Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

DB1 on KROQ

Apologies, the server is running a bit douchey this morning due to my just finished appearance on KROQ’S Kevin and Bean Show here in L.A.

In the meantime, here’s a picture of a an aging hippie freak choad and his wet nurse.

Friday Haiku

Wind through hair plugs.
Bullock hottie tilts hat, says,
Nice try, white tie douche.

Sweet army Sandra
Fake boobs are OK for now
You make me salute

— lone scrote mcquade

Face like a pac-man.
Forehead would like to eat you,
Or perhaps itself.

— anonymous

I’d enlist for her
Please hottie, save my privates
A few good funbags

— danny bonnadouchey

Yikes look behind you
Greasy scrote making his move
Run speedbag hottie!

— mistress julie

Rocky Bagboa

Rocky’s got the stare down stone cold badass style. And by stone cold badass, I mean poseur choad douchebag.

If I were a paid pugilistic champion, I would match his masterly stare-down with icy coldness, then upper cut him into the ropes while two ten year olds held up a misspelled sign in the background.

Ring Girl is ten rounds of card holding goodness. I would discuss Frazier/Ali wearing a 1970s tweed jacket in a smoky gym on 10th Avenue if it meant I could speedbag her speedbags while adding additional rips to her cleverly sliced jeans. And, for the cheap seats, speedbags refer to her boobies. Because they’re both soft and round and you slap them lightly when in an exited physical state of activity. Thus speedbags. Boobies. Like speedbags. Only they’re boobies.

I enjoy explaining sexual euphemisms and double entendres. Because it lets me type the word boobies. Boobies.

Rocky’s wristwatch is the sports watch of the 80s. It tells time simultaneously in Monte Carlo, Beverly Hills, London, Paris, Rome and Gstaad.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

PIC DELETED

I can’t tell whether looking like an early 70s white version of Superfly constitutes ‘Bag status or not. Because Superfly was badass. Then again white boy Spin Doctors Superfly isn’t.

Yet I can’t pinpoint the douchosity.

He’s got the vague waftage of douche without specific douchbaguousness outside of the chin pubes and maybe that large 70s retro collar shirt. The hat has douch du essence but lacks baseball cap 10 Degree Tilt status to push this choad over into an actual ‘Bag classification.

What to verdict? ‘Bag? Or not a ‘Bag?

I throw it to you, fellow ‘bag slayer, to render judgement. What say you? Judge his ass with the unimpeded abandon of a used up circus clown hittin’ the sauce.

Drunk Asian hottie is zaftig in all the right places. I would paint abstract art in her honor just for the chance to drool on her dress shoes while she called the police and had me escorted from the premises. Oh wait, that actually did happen.

Ask DB1

douche baggins writes in and asks:

——-
I was wondering if it is possible to turn your ‘bagness on and off? In other words, would it be possible for a scrote to have vast amounts of douchitude one day, then the next clean up and be the Anti-Grieco, and when Friday night rolls around and a full moon imparts its light upon a Jersey boy he begins to transform into a grease-faced, porcupine-scalp, shocker-waving douche?

When meditating and ruminating on the ‘bag/not a ‘bag duality, it is important to consider douchosity as a spiritual essence, and douche signifiers simply the manifestation of that essence. So once one has crossed over to ‘Bag, one ceases to be un-‘Bag in any meaningful way, whether the signs are there or not. Like any spiritual crossing, ‘Bag remains ‘Bag in either active or covert state.

There is a road back to un-‘Bag for even the most polluted Jersey choad, but this process is complex and requires dedicated commitment to reform one’s douchey ways. The keen ‘Bag Hunter can usually spot dormant douchitude even in a scrote trying to hide. One must simply train the eye. The signs are always there.

'Bag Prom

Far be it for me to pick on high school prom ‘baglings, but orange?

Seriously, orange?

Orange plus cactus hair?

I weep for the future. However, if those are the Gotti boys, I would just like to say that I have deep and profound respect for them, they are not douchebags of any kind, and please do not hurt me.

The Whipit

Ever shove your face into a blender, pour in some soy milk and set it on “whip”? That’s the physically equivalent sensation of looking at 172 degree Hat Tilt Whipit choad leaning in on these two tasty pancakes with a maple syrup filling.

I would Chewbacca crossbow Whipit with a laser blast until his protons fused with the 70s faux wood paneling behind him to create a new element on the periodic tables — woodchoad.

Then I would set off flares from a Kowloon rickshaw just to celebrate the four inspired and firm grabby grabs that are standing at attention. They are soft and boobie-like boobies, that make me want to sing opera while tap dancing highly inappropriate statements about my scrotae in morse code.

Whip it. Whip it Bad.

M.A.B.s

M.A.B.s are Middle Aged Bags, not quite Oldbags but with the receding hairline and mid-life crisis to disqualify them from the regular trolling douchechoads of clubland. Speaking of, wasn’t “Douchechoads of Clubland” a fanastic mid 1990s techno band? Hmm. I’ll get back to you on that.

This Mab has gone arch gothic on his hotties, likely some former roadie promising to introduce them to Twiggy from Marilyn Manson if they’ll let him sniff their inner thighs for ten seconds each. Give it up, Mab. The glory days are, in the parlance of a pissed off Boston sports fan, OVAH.

Pack it in. Take your creepy eyebrow, six remaining hairs on your head and 19th century aristocratic facial hair back to your one bedroom bungalow in West Hollywood before I get Cro Bagnon to break you in half, Drago style.

Ask DB1

I’m starting a new section here at HCwDB where you ask me, The DB1, your humble narrator in all things douchey/hottie, various questions on the hottitude and scrotitude that plague our fair shores. And I’ll try to give my best woozy and alcoholic fueled rant-like answer.

I will seek to facilitate all of our journeys down the spiritual path of douche-enlightenment. To answer the darkest ‘baggiest questions that plague your soul like so many early 1990s Richard Grieco movies. Like If Looks Could Kill. Yeesh.

If you have a question regarding any and all things hottie/douchey and would like an answer, email it in to me at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com

I’d also like to welcome all new traffic coming by way of yesterday’s mention on Gawker. If you’re new to the ways of ‘bag hunting and hottie drooling, welcome. You’ll pick up the lingo in a few days, or check out the FAQ if you have any other questions.

Also, the site was featured in this month’s Rolling Stone magazine, page 42. I couldn’t find an online link to the Rolling Stone feature, so you’ll just have to go to the bookstore and check it out. It’s the one with The Holy Proto-‘Bag Who is Not ‘Bag, Keith Richards, on the cover. As well as Johnny Depp, whose early douchitude gave way to actual talent.

Mmm… young Winona. I’d Heathers her Lucas while Mermaiding her Beetlejuice.

EDIT: Forgot to mention that each post will be accompanied by a random HCwDB pic, like the one featured here, which will likely have little to do with the question at hand. The reason for this partially involves monkey spittle. But also the fact I’m not remotely organized enough to tie the two together. But mostly, I blame monkey spittle.

Kiss Me, I'm 'Baggish

And a new bumper-sticker craze was born.