Epic Poem: Ramblin' Bag
O’er yonder in, ‘merica’s distant lands,
He rode, The Cowbag Douche,
No horse nor gun nor country boots by his bedpost,
His tribal tatt his only marker.
She slid beside his barstool and said “Hello stranger.”
But he was a loner Dottie, a rebel.
And The Cowbag Douche could only keep on amblin’,
Like an early Spielberg film.
O’er hills he did ride,
And by ride I mean taxi,
And by hills I mean clubs.
Hopin’ to find a place to lay his hat beside a hottie who bought his shtick and dug his tatt,
And every so often, pouty blondes would hitch up to that bedpost,
for a night or two.
And admire his masculine bracelet,
and constant need to point to his own hat to demonstrate that he was a Ramblin’ Bag.
In case you hadn’t noticed.
As sun broke o’er corn fields,
And water trickled over rocks,
On a train bound for nowhere,
The Cowbag Douches,
The Ramblin’ Bag rambles on.
The Princess and the Pud
There’s gotta be a fairytale somewhere in the Grimm archives where a Reservoir Dog meets two Prom Queen Princesses and then an evil witch turns a bunch of people into blue balloons.
Then everyone learns a moral lesson framed in post-modern irony with a hip-hop grunge tip, and Dreamworks options the rights.
The Slurper
I always enjoy a well captured ‘bag “action” shot. Note the simian move to scratch the chin pubes, combo-ing with spontaneous douche face kissy lips.
It’s rare to capture such organic, homegrown, non-pesticide scrote like this in such non-posed douchal spontaneity.
I can’t tell how cute Bright Eyes is, but hey, slurpie boobies.
Queen Bee and the Power Chord
This may be the first hottie/douchey coupling whose polarities are so noxious they sent my corneas ripping from their rods and cones and tunneling down the back of my uvula with psychitzotic fright.
Early 80s power chord douche is one amplified out-of-tune guitar of scrote.
Queen Bee makes me long for honeycombs. She is delightful. I would woo and marry her hunchbacked grandmother purely due to the filial proximity.
Willy Wanker
He’s got a golden ticket.
She is porcelain Asian doll exotic. The mystery of the far east, the demure posturings of coy flirtation as only the… oh who the hell are we kidding, she’s probably from San Diego and listens to bad Kanye remixes on her iPhone.
But hey. I can still project.
The kid isn’t super ‘baggy, but enough to annoy on a high pitched plane that only dogs and Dennis Kucinich can hear.
Wednesday Limerick
It’s a snap to cook up some douche stew,
Just add choads, Bleethed Hotties, and a brew.
Stir in some bling,
And a bell hop named Ming,
Or just bid the whole thing adieu.
La Femme Wristdana
It’s not that 1950s Boxer Mug Wiseguy’s got the obnoxious tatt. Not even his rosarie bead necklace thing. Nor even that hint of frost tip in the hair.
It’s the wristdana. The subtle doggie ‘bag maneuver he performs with expert precision on icy blonde La Femme Nikita is simply the frosting on the mug of ass.
But that wristdana tasks me.
It pulls me away from the dual aqua boobies, and sexy mom popsicle on the end.
Oh, and I see you too, Five O’Clock Frank. But you’re neither here nor there. Like a great big ball of genericism. You cause no disruption and are best simply ignored.
HCwDB of the Week: Thornton Mellon Stewie Head
What more can be said about the head?
Not much, really. Chin pubes and fauxhawk gives old ladies the runs. As duke of douchester puts it:
This is a guy in the Greek system that was allowed to join solely to reach a numbers quota. He has nothing to add to the party. He’s the biggest douche of the douches, pure and simple.
Alas, the Dude With a lot of Popped Collars, like Ricky before him, will remain a myth and a legend of ancient lore. A cult scroter, if you will. But, as douchetorious b.a.g. puts it, he’s no Ricky:
DWALOPC’s is no Ricky. Yeah he may have a following, but nobody rocked like Ricky. Nobody. Period. But who knows, he may grow on me. And by grow on me i mean cause me to find him and unpop his collars with a Hattori Hanzo.
For the populist we-the-people ‘bag/hottie combos never seem to be able to overcome the giant Armani Exchange proboscis that is the Stewie Head and Corn Fed.
As darkwing douche succinctly sums up the pain:
Mellon Head. He’s a total scrote, which I suppose makes him a scrotalitarian. Faux-hawk, chin pubes, douche-bling, and a vacuous piece of arm candy, and there you have it.
Indeed. Punch the football head in the face and book this couple a ticket to next week’s Monthly. Where four mere mortal couples will honor Pumpy, and vie for The Gator’s greasy scraps.
The Perfect Sine Curve
I don’t know if the passed out dude in the “Sunset Bikini Girls with Guns” shirt is ‘bag or not, probably not, but that is one curvy drink of perfection right there.
I’m so glad the jeans miniskirt is back. Thank you Vishnu. Bless you Xenu, Warlord of Thetan Slaughter. Much appreciations, Wizard of Wor.
Jenny McHott is mathematically patterned boobological perfection. Now if she was only sucker punching Sleepy McChoad, I would marry and divorce her at least three times over a ten year period while letting her crash my car and ruin my credit rating.
Ask DB1
Rudy writes in:
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Dear Douchebag1:
What advice would you give to a younger guy who wishes to avoid being douchebaggy?
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That’s a great question Rudy. One of the key things a ‘bagling must learn to avoid heading down the path of pure uberdouche is this simple rule:
Let the hot chick be hott. Let her be the object of attraction. Do not compete with her. Do not try to out “pretty” her. If you’re trying to outdo the hottie you’re lucky enough to be with, then there’s inherent scrotal rot in your soul.
Or another basic guideline is if you look like this guy, kill yourself.
Yep. That’s former HCwDB of the Week winner The Creeper, emiting tongue of pure putridity. And that’s the proverbial hot chick. Do not be Creeper Douche, young Rudy. Find the stronger path.
