Big Yellow Attacks
The dangers of provoking Big Yellow are demonstrated in the following pic of exploding douchitude. You can even see the ‘bag virus sucking this poor youthful cutie into its orbit of scrote.
It’s enough to cure the DB1’s viscious hangover right now.
Actually no it isn’t.
I’m gettin’ some asprin.
Friday Nite
It’s Friday, so you know what that means. Time to kick back and relax with a cutie and a hookah.
Thanks to all for some great emails and submits this week. Remember, if you have a great photo of a hottie and a douchey posing together, send it along to me at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com. Because I may make fun of the scrotes, but I’m the biggest douche of them all.
I’ll be updating sporadically this weekend, and then next week we’ll crank up our exploration of the continuing phenomenon of the inexplicable attraction between hottie and ‘bag. Toast a cup of Night Train tonite, and may all your hotties be Grieco-Free…
Cheesecake to Go
Whoops, looks like having Douche Aura isn’t enough, as this giant heaping pile of scrote stepped in to carry off Cheesecake.
Sorry, D.A. Guess you’ll need facial pubes and nuclear reactor sunglasses before you’ll get a piece of the cake.
Douche Aura
In spotting a douchebag, there are the obvious signs we’ve grown to know and love (and by “love” I mean spew). But this pic illustrates something I’d like to term Douche Aura. Douche Aura (D.A.) is even more subtle than the tonguebag or the douche-face. It exists on an ethereal plane that can only be approached obliquely and through much zen douche practice.
In glancing at this white shirted pudgy pile of poo here, you might say, “DB1, where’s the bling? Where’s the earings and hand gestures? How is this mole a douchebag?”
Aha. I’ll show you.
Simply squint your eyes and tilt your head. Now glance at the pic again. If you’re lucky, if you’re one of the chosen few, you’ll begin to see something flickering around the edges of his body. A gelly, Old Spice type of energy field that reeks of a closet full of porn and six popped collar Izods.
Do you see it? That, my friends, is Douche Aura.
As to the cheesecake, I’ll have a slice with strawberries, thanks.
Friday Haiku
Bubble Couch Douchebag,
Your blonde’s twin delights are great,
You, however, aren’t.
Big Yellow
Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.
Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.
Lord I want, to be,
in that hottie sandwich…
Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.
Low Collars and Dirt
Witnessing this atrocity and his girl, I don’t feel angry. I don’t feel upset. I don’t feel like setting fire to my face, nor to his.
I simply feel unclean.
Very unclean.
The fact they’re both showing off their boobs with identical low cut tops may play an integral role in that sensation. And the fact I’m about to go into the bathroom and scrub my eyes out with a toothbrush dipped in bleach.
The Flour Tortilla
This skeeze-mug appeared recently in another pic here on the site, but I’m too hung over to go back and look for it. I’d know that douche-face anywhere. I know it because I have the same twinge in my neck. The sudden desire to smash my head into my refrigerator numerous times.
I want to roll this senorita up in a giant flower tortilla, sprinkle hot fudge and avacado slices on it, add some sour cream, then climb inside with her and roll down a daisy covered grass mountainside in the Swiss Alps while singing showtunes from “The King and I.”
Sounds a little bizarre?
Hey, it’s my fantasy bub, and if I want to roll around with this spicy little minx in a giant hot fudge covered flour tortilla, than that’s my douche given right. Her Cleavite sends me to a very happy place.
I do wish the girl clutching the Long Island Iced Tea on the right would dump it on Country/Western Douche’s head though.
The Tipping Point
Many ‘bag hunting grasshoppers ask me, “DB1, ‘Bag Master of all things hottie/douchey, how do we know when a fair maiden has become tainted through so much overwhelming exposure to radioactive douchitude that she herself becomes Bleethed to a point of unredeemability?”
And I meditate on this question.
I study the wafts of Tag bodyshots and hair gels that circle the hottie like a million digital Griecos and Kid Rock ‘Bags on the hunt in some teal/pink Say Challo to My Littel Frend club, and I ponder.
At what point does a hottie cross? At what point does she become so denatured by extensive exposure to ‘bags head butting her and choke holding for pics that she ends up on the far side of the river Styx? Trapped forever in Dante’s Douchebag Hell, never to return. A stage-4 terminal Bleeth infection like the one pictured here.
So where is the tipping point between redeemable stage-2 and forever lost deep stage-3?
Let us meditate on this. We must still find that locus where no amount of ‘bag-antibiotics can reach a hottie as she slips down the greasy path of sideways hand gestures and excessive bling. Never to return from the land of the greasy foreheads and people who wear brand-name gibberish on their arms, like this sackless knob.
Barton Stink
I’m not sure when John Turturro’s retarded brother escaped the asylum. Someone needs to grab a butterfly net and snag this nutjob before he spreads his sweaty sideways ‘bag headbuttery into any other hotties.
I do love that duel green-yellow wristband action. Not to mention the sweat stains. Classy.
What’s with the 15 ounce can convention? No one can afford bottles? And nice ambient lighting. Nothing sets the mood like broad, evenly lit fluorescent white. It’s like they’re partying in a giant meat locker office. A big douche filled meat locker office. With weird John Turturro looking scrotes. Oh wait, I said that already.
