Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Cheese

Ever buy that fancy wedge of gourmet cheese at Ralphs, then forget about it in the fridge so it ends up hidden behind the baking soda and the jar of mayo way in the back? Then, six months later, you go to grab a can of PBR and knock the mayo over, only to discover a moldy ecosystem, a temperate biome of cellular diversity? I’m taking new forms of flora and fauna, cures for polio and little green mucus people with names like “Frank” and “Teddy” playing cards?

That’s this guy. Moldy, six month old fungal cheese.

She, on the other hand, is fresh cut brie. Smooth and mild. Pungent and aromatic. Even at $12.99 a pound, she’s a bargain.

Oh, and clean out your fridge. Slob.

Retro Douchitude: NKOTB

Y’all ready to get funky?

Uhm, no Donnie. No I’m not.

It’s like being awakened in the middle of the night with a horrible, long repressed memory of being touched by your uncle when you were nine. New Kids on the Block represent our shared collective trauma. Our ass raping uncle. Better to confront this atrocity from our past then to repress the memory.

Or at least share a good laugh at some retro-douche as we slide on into a Friday night of excessive binge drinking, extreme consumption of delightlful Hostess cupcake products, and of course, staring awkwardly at hotties while hungover at the local IHOP on a Saturday morning.

Not that there are that many hotties at my local IHOP. But there are a few. At least as far as I can tell, what with the blurred vision amidst the blueberry syrup.

The Ghost

I redub this oily bohunk “The Ghost” for his past appearances on the site, but also for the fact his douchey spirit’s ability to pull Barbies makes him otherworldly.

He is also a warning ghost. A ghost of douchebags past, present and future. His warning: Do not forsake the hotness presented to you. For the douchebag is lurking to pluck that blonde chicken from under your nose before you know it.

She is all that is perky and worthwhile about attending state school. Sure you get a crap education, drink a lot and are just biding your time before the night shift at FedEx. But at least you get the occasional cameo performance with Mary-Jean and the State Schoolettes. It’ll give you something to remember fondly during the fifty years between marriage and death.

So listen to the Ghost. Carpe D-Bag, boys. Seize the scrote.

Whistling Dixie

Far be it for me to begrudge a Civil War veteran from enjoying his time off after the Battle of Second Bull Run. Firing grapeshots at the Army of the Tennessee in the western theater while recovering from scurvy can take a lot out of a 19th century douchebaggy scrote.

But still, watching Robert E. Lee perform a simultaneous tri-Eschelon Attack around the rear flanks of these three pioneer wenches makes me want to set his ‘stache on fire, Sherman style. I’d shrapnel his antebellum, then retire to Fort Sumpter to sip moonshine while Potomacking these three maiden’s garrisons.

Because ladies, uhm, it might be time to secede from that union.

Friday Haiku

Wake up Maggie, I,
Think this rocker pud douchebag,
Needs his faces whacked.

Sinful looking slut
Leave jizzimhead-douche alone
He likes teh man-milk

— Sam

American Tiedol

Apparently this sultry dark haired Jersey hottie is a contestant on American Idol right now. Not sure whether HCwD has a scoop on this little hottie in a compromising position with a puffy Zach Braff ‘Bag, but if so, I feel like I’m breaking new ground. I’m like The Enquirer.

Next week, space aliens.

I’d watch American Idol, except for the fact that I grew tired of listening to off-key renditions of 1970s cliche wedding songs right around the time of My Aunt Francine’s third marriage in 1998. I think it was when the house band played a disco instrumental version of Sunshine On My Shoulder. I’m serious. Because nothing rocks like John Denver with a hip-hop grunge tip. So no thanks to Karaoke Idol.

As one of the great douchebags of this, or any, era says, Seacrest Out! And by Seacrest, I mean Lemur Penis.

Oh, like you’ve never seen a Lemur penis.

Assus Puckerus

We’ve often discussed the visceral reaction to an effective HCwD pic in terms of the involuntary reflex that scientists term Assus Puckerus, or as the kids call it on the street, Oh Helllllll No.

Black Emperor here reaches the unorthodox state of Assus Collapsus, in which prolongued viewing causes a simultaneous gag reflex and the permanent sealing off of the cornhole due to organ failure brought on by revolting stimuli, digestive inversion and the spontaneous reversion to a nihilist world view. And say what you will about non-HCwD Godlessness, but at least it’s an ethos.

Some theorize that the Ludovico Method of human conditioning was first developed by playing Beethoven’s 9th to images of Black Emperor ‘Bag, but that test subjects involuntarily swallowed their tongue. The imagery part of the treatment was quickly downgraded to images of mass torture, rape and murder. You know, for kids.

It is most certainly not time for a little of the old in-out in-out. In fact, B.E. here needs to get one in the yarbles. If he’s got any yarbles. Or did I just make way too many film references for one post?

The Woodchuck

Normally I don’t get mad when woodchucks try to mate with humans. Because as far as I’m concerned, if I was a woodchuck, and I could chuck wood, it frankly wouldn’t be enough to validate my existence. Not that there’s anything wrong with chucking wood. Some of my best friends lived their entire lives simply chucking as much wood as they could chuck. How much? I’m still not sure.

But no. I would need something better. More profound. I would need to put on my hunkiest low cut black woodchuck shirt, oil up my chest and sneak out among the humans. To forget my woodchucking days and dream of a better tomorrow. A tomorrow where all the wood has been chucked. And I could simply nibble on the plump shoulder of a sleeveless silver dress.

There, passing for adult male, I could hide my woodchuckiness, clutch a drink, and lazily gesture at a camera. As flickering electric candles danced in the shrubbery behind me. No longer a woodchuck chucking wood. But a human douchebag. Because a woodchuck can dream, can’t he?

Under Milk Wood

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courter’s-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yard; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

– Dylan Thomas

Send in the Clownbags

It’s rare when the impressionist art movement and the Grieco Virus collide in one disturbing HCwD pic. But here’s the thing, kids. Those tight biker/painter caps were acceptable in 1992. Actually they weren’t even cool then. Add on what appears to be slices of pizza on this scrote’s hat, and you go from ‘bag to clown in 4.2 seconds. Like an Audi.

I don’t know who’s hand is where. I don’t even know if the performative nature of the lost Backstreet Boy constitutes douchebaggery, or just explains the violent kicking motion in my right leg. Then again, that could be from a few too many Choco Tacos last night.

For those who haven’t experienced the layered chocolate genius of the Choco Taco, picture the icecream equivalent of Jewel Hottie from the previous pic. Damn, they were tasty.

Unlike these clowns. Who are spew. And not even premium spew. I’m talking the type that sells for .99 cents in block cartons in the back of the freezer next to the bags of ice. Those generic slabs of ice milk that haven’t moved since the Dove Bar ice-cream realignment of the late 1980s.