Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Lobster

Urge to kill rising…

There’s a certain plateau of douchitude a scrote reaches in which nothing touches him. And by nothing touching him, I mean that literally.

Then again, this perky carrot is touching him. Which makes me want to touch a light socket.

Why, perky carrot, why? The man has literally undone his shirt in public to show the camera his lobster abs. And you smile? What happened to you, perky carrot? Were you dropped on your head as an infant? How has lobster’s douchey charms worked on you?

Then again, the gold hoop dress suggests a covert Bleeth infection. Which would explain that pile of sea cockroach to her left.

The Lizard 'Bag

Okay, that last guy kicked my ass, so I need some reptile spew to make fun of. This mutant choad is exactly what the doctor ordered. And by doctor I mean pink tube top overflowing with cleavite goodness.

He is The Lizard ‘Bag. Feed him insects. If you pull off his tail, it will regrow. Either way, I can mock his pink shirted douchebaggery, his classic ‘bag headbutt, and at least some semblance to my world paradigm has been restored. The proper HCwDB balance, in all its wrongness, somehow reassures me. Unlike the previous non ‘bag’s score. At least I can rage against this desert creature. He may not be the douchiest fish in the toolbox, but it’s enough for now.

The Unknown 'Bag

There are no real signs of outward douchebaggery anywhere. But those chicks are so teeth meltingly hot, I’d triple back-flip into a giant swimming pool filled with marbles if one of their shoes were buried at the bottom.

God damn it. I don’t care. He’s a douchebag. Because… because well he just is.

Okay, I’m off to dig up some real ‘baggery. But in the meantime, enjoy the hotness commingling with this stage-1 choad-bar.

Now if you need me, I’ll be whimpering in the corner.

Sgt. Douchebag's Lonely Tongue Club Band

What would you do if I douched out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?

Oh, I get by with a little help from my scrote,
Yeah I get high with a little help from my scrote,
Yeah, gonna try with a little help from my scrotteeeee…

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

With hint of a 10 degree hat tilt sprouting from his hipster Yankee cap and various Biblic scripture on his jacket, I’m inclined to stamp him a solid stage 1/2 ‘Bag Tweener type. But before I render such pronouncement from afar, I figured I’d give Choady one final chance.

If the ‘bag hunters in the comments thread refuse to render the thumbs down verdict (Bag Hand Gesture #04), then I will… uhm… well, not call him a douchebag. Yeah, that’s about it. Well, it beats getting run over by a tractor. So render your judgement in the comments thread and we will reach collective up/down doucheyness as to the state of this wannabe’s spew.

Aryan Blonde Uma Thurman Hottie demonstrates yet again why God invented sheer and clingy fabric. Although her hand does look strangely alien. But I’ll forgive the hand if she’ll let me darn her socks by candle-light while humming the Ride of the Valkyries and drooling on her boobs.

Purgatory

If they do cheap vodka shots in HCwDB Purgatory while they’re sorting the wheat from the chaff, this would be what it would look like. And by wheat and chaff, I mean hot chicks and douchebags. Figured you got that, but I like to make sure.

Three (three and a half?) absolutely fantastic snowballs of ice cream strawberry goodness topped off with dark haired chocolate love, and two very douchey douchebags.

It’s not enough that 85 Degree Hat Tilt sports the combo early 80s Billy Idol jacket meets Rusty Wallace in the final lap of the Indy 500, or even that he’s apparently got a snake wrapping around his neck. But to add in Flip, the choady stage-2 turdbag who drinks like he’s just figured out how to use his arm in an ambulatory way, and the dual ‘bag 1-2 punch makes me want to gnaw on an electric power line until everything goes dark.

The two hotties in the middle are Doug E. Fresh hot. They’re the frozen chicken chunks of my frozen TV dinner. I reserve the central compartment for their hottie charms. I won’t even eat the peach cobbler dessert or the combo carrots+peas vegetable compartment until I’m done savoring their microwaved delights.

Mmm… frozen chicken chunks.

Hail Scrotsar!

Friends, Romans, Countrymen… lend me your douchebags.

No More K-Scrote

Woo Hottie #1 writes in:

Alright..enough.
I am the girl on the far left in the picture that you posted with the four girls and the two guys on the beach and I would appreciate it if you take both of those pictures down now. That picture was taken on my camera and I DO NOT appreciate you using it for people to bash on your creepy website. I do not give you permission to post my picture (as well as my friend’s pictures) across the internet for creeps to stare at. I think that your website is absolutely ridiculous (not humorous in anyway) and I feel bad that you have that much time on your hands. Take the picture down period.
Thank you.
——-

Well, at least she said thank you.

I waffled on whether it had to come down, since usually it’s the ‘bag writing in and since K-Scrote apparently had no problem being featured in all his muscley pumpedness, but I gotta respect the Woo Hotties. And so we weep for a great HCwDB pic lost to the ether.

The Puka Bra

The Puka Bra. For those moments when a simply puka shell necklace won’t be enough to scream choad.

The Douchetron

People often ask me, DB1, what happens when the Grieco Virus reaches a terminal hybrid state of combo hottie/douchey infection? When the Bleeth has passed the point of no return?

Ah, I say.

Ah.

You seek the mystical Double Bag-Head. Few have glimpsed this state of spiritual hybridity, of dual douche enmeshment and entwinement. HCwDB couples who reach this terminal state of ‘baggery are far beyond redemption. They have fused into one nuclear proton/electron state known as the douchetron. And by “douchetron” I do not mean an early 80s Disney movie featuring Jeff Bridges trapped inside a digital New Jersey.

I mean the moment at which the HC and DB fuse to create a black hole of douchitude. A singularity of wrongness. Witness exhibit A, featured here. Then avert your eyes. For the douchetron is not a sight to be stared at for any length of time without deep psychological and socioeconomic ramifications.