Antibihotics
I would wade through a sea of pirhannas in the deep forrests of Africa while carrying a stack of iron maidens, juggling ostrich eggs, gargling a double shot of MacCallan 18 year, and humming the theme to “Rawhide” merely for the pleasure of lighting off organic cucumber fireworks at the base of a forty foot shrine made of bamboo shoots and plantains simply to pay tribute to this hottie’s uber-hotness.
She’s so fantastic my fillings ache.
She’s what I like to call antibihotics. Antibihotics are hotties who can cure anything simply by being. Not by doing. By existing. Through zen hottitude. Through om-presence perfection.
I would read Longfellow then nibble on her shoulderblades.
Oh, yeah, and the dude with pink upturned collar and hat? Uhm. What’s the word I’m searching for. I just had it.
Oh yeah.
Douchebag.
Pink Lipstick and a Ball of Pube
No chin should be shaped like this. It’s unnatural. It defies the laws of non-douchiness, which is another way of saying it’s poo. The pube fungle on it doesn’t help matters neither.
Grown up Lindsey Lohan hottie is literally being cruel with that dress. An unfair level of meanness that hurts on that deep, gut-check level. Check out the dorky middle aged pud in the back staring at the goods. He’s in as much pain as I am.
I’ve had a thing for pink lipstick ever since the Russian exchange student who wore it in my Freshman year “Intro to American History” class in highschool. Ah, Natasha. How I still long for that vodka flavored goodness.
The rouge red color on skinny chainboy, however, is a shade of lipstick I’m less familiar with. Unless L’Oreal is running a new “Douche For Men” product line.
MotorScrote
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It’s all about the hand gesture, baby.
And the sunglasses.
And fantastic cleavite.
And the fact I just had a package of HoHos and they were two chocolate logs of cream filled heaven. Sure that last sentence has uncomfortable homosexual overtones, but HoHos are that good. They overcome even uncomfortable homosexual overtones.
This scrote, however, does not.
The A/Xhole
The submitter of this pic claims these two are in college, and I hope so. If this girl’s underage, I’m going to hell for thought-crime.
Keep voting in the HCwDotW contest, this week’s a tough one.
HCwD of the Week: Classic Scrote Edition
Back to basics this week in our HCwD contest. Four classic levis jeans type of douchebags polluting hotties with their wrongness for your consideration. Each feature the telltale signs, the overconfident douchey facial expressions. The bling, the grease and the scruff. Wait, wasn’t that a late 1970s Fleetwood Mac album, “The Bling, the Grease and the Scruff”? I loved that album.
HCwD of the Week #1: Gassy McBling
A true classic douchebag with two fantastic balls of cuddle. The greasy head alone sends this pic into Hall of Scrote consideration.
HCwD of the Week #2: Wrong
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Any pink Izod with popped collar is a friend of mine. And by “friend” I mean spew. Drunky Pinkbag defines wrongness and so he received a rare dictionary definition with his original posting. As with Gassy, it’s a HCHCD threesome, ramping up the head banging factor with a double set of hot.
And that hottie in the middle is one healthy womb. I would make many, many babies with her, then read from the book of Ezekiel by candle light.
HCwD of the week #3: Classic Poo
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Yup.
Really doesn’t need much more said about it other than if this pick doesn’t send a man to drink, I don’t know what will.
HCwD of the Week #4: Spanky
I hate to add a fourth to the voting but there were so many candidates last week it’s hard to narrow this one down. Spanky makes it on the strength of the uber-hotness of his hottie, not to mention perhaps the douchiest bandana / sunglasses combo this side of Grieco himself.
Honorable mention to 28 Douchebags Later, Gummi Lips and Pacified, all three of whom just missed the cut. If either of those strike your douchebaggy/hottie fancy, feel free to add a write-in vote.
So what say you, ‘bags and hotties? Cast your vote in the comments thread and remember to factor in not only the angryness of the douchebaggery, but the hotness of the hottie.
A great HCwD pic is a balancing act. A Yin and Yang of scrote and hot. A… you get the picture. Vote or die.
Knock Knock
Q: Knock Knock.
A: Who’s there?
Q: Two douchebags polluting hotties in a wood paneled basement.
A: Two douchebags polluting hotties in a wood paneled basement, who?
Q: That’s it. Just two douchebags polluting hotties in a wood paneled basement.
A: But that’s not a joke.
Q: I agree.
A: Then what are you doing here?
Q: Just looking for a package of HoHos.
A: Oh, then you’re in the wrong place. Go down to the end of the block, take a left, and walk two blocks up. You’ll see a deli on the corner of the next intersection.
Q: Great, thanks!
A: No problem.
Yet More Cactus Head
Last night I ended up drunk at some bar near UCLA absolutely filled to the brim with HCwD combos. And of course, being a ‘bag, I forgot my camera.
So to punish myself I’m forcing myself to stare at this scrote’s mug for a solid thirty seconds straight. Yech.
Cheeky Friday
You wanted a classic inverted douche sandwich to go with your Friday nite?
You got it.
Not only that, but I’ll toss in the most fantastic cheeks since Mo played in the backcourt for Philly in the 80s, an uber-scrote of mythic proportions, and enough red cups to send the whole kit and caboodle into a state of douche Nirvana overload.
Speaking of, who exactly were Kit and Caboodle? And more importantly why are those two luscious cupcakes embracing a giant oily douchebag while I sit here on my floor scratching my rash and downing PBRs?
Why ask why?
It’s Friday night. Open a bottle of the ‘Train and toast your red cup to the unholy douchebaggery of this pic. It was a good week for pics. Next week’s HCwDotW contest is gonna be a doozy. I don’t even know how we’ll get down to just three of this week’s monstrosity/hottie combos.
But there’s one thing I do know.
Velvet underwear. The world needs more velvet underwear.
Hair Supply
This hairy Sasquatch better have six gold records to get away with that level of fur. I can’t tell if he’s a county singer, a sushi chef or the lost member of ZZ Top. I don’t know that’s he particularly douchey, but man alive, anyone with that dense a thicket of facial hair deserves some form of props. It’s like that isn’t even hair. It’s some form of fast drying acrylic. A plastic polymer chemical substance they use to glue tiles on the space shuttle.
The chickas are Milf-y cute in that “best friend in high school’s mom” sort of way. And they seem to love their lifesize plastic Kenny Rogers doll. So who am I to criticize their love of Fur Man? Oh yeah. I’m the douchebag who hasn’t shaved in three days and just ate sixteen mallomars in a row. So take that, Fuzzy.
Bandana Boy
The ‘Bag Headbutt is too strong. The red cups are too overwhelming. The cheekbone grease is skeezy. The bandana whispers, “I am… douche…”
It is too late for this chicka. She is too far gone, lost in the deep recesses of the Grieco Virus.
Pity her.
Then again, at least Bandana Boy’s Lion Shirt’s color didn’t pop. Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope she can escape in time.
Then again, maybe not.
