The Clapper
Sunday afternoon and all is good. Last night the ‘bags were out in force swarming the hotties in L.A. I did what I could to save as many cuties as I could but it wasn’t easy. They love that tattooed, gelled up, freak look. There’s only so much the DB1 can do.
Can’t save all of ’em.
But anyways, kick back, enjoy your Sunday, and laugh at this fleshy ball of clapping scrote here. More good stuff tomorrow.
The Burp
Ever chug a Big Gulp too fast and let loose with one of those Burp Du Soul moments? Where the vibration of gas echoes through the esophagus and resonates deep within the soul? When it’s more than simply a belch, it’s a reinforcement of one’s existence?
I burp in salute of this hottie.
I burp in disgust at this thuggy ball of goo.
I burp, therefore I am.
White Chocolate Weekend II
Since my stomach is feeling better and in honor of born to be ‘bag, it’s another taste of White Chocolate Weekend here at HCwD.
This one’s like a sucker punch to the groin. I have no idea who W.C. is or what he does, but clearly the spiked, cornrow look, ass-chin and facial pubes like a cracked out b level porn-star are doing the trick.
I can’t tell if this is the same hottie with W.C. in This W.C. pic from a few weeks ago. And I feel like I’ve seen that dress before on the site but my brain is too fried to remember where.
Ugh. Looking at this pic, maybe my stomach isn’t feeling as good as I thought it was. Yechhh.
Indiana Tongue and the Temple of Hot
Indy is all that is tonguey about tonguescrote. I want to drop him in a pit of snakes in ancient Egypt with only his cunning and his hair gel to protect him. Look at that grease forehead. I could run a short-order kitchen off that head. Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger…
As to Chesty McBlonde, she’s what I like to call a time-bomb hottie. Tremendous right now, but one of these days, she’ll tick-tick-boom into a size 12 bohemeth.
But for now? Tutto buono.
1/2 'Bag Sandwich
Again, I’m on a strict lesser-‘bag diet today. Can’t stomach the hard stuff. Stupid huevos rancheros.
These two mini-bags are like the White Castle Sliders of Douchebaggery. They’re small, square, and they come in six-packs.
Sultry vixen may have tan-in-a-can orange skin, but I’d still floss her teeth while humming ragtime.
Toga
Not sure The Tick here is really a ‘bag, but I’ve always had a thing for women in Togas. And it’s Friday. And DB1 feels slightly queasy from the Mexican food he ate south of the 10 last night (long story). So it’s time for a swig of cherry flavored Pepto and a nice soft pic of a semi-‘bag so as not to upset the stomach too badly. If I post another White Chocolate, I’ll be done for the day, so I’m on a no-choc diet for today.
Friday Haiku
Friday night bar hop,
‘The ‘tender is a scrote ‘bag,
I’ll simply drink more.
Bugs Bunny/Peter Lorre Douche
This dude is like the Bugs Bunny version of Peter Lorre. I can’t tell whether I’m amused or afraid. He keeps staring at me. I look away, then I look back, and Bugs Bunny Lorre is still staring. Stop staring at me!!
Laura Dern Hottie’s not that hot, but then again, neither is Laura Dern.
The 'Bag Within
I see this pic not literally but as a visual metaphor. As figurative representation. This isn’t just a happy couple and a skeezy scrote, but a signifier for what I like to call “The ‘Bag Within.” The Primal Douche that lurks in the deep, dark subconscious of the American Dream.
On the left we have a happy go lucky all American Aryan couple, looking forward to future years of healthy blond children, SUVs and a dysfunctional sex life.
But on the inside of this square chinned corn-fed American boy lies something sinister. A deep, primal source-douche lurking among his tighty whiteys and subscription to Vanity Fair.
The Primal Douche. The ‘Bag Within.
It rages. It struggles to free itself. Among Strapping Lad and his perky young co-ed girlfriend, there lies the urge to morph into a skeezy tongue-bag. To wear bizarre wool coats and leer obnoxiously at a camera, his tongue stained with a thousand cheap wines. His breath stinking of the salmon he had for lunch.
It is The Freudian Primal Trauma Douche that lurks beneath the surface polish of All-American veneer. The rotting scrote that underlies even those happy couples who make your fiancee feel like crap because the diamond wasn’t big enough.
Do not be fooled by surface polish or cavity free teeth. Within even Ivory Snow lies a lurking source douche waiting to reveal itself for all to see in its skeezy, creepy-ass glory.
Or am I reading too much into a nasty old dude crowding into a pic?
Lohan and The Greasebag Twins
In honor of the great trainwreck Lindsey Lohan, the future ex-Mrs. DB1, here’s a Lohan type Hottie looking all sorts of bubble yum hot to keep us warm on a Thursday. Of course she’s embracing two knobs right on the gaybag/stubblebag border known as Scroatia.
Heck, for all I can tell, that is The Lohan.
But whether its her, or one of her baby friends, either way I’ll still be staring at a computer screen. So does it really matter if it’s Lohan or Lohan-clone? All I know is these smug, stubbley tools need that paperback copy of “I’m a Douchebag, You’re a Douchebag” shoved up their collective asses before Lohan Hottie realizes what she’s embracing.
Come to me, Lohan. We will drink papaya juice and chant the Zoastrian prayer for the Sun while I rub linseed oil on your thighs.
