “baaaaa.”
Ebony and Ivory (are bags)
(With sincere apologies to Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney)
Ebony and Ivory,
Together in douchey harmony,
Side by side they are two scrotes,
Someone tell the Leopard Print Hottie…
Night of the Living BedHead
He looks human. He’s ambulatory like a human.
And yet I’m convinced these two fawns are being pawed by a mutant zombie from the lost 1970s horror classic, Night of the Bedhead.
Where’s DeForrest Kelly to chew some scenery when you need him?
70s Love Child Blondie, I love you in spite of the faintest hint of a gut that may or may not expand in your latter years. I would tickle your inner thighs with shreaded doilies and read you Green Latern comics by candle light.
And you can bring your hip bearing raven hottie as well.
Just trash Rosarie Bedhead on your way out.
The Capper
Anyone see where I left my cheesy douched up designer baseball cap? It’s the size of a baby rhinoceros?
I know I left it around here somewhere…
Wednesday Limerick
PIC DELETED
The Sopranos’ tard cousins went to a garage,
To see if they could find a massage,
Their belts she did grab,
while their hair spiked like a crab,
Lets pray this whole scene’s a mirage.
HCwDB of the Month: The 'Bag Islander
This was one of the first Monthlys in awhile in which all four contestant combos literally had us stumped. All four were deserving winners. And by winners, I mean poobags.
But then one emerged triumphant. A total devastation. A landslide off the Island of Long.
I feel like a proud papa. When The ‘Bag Island first appeared on the site, he was just another Fratchoad. But then we all took another look. Slowly that smug expression of entitlement began to gnaw away at us. The perfect form of Nymph Hott casually ignored behind him began to set off bells of alarm.
Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. And so the ‘Bag Islander’s rage factor began to grow and spread like a thin white headband and a “Bra!! Livin’ the Dream!!” finger point. And by the time we reached Monthly, it was a blowout.
There’s first time voter Waiting for Godouche, who writes:
This is truly what HCwDB is all about. It often seems that the douchebags we find, while hilarious/infuriating, are too polished, too self-aware, too in debt to the choads who have come before for their style and attitude.
This is the original douche.
He’s not sporting that headband or ignoring that girl or wearing sunglasses around his neck or drinking Miller Lite or pointing to his douche buddy because he’s seen others do it and he wants some of that action – he’s doing it because it’s who he is. The role of the Douchebag is not one he adopts when it’s convenient, it is the life he lives. It’s as if all the other photos on this site are of Julia Roberts, and we’ve finally gotten a picture of the real Erin Brockovich.
“No ‘bag is an island,” says John Douche, but this may be as close as we’re ever going to get.
Very well said, Godouche. Or as the ever present anonyous succinctly sums it up:
Bag Island all the way!! That’s the kind of guy I’d love to kick in the face.
Indeed, Mortimer. Indeed. Literary Alchemist offers up another solution to this pic’s inchoate rage: The ‘Bag Island needs to be tried for war crimes.
Bag Island FTW.
That sack lick is in such violation of the Geneva Convention that Simon Wiesenthal should rise from the grave and try this pud lick in Nurembourg.
Maybe the Hague can get in on this action.
But lets not forget the others. Coming in a solid second place with fervert supporters, was the noxious combo of Velvet Jones and The Strawberry Cheesecake, which schwagle makes the case for:
Velvet takes the crown. He is the epitome of choad: it’s obvious he realizes he’s a douche, and yet doesn’t fight it, but rather embraces it. It’s like his entire persona just screams “I’m ‘bag and I’m proud”, no words that should ever be uttered by anyone’s mouth, even in jest. He is like Lando Calrissian, but with every meter of cool cranked up to “douche” instead.
Alas, Velvet’s run towards the finals came up a ‘stache short. The Olive Loaf also found support, but simply not enough. As waramp puts it:
I gotta give my vote to olive loaf. The sheer grease of that photo is enough to fry my eggs without them sticking to the pan. And that side-boob just puts olive loaf over the edge.
Sadly, Stewie Head came in a distant fourth. So he’s taking his head and going home.
It’s the Island of Choad that takes this month’s hottie/douchey prize. As the last comment in the voting thread, here’s Ace:
If this were any other month, it would be velvet jones for sure. But, bag island transcends their sheer lameness and personifies the mission of hot chicks with douchebags.
Give it up to the Everyday boating Islander of ‘Bag and the perfect black bikini hottie behind him. They are deserving of a well earned Monthly victory.
We’ll see these tools at the Doucheys in December. Right, bra?
Fwippy
Is that ski-slope fwippy fauxhawk even possible given the constraints of the known laws of physics? It completely defies gravity.
Is he ‘bag? Perhaps not. Gaybag? If so, he’s disqualified, as gaybags operate outside of heteronormative definitions of douchebaggery. They have their own rules, which I know not how to categorize.
But either way, the fwip on Fwippy makes me fwip.
I want to shave it with a rusty shank-spoon, then dive between her perfect Downy fresh snow pillows and repose with a mug of hot chocolate and a copy of Rolling Stone. Where I’ll read about the demise of MTV while snuggling giant boobies.
Brillo Pad Head
Apparently, a new trend in douchology is the Brillo Pad Head.
Sculpt one’s fauxhawk into the shape of a bathroom cleaning utensil, and inverted ‘bag sandwich formation will commence.
I especially love Nadia, Russian Mail Order Hottie on the left. Oh, Nadia. Tell me about the homeland whilst we do shots of potato vodka together by the samovar.
