Friday Haiku
Beach boobs and sand crabs,
Asian Johnny Chase says “‘sup,”
Skinny sand turd smirks.
she’s paid to be there.
Vanilla Ice needs to eat.
hey Duck Dong, go swim.
— pfah
The face of a crab,
The body of a goddess.
Perfect for blind man.
— the alpha douche
close to the shoreline
is that a great white shark?
lord, hear my prayer.
— doucheronomy 68
Pursed lips, peroxide
Is that doggy style invite?
Call Godzilla quick
— Dion Didouchie
douche grease and hair bleach:
the greatest threat to oceans
since Exxon Valdez
— douche vader
'Bag Island
What once seemed a trend has exploded into full blown cultural ubiquity: Hottie/Douchey boat mating.
I’m not sure why the presence of lounging around with Miller Lites on a motorboat brings out the inner hot-chick justification to show off her wares to neighboring scrotewanks.
But what is it about the presence of boat that allows ocean turds to float onto dry land like shriveled whale poo?
Take Grinny McPud here. Rides on the short bus? Perhaps. Ignores the hott grinding into him in favor of a “Hey dude, we rock!” gesture to a compatriot choad? Definitely.
And so we write “balls” on his head. And lust for blonde ambition.
Knights in Scrotey Service
Man, and I thought The Creeper had a skeezy vile tongue from the pits of Satanic arena rock.
This is like a solid sandwich of nuclear scrotastic fusion cuisine. It should be on the menu at Koi. I’d look away but my irises just melted into puddles of gummi bear goo.
Douche Mecca
The Hard Rock Casino and Hotel.
Las Vegas, Nevada.
Douche Mecca.
Kissy Lips.
I’ll have the muscle choad and slutty hottie cocktail.
With a side order of mandana.
To go.
Six Feet Under 'bags
Angry ‘Bag has the Freddy Rodriguez in “Six Feet Under” scruff thing working He douches by day, cleans up corpses by night.
Bottom ‘Bag has the frosted tips and clueless expression of the lobotomized mental patients featured in Frederick Wiseman’s Titicut Follies. Because referencing 1960s cinema verite is what I’m all about, yo.
Healthy Brown Tipped Blonde’s smile is like the musical cadences of the stutter speech of 1990s David Mamet dialogue. I would overact Pacino style if it meant I could Garry her Glens with a hoo-ah.
And that’s just way too many film/tv references for one post. I feel post-modernly dirty. But not Portland Doctors on Craigslist dirty.
Hot Potato
Many aspiring ‘bag hunters ask me, “DB1, how does the Douche Virus travel between hottie and choad? In how many myriad ways does it transmit?”
After first complimenting them on the proper use of the word “myriad,” I explain that Grieco Viral transmission passes through the simultaneity of physical contact and a ‘bag gesture of some sort. For instance, the douche move pictured here.
Douche Licking is amplified in its potency when the choad in question simultaneously makes a ‘Bag Hand Gesture during transmission. And wears a silly shirt.
Observe the scrote-to-hott infection in action.
Or you can just stare at the Rainbow Pillows and drool like an Australian hyena pumped full of amphedidrine. Like I am. Because the Scrotal Sciences take a back-seat to bouncy rainbow pillows.
Just ask Jonas Salk. He was obsessed with boobies. That guy just wouldn’t stop.
The Gator for "Hall of Scrote"
I think it’s high time to promote The Gator to the Hall of Scrote.
And by high time, I mean douche time. And by douche time, I mean kicking Gator in the nads and doing the 6-boob bongo dance, which reached #12 on the charts back in ’92.
Megods. Look at this monstrosity of choad.
This pic crystallizes all that is the ephemeral about the cultural trainwreck of hottie/douchebaggy commingling. In what fair and just theological framework do women this hot congregate in the presence of one with Nerf football head, greased up shaven chest, and the low cut black garb worn by Zod in Superman II? Why, in hottie/douche land, of course.
I would nuzzle in Pink’s flesh pillows like a homeless sparrow seeking regurgitated food from its sparrow mother. Peep. Peep.
I put it to the floor.
Any objections to The Gator for the hallowed “Hall of Scrote” (found in the left-hand column by scrolling down), speak now, or forever hold your grease.
Or, better yet, use this thread to laud the genius of The Gator’s supreme douchebaggery. And by laud, I mean mock.
Wednesday Limerick
There once was a Rocker Douche named Jammin’,
Whose dreads smelled vaguely like salmon,
He trolled the high schools,
To find teenage jewels,
To get drunk like a poor Alabaman.
The Hovering VampireBag
Okay. There’s the Middle Finger Choadbag with annoying t-shirt and dog-tags. There’s the scrumptuous little pancake hottie that looks like the hot chick on “Crossing Jordan” if she were from, well, Jordan.
But I’m genuinely frightened by Creepy Hovering Window Vampirebag. It’s like the “I Buried Paul” of HCwDB.
The Vampirebag just takes this pic to the next level. There’s the proper hottie/douchey dual reactions of rage and attraction. But now with Supernatural Fear.
It’s a whole new ‘bag, baybee.
Ask DB1
Chris writes in with the following question:
——
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The Pink I-Zod (and its compatriot, The Pink Polo) does not in and of itself confer inherent douche status, but it is a warning sign of potential douchebaggery. Like the growl of the Amur Tiger of Uttar Pradesh or a hooker named Candii saying “Hi!” it presages potential disaster if you make the wrong choice.
Any popped collar, on the other hand, confers auto stage-1 douche status.
Without exception.
And Pink I-Zod Popped Collar reverberates across the douchological spectrum exponentially, scaring old ladies, causing milk to go bad and punching a really, really cute possum in the face.
