Saint Pat's Day
Today is Saint Pat’s Day here at HCwD. To celebrate this holy day of douchebaggery, we’ll drink cans of Miller Lite and purse our lips in bizarre and feminine ways.
I have to say, Pat’s kind of growing on me. Maybe it’s the earing. Maybe it’s the inverted “white silk tie with black shirt” pimp look.
But to me, Pat isn’t just a person of indeterminate sexuality. (s)he’s a state of mind. A way of being. A manifestation that says, “Love me. ‘Bag me. And ship me to Peru.”
Okay, I don’t know what that means. But I do know it’s the first annual holiday here at HCwD, Saint Pat’s Day. How do you plan to celebrate?
The Smacker
Come now, it’s Friday, you didn’t think I was gonna let you ride off into the weekend without at least one more bitch-smackingly painful HCwD pic, did you?
If this one doesn’t fire up the existential grill for the weekend, then nothing will. This oily Jersey tool isn’t just mauling a cute little button of love, he’s smirking at you as well.
Are you gonna take that?
Well, are you?
(sigh)
I sure am.
Feh. Time to start drinking.
Nerdbag #155
Okay, I know I said I’m trying to stay away from the budding ‘bags, those potential teenager pics, the “‘bags in training” if you will, but this Nerdbag deserves at least some tertiary love (and by “love I mean spew) on a Friday afternoon.
Especially as I just spent three hours fixing my publishing software, and so I deserve a little slack.
Besides, tell me he isn’t the ‘bag spawn of the lead singer of 80s band, “The Cars,” Rick Ocasek. Cue “You Might Think I’m a Douchebag” song lyrics in three… two… one…
Yale
Yale has that Jason Lee “Earl” look working for him, and I gotta say, it really doesn’t work for him. Unless cultivating that “I’m a skeezy dropout with no job prospects outside of stealing Snickers bars during the midnight to eight am shift at the ‘Snack ‘n Go.”
Sultry lace mamamita has that “early stage teen pregnancy” vibe, but I’d still love her lace gloves in an uncomfortable fetish sort of way.
And that stockings/shoe combo. Que bella. She’s my Sloane Peterson.
Friday Haiku: Frog Poo
Porcelain Sultress,
Don’t look now but there’s a choad,
who smells like frog poo.
Big Red Says Thanks
Big Red here wants to thanks all those sending in pics, but please remember, only send the best HCwD combo, and please, for the love of all things scrotey, do not send sixteen pics of your best friend and his girlfriend smiling at the camera. This site ain’t called “Boring Midwestern College Students with Minimally Attractive Chicks.” If you find a great pic, send it. But be selective.
As always, if you have a pic of unbelievable douchitude and hotness cominging in unholy glory, and it’s a decent sized pic (400 pixels or so) that isn’t a huge file, then by all means, send it on in to my drunk ass at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com.
And remember kids, ‘baggery kills. Do not even dip a toe into the dark path down scrotitude. Do not let skeezebags fool you into thinking you too can replicate the oily, popped collar, hand gesture making, spikey haired douchebaggery. Resist. Instead, rescue the hotties from their folly. For they know not what they do.
Spring 'Bag
Nothing says “Spring Break” like post-industrial wastelands and 10 Degree Hat Scrotes. You can just hear the Timberlake in tinny echo playing out of his ipod.
Yeesh.
The tonguescrote has leapt into Bleeth form. The beach is unsafe. We’re going to need a bigger boat.
Full House
Looks like John Stamos and that tall guy from “Full House” turned into a couple of ‘bags lately, although I do love the Olsen Twins all grown up and enhanced.
This is what we call a classic double decker ‘bag sandwich. They have this on the menu at the Carnegie on 7th Ave. I recommend the soup and 1/2 ‘bag sandwich with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry and a side order of the ‘slaw. Mmmm… deli food.
As to Stamos ‘Bag, I’d toss this dimpley little pudwad off a moving train, Dennis Hopper style.
And what’s with the background drapes? Are they in a Moroccan whorehouse? Wait, don’t answer that. Kills the fantasy.
The Newt
For halloween next year, I’m going as this creepbag. No outward signs of douchebaggery, but just skeezy enough to make me feel uncomfortable even being in his digital pixelated presence.
But why am I really posting this pic?
Hottie.
She is as clear as an unmuddied lake. As clear as an azure sky of deepest summer. I want to listen to Beethoven and dance to Gene Kelly movies. I’d even suffer the Ludavico technique just to watch films of her parents playing chess.
In short, I’d nuzzle her goodness for a weekend, then take a long nap.
Tri-Hot Sandwich
It’d be a tasty double decker sandwich if it wasn’t for that e-coli laden douchebaggery in the middle. Okay, they’re just regular turdburgers, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve had triplet fantasies since, well, forever. And triplet blondes at the Tiki Ti just makes the DB1 want to dance the luau. Three times.
