Douche Mecca Reopened
I almost forgot to mention that the Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas just started up the Sunday Rehab party again in the last few weeks. Long time readers know that not only have I termed The Vegas Hard Rock “Douche Mecca” because of every practicing ‘bag’s yearly pilgrimage there, but I even ventured into the Land of Source Douche myself, last August.
DB1’s Trip to Douche Mecca Part 1.
DB1’s Trip to Douche Mecca Part 2.
I’m pleased as cheap vodka spiked punch to report that this land of endless hottie/scrotey comingling in an expansive pool filled with over 4,000 strands of unique DNA has reopened, to provide this site with endless resources to pull from. And by resources I mean, uhm, douchebags and hot chicks. Together. Looking like ass.
If we ever do get around to organizing a HCwDB Convention, this is the place we will meet, my friends. This is the place.
Fast Times at Douchemont
Since we had Spicolli Bag a few days ago, it’s like Ridgmont’s next generation douchebaggery around here. Damone ‘Bag and Jennifer Jason Leigh cutie in the pool while Judge Reinhold spanks it in the bathroom.
Sadly, J.J. Leigh Hottie’s sunglasses suggest a creeping Grieco infection. Not surprising, given this ‘bag’s rare ability to maintain shoulder grease levels even while immersed in water.
Mmm… Phoebe Cates boobies.
Friday Haiku
Bleached chin pubes, douche face.
Brunette Hotness. Bosom speaks,
It begs us, kill douche.
Eyes far apart,
Blazer like a black grouper,
Without question: ‘bag
— mitch meats
Senior prom gone wrong
Rage inducing Blue-tie bag
Almost a nipslip
— Ronald McDouchenald
her: spectacular.
him: suit defies description.
me: aneurysm.
— douche of earl
Albino pube chin..
Take out-of-style satin tie..
and hang yourself.
— douchebag out!
Goat faced man, bleached beard
Suit of fish scales, neon tie
Sweet breast emerges.
–Vinny Scumbaglia
Racoon II: Douche and Gabana
The Racoon really is a woodland creature of confounding esssence. Is he real? Or doucherex? In analyzing the steaming scroaditude wafting from your computer screen, some interesting facets of the discussion emerge.
Is he ‘bag? Or is he simply performing the part of DJ Douche for his adoring fans? If we allow him entrance into our understanding of ‘bag, does this expand the definition into too many performance based areas?
At its heart, douchebaggery centers around the feminized affectations of your average douche doing his best to get some hottie attention. Some of us are born ‘bag. Others of us work to acquire ‘bag. But all of us have the ‘bag within. For women, it is a stage-4 Bleeth state, otherwise known as douchebaguettery.
So how to process The Racoon within this rubric? I would argue that when in doubt, go to the rage factor. Does Rac’ here make your leg involuntarily kick at the general level of a man’s scrotae? Does his cutie’s exotic charms make you want to slam your head in a car door Pesci style? On these levels, the Rac’ definitely makes the grade. And for that reason alone, I say he merits ‘bag, if not uberbag status. The Grieco Virus is strong. Respek.
Manmaries
One of the variants of the shirtless classic Jersey ‘bag is the emergence of what can only be described as “Manmaries.” I’m not sure what causes these toxic bumps to rise from the chest of a waxed up Jersey scrote. Too much chest oil? The gravitational affect of a nearby mandana?
Whatever it is, it’s a disturbing trend in the genetic devolution of the modern ‘bag. For it marks not just a return to a state of animal primitivity but an actual off-shoot into a sub-branch of genetic variation. Much like the Douche Sprouts we saw a few weeks ago, Manmaries signal a troubling “next generation” as homo-sapien and douchus-baggus begin to further diverge and divest of shared characteristic.
She, on the other hand, makes me want to summon a genetic discourse of a very different manifestation.
Bottle 'Bag
PIC DELETED
Nothing quite says gender confusion like awkwardly fellating a 40 while being embraced by two balls of nightclub hotness. Look A-Rod, if you want to bat for the home team there are many clubs in West Hollywood looking to honorably discharge your firearm. No need to bottle substitute like a hungry two year old.
Someone needs to get Rasta Dude in the background to liberate Liberace from his terrifying conundrum. Send him home to marinate on the porch with his homies. No breastes for you.
I would perform extreme feats of gymnastics for angry Russian judges if it meant I could sniff the velveteen backside of cheekboney hotness until passing out from hyperventilation. Her shoulder is award winning suckle worthy fleshy spongecake goodness. I would partake. Yes I would.
The Aviator
I haven’t seen a shirt fit that awkwardly since my junior high prom. Heh, stupid Jason. He looked like a clown.
Mmm… side cleavite. She’s no Purg Hottie, but anyone with a jar of pickles that big deserves props.
Where's Waldouche: Mourning Racoon Edition
As part of the board goes into mourning over the loss of the beloved Racoon in this week’s HCwDBotW, I thought we’d play another round of Where’s Waldouche to help keep our minds off Tuesday’s tragedy. And by tragedy, I mean fake Asian tattoos and eye makeup.
But I’ll put it out there to beloved ‘bag hunter, Danny Bonnadouchey. DB, find another Racoon w/hottie that’s worthy, and he’s going in next week’s contest. My only stipulation is it can’t be the same pic. Get to work, sir. The world needs you like Bruce Willis needs skyscrapers.
In the meantime, lets play Where’s Waldouche.
Somewhere in this picture of two lovely balls of cuddle, I’ve carefully placed a toothy and sexually overwhelmed grinbag.
Look carefully, for he is well hidden. Can you find him?
Citizen Kanye
This dude is like a cross between a young Orson Welles and a white Kanye West.
I can’t tell whether he’s going to direct the greatest movie of all time or simply rap about boobies.
He may not be overtly ‘bag other than the boob grab, but she’s a cutie, he’s greasy, and a fleshy hip bone of the purest magnificent ambersons is nothing to shake a stick at.
Douche Trek III: The Search for 'Bag
Vulcan ‘Bags need to scrote every seven years, so maybe we should cut Spockbag here some slack.
Then again, maybe not.
I would phaser her tribbles with dilithium crystals, klingon style. In other words I would, uhm, have sex with her.
