Wonder Twins
Every so often the Grieco Virus pull is so strong that both Bleethed out Hottie and Douched out Douchebag become synergized in a form of synchronic douchosity. A genetic hybridization of scrote that overwelms the individual and alters the DNA at the core level. We’ve observed Brundle-douche hybrids before, but here is a prime example of such spew. And by “spew” I mean spew.
Observe the douchetacular effect of such comingling at its highest state. Like a Greek Myth, the Wonder Twins eminate scrote as a singular entity. The only cure: Washing one’s eyes out with Listerine.
Fuzz
Laugh it up, fuzzball. You will never be cool no matter what you do with your hair or how much you grow in some chin pubes. You are aging scrote. Your shelf life has expired. Now button up that rayon shirt you bought at the 50% off sale at Urban Outfitters, and scrat.
I would set off sparklers buried in my taint just for the chance to sniff this cutie’s hair dye.
The Mug
And I mean that in every definition of the word.
Mugging the cuties. The Mug of Douche. The fact I just smashed a coffee mug upside my head while screaming “Mmm… ugggghhh!” Okay, that last one was a reach.
Not sure what’s up with the massive increase in mandanas in douche culture, but if we were graphing this like the stock market, mandanas are up while popped collars are declining rapidly.
Both cuties make me happy to be male.
HCwD of the Week: Donkey Douche
It was a fairly close vote all around this week, with Donkey edging out the fantastic and magical pillow love of the waitress Clay wanks to, and Turd and Swan finding some love even without the Swan showing any boobs, proving there are still ‘bag hunters who value the pretty face (as I do).
But in the end, I mean come on. Look at this caveman. Look at that gorgeous ball of wax. There was no way this pic didn’t elevate to a hallowed spot in the Hall o’ Scrote.
As metalmilitia puts it:
Donkey Douche is a monumental douche, and the enhanced wet dream next to him is all kinds of hot. I’d commit seppuku with a greasy monkey wrench just to see the dress on her right side moved further to her right by two inches. And as for the fake-baked Cro-Magnon, the most enraging part for me is that his lips are the same shade as hers! Most likely he just applied some lipstick he bought at Claire’s, but the thought that he may have stolen a smooch from those heavenly lips just puts me over the top. Is that Jesus bling hiding under his conveniently unbuttoned shirt? I fried a bacon-and-egg breakfast on my head while looking at that picture, and had plenty of rage left over for hash browns after I stopped looking at it.
And then there’s Jewy Mcbagger, who observes the problem with voting for Clay Wankin’:
2. Clay: Fabulous, real, G-d made mammys. But the problem is that Clay isn’t a ‘bag. At least not yet. He’s got a couple of years of forehead waxing, bling buying, and sunglass inside wearing to truly qualify. The good news for Clay is that hotties won’t be afraid to take pictures with him because he is clearly not interested in fish. He’s a strictly sausage kind of future ‘bag.
And douche be montreal brings home the case for the Donkey:
To help me decide, I asked myself which picture, if I saw it without the benefit of the always-excellent commentary, would convey most iconically the essence of HCwDouchery, in such a way that upon viewing it, in a *fraction* of a second, the absolute necessity of returning to this site every single day would be forever imprinted in me. And Donkey Douche’s soul-searing combination of instant loathability, ginormous brutishness and numbing unawareness along with his girl, who is hot in ways I could never even begin to comprehend, seals it absolutely. This picture contains the essence of every argument for the existence of the HCwD site, as well as every rebuttal of every counter-argument imaginable. And given how much time I have spent on imagining running my finger up the inside of hottie’s right arm, very lightly brushing my wrist against the side of that dress, I have not come one iota closer to believing it is possible to experience such an event during our time here in this earthly realm.
But don’t you worry, Clay Wankin’s ethereal boobage will find a place in all of our hearts. And by “hearts” I mean screen humping.
Great comments all around this week. It sucks to pick when we have three great options like these, but in the end, three enter, and only one may rise. And by rise I mean “spew.” Welcome to the next level, Donkey Douche. You’ve earned it.
An Old Friend
Our old friend wanted to stop by and say hi. Big Red says, “Keep douche alive!”
Voting is still open in the HCwD of the Week contest down below, but it closes tonight so get any last minute votes in, and one vote only please. I can’t be doing higher math with a nasty Irish Rose hangover.
Double 'Bag Sandwich
This double ‘bag sandwich just disturbs me. What is going on here? Who are these two goobers? I can’t even classify them as douchebags. They’re just happy to be there.
As to the cuties, a bit on the thick side, but like a pastrami sandwich at the Carnegie Deli, it’s simply more to pour mustard on. Sir Mix-a-Lot approves.
Mr. Fungus
There’s a vague familiarity to this HCwD comingling but I just can’t place it. It’s like a foot fungus that comes back after a year or so. You find yourself absentmindedly scratching the bottom of your foot without quite realizing that it’s your old friend, Mr. Fungus.
I can’t tell if bandana boy and his lithe little cupcake have made past appearances or not, probably because I don’t want to recall that traumatic memory.
Instead I will focus on the fact he’s holding one of the rarest of the Ubiquitous Red Cups, the Blue Cup. And I will focus on see through tight white t-shirts that make me praise Ganesh.
Where's Waldouche: Lurk'bag Edition
That’s right kids, it’s time to play another round of the game craze that’s sweeping the nation, “Where’s Waldouche.”
Somewhere in this pic I’ve hidden a lurking scrote’bag desperately trying to smear a hottie with his douche virus.
Can you find him?
Douche Fries
It’s like I ordered a tasty Hottie Sampler Platter, you know those giant “serves 2” categories on the menu that you always eye but never order, and suddenly find they’ve mixed in a side order of douche fries.
What do I do?
Do I call the waiter over and send the whole thing back? Do I try to pick the douche fries out of the platter? Do I use my fork to move the douche fries over to the side of the plate where they can do no more damage?
Alls I know is I’m hungry for my platter, and I can’t figure out how to get those five tasty morsels without douche fry contamination. I also know that the army bikini on a perfect butt salad goes fantastic with a nice Chianti. Mmm…
The Boob
Since we’re doing a “Boobies” theme today, I thought it was time to post another form of Boob, the “desperately trying to grow a mustache while wearing pink polo popped collar” Boob.
Cross pollinate that definition with the “Posing for pics with hotties who are paid to promote products” boob, and you have this boob’s boob.
Blondie is all sorts of Swedish hot. I want to yodel her riccola.
