Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Jabbabag

Speaking of The Gator, by now we’ve well established that pumped up ‘roidbags are a staple of of douchuous/hottie combos.

But what about large sweaty Jabbabags?

At the opposite end of the spectrum from the quasi homoerotic ab fondling ‘roidbag like The Gator, can a Jabbabag still qualify as douche?

I’m kind of doubting it. Looking ridiculous is simply not enough to qualify for ‘baggosity. Frankly, it’s just hard to work up much of a sweat over this pic.

Wait, bad choice of metaphor.

I’m going to rule out toothpaste tubs from the ‘bag canon without further examples of douchebaggery, as their actual power of douche-persuasion is pretty miminal and unthreatening.

While this guy does feature the receding spiked faux-hawk, he looks like my 10th grad math teacher. So I’m going to say, Go in peace, Jabbabag. You’re cool with me. And may all your Salacious Crumbs be hotties like Paprika Spice here.

Croc Hunting

They would pay 20 above premium in Bangladesh for that leather skin tanned and treated. I would pay 50 bucks and my original VHS copy of “Aliens” for the chance to finish Baby Spice’s leftover Cobb Salad at the Sizzler.

Ahhh… The Gator.

You bring me such joy.

I could do Gator pics all day. I mean, look at this guy. If he doesn’t define the essence of douchebaggery/hottie commingling then my name ain’t Nathan Arizona.

Black Betty Bamalam

Resident HCwDB hottie Black Betty (blonde on the right) went off into the hinterlands of Los Angeles douchebaggery and came back with the following catch:

——
Hello my fellow douchebag haters, so this weekend i took up my precious role as Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam and went Douchebag hunting at a porn party i attended yesterday.

Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam
xxxxx
——–

Ahhh… a hottie who not only has the site lingo down but knows how to sort the wheatbags from the chaffbags.

Nicely done, B.B.B! Although hunting for ‘bags at a porn party is like hunting for rabbits in, well, a field filled with rabbits. Because my analogies suck.

The ‘bag hunting bar has been raised significantly. Let this be a notice to all would-be douche hunters out there. Can you top The Bamalam?

And by top, I mean lick her ankles like a meerkat on codine.

The Gator Sez

The Gator sez, “You there! Don’t forget to scroll down and vote in the HCwDB Weekly!”

Although what he really said was “MEEEEAAARRRGHHHHH,” before scratching himself around the armpit area.

I had to sort of extrapolate what he meant from there.

And yes, I think we have a good inkling who’s going to win this week’s Weekly. And setting himself up for a nice run at the Monthly, too.

The Sous Chef

Pasty McDouche with the creepy Euro-eyes and late 1990s pubal facial pattern is probably a sous chef. Named Raoul.

Actually I don’t know what a sous chef is. But I’ve been saying it all afternoon.

Come on, say it with me. It’s fun. It rolls off the tongue in a gaggle of sss and shhh complimentary phonic resonance.

Sous chef.

Say it again. Sous chef.

Rhymes with douche clef.

Maggie’s Irish Eyes are smilin’, and her boobies make me want to pass out drunken into that good snow in front of the White Horse Tavern.

The 99 Cent Double Doucheburger

So yesterday I went to McDonalds to have lunch.

While I occasionally enjoy an egg McMuffin, I hadn’t had a burger there in months. I plunked down my hard earned dollar and bought a double cheeseburger.

What I received from my barely conscious cashier was terrifying. That steaming putrid pile of oozing, possibly conscious, rancid ostridge ass smelled like a Tijuana footlocker. The soggy pale bread, cheese, meat and plastic wrapper had merged electrons, protons and douchetrons into one lukewarm ball of tri-processed lung phlegm.

I took it outside and regarded it in the sunlight.

That 99 cent oozing puddle of yak spew formed one pancake flat circular orb of inedible rat puke. It was an inedible monstrosity that mocked the entire concept of consumption. The entre notion of cash exchange for sustenance in a market based economy. All within one microwave processed plastic semi-organic living art testament to a culture of McRot.

Why bring up my soggy-ass and depressing double cheeseburger from yesterday?

Because Skinny McDoucheburger here reminds me of that cheeseburger. Only 99 cents and I want my money back.

Abe Fromans

These two Abe Fromans are definitely sausage kings of Chicago.

And by sausage kings, I mean ridiculous ‘baglings who need to be leech tortured by 12th Century Vikings.

I’m not sure how well Bikini Sloane’s holding up what with four, count ’em four, “shockers” present. Ironic or no, that’s some serious douchitude on display.

To quote the maitre d’ at Chez Luis, “I weep for the future.”

Sunny D

It’s not Orange, it’s Sunny D.

As to the hotties, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,with a bottle of anything and a glazed donut. To go.

But please sir, for the love of all that is boobie, hold the Sunny D.

In a vice. By the head. Casino style.

HCwDB of the Week

Yes kids, it’s time for the hottie/douchey Weekly. A time when we sit in collective judgment of the hotness of female boobalicious hottitude and the rank foul choad salads they cohabitate with.

Yes this is the moment when you, the reader, get to weigh in on which category of hott/douche most makes you want to slam your little toe in a walnut cracker and question whether God is just or a mean S.O.B.

So sure, I could ramble on about my drunken musings in the city of Angels. But you don’t want to hear my stories of HoHos and Night Train consumption. You want the finalists.

And here they is:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Qwerty aka The Kitchen Kittens

This pic is like a retrograde 1950s patriarchal sex fantasy by way of a Mad Max beyond Thunderdome rewrite.

A Rooster choad trash ‘bag fondling the nethers of a perky faced female of firm assitude and healthy viable womb. While a second hottie does his dishes.

They sure are kooky in Omaha.

Four cheeks of health. One ‘fro of douche.

And some lovely faux-wood cabinets. On sale at The Home Depot on I-5 next to the Cracker Barrel.

Megods I would go diving for seashells like a Jamacian spice merchant beheath the flesh-coves off the Cape of Good Ass.

Then I would drink a bottle of Orange Gatorade.

And look to see if anyone drop their chicken and Grey Goose on the floor.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Gator

Here’s a classic case where the hottie isn’t overwhelmingly cute, but the sheer douche-force of the ‘bag is so powerful that it can carry the pic to the finals on its back like Jordan in 96.

The Gator is supreme grade-A douchebaggery. He leaks oil on the douche interstate like a broken down Chevy Douchibu.

When selecting an HCwDB of the Week, it’s important to also consider whether the pic fundamentally alters the way we create meaning in the simulacrum.

Clearly her oil fingerprints left on his surreal gaping “O-Neck” shirt qualify.

Heck, leather Wrath-of-Khan chest alone qualifies Gator for Finalist status.

The Gator also made a second appearance on the site and was subsequently featured as a “caption this” thread on DListed.com, which actually gave me a credit this time (although “HCWD” instead of “HCWDB” but hey, it’s an improvement).

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Douche Gossage

The only thing holding back Douche Gossage from throwing 95 mph douche-heat is the vaguely porny run-way category of the location of the pic.

But in terms of sheer adouchrements, D.G. is a runaway homerun hitting tour de force of douchebaggery.

Dig that 11 Degree Cap Tilt with simu Z-Axis shift. It’s like the hat’s on a BMW precision motor control 735i douche.

Then there’s the bling, the sunglasses, the douche-face, and the tremendous tri-vag facial pubes.

Hottie has fantastic shoulder blades that I’d serve on a bed of rice and with a small dab of mint jelly. And her eyes say, “I want you to suckle my toe-jam and talcum my bottom with baking soda, DB1.”

And hey, who am I to say no to talcuming a delicious bottom with baking soda?

So them’s your three and three becomes one.

So all you lurkers out there, time to get off the sidelines and cast a vote. Is it Qwerty? The Gossage? Or the Gator?

Which of these three pics most reviles the stomach with its noxious combo of hotness and utter choad? Which deserves Weekly victory and a ticket in next month’s Monthly?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday Douche-Face

What better to compliment a lazy Sunday then a sampling of large succulent nectarines in the presence of the douche-face?

This extra from Francis Ford Coppolla’s “Rumble Douche” sneers it up in classic Jersey/Miami ‘bag style.

And whatever was once pure and holy and ivory snow within the Cutie is long gone in a haze of ‘bag hand gestures and cartoon print bodices.

But that’s what happens when you hang with shaved chests and oily cheekbones, Cutie. Heed not the warning of the Bleeth, and pay the toll.

That’s it. I’m gettin’ a bowl of Frosted Flakes.