Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Dawson's Scrote

I’m not sure when Katie Holmes traded in Tom Cruise for Ross from Friends. But given Cruise is nuttier than Mel Gibson’s psyche, I’m not sure that’s that much of a downgrade.

But enough with the Hollywood allusions.

Let us celebrate this sweet cuddly Princess and her dorky friend. I’m not really sure he’s that much of a ‘bag. In fact I’m kinda psyched for the guy. He knows it’s all downhill from here. And that realization’s gotta suck when you’re only 19.

The Breadstick

This grinny breadstick looks like he’s one of those ambigiously gay metro’bags on the E channel, cohosting updates with Guiliana Dipandi and that uber-douche spikey haired singer from Sugar Ray.

Hey breadstick, what’s the latest on Paris Hilton’s crabs? Back to you, Billy Bush.

The fact he’s in an inverted ‘bag sandwich dive is enough to send a man to drink. The peroxided vision of loveliness on the right just jumped off the pages of those smuggled Penthouses we used to examine behind school like we were searching for the lost Ark of the Covenant. Seventh grade. I was thirteen. Had no money. The highlight of my day was scrounging enough change for a coupla chocodiles after school. How times have changed.

Moonface

I’m as surprised as you are, Moonie.

I’ve never been a huge fan of surgical enhancements, but I’d launch a Lewis & Clark into them foothills.

Big Red IV: Electric Douchaloo

Big Red’s got a huge online fanclub as I’m getting tons of pics submitted of this doofy scrote in action. Here’s one more to round out the legend of this upturned collar eraserhead and the hotties who love him.

Enjoy that beer, ‘Red. You still ain’t gettin’ none.

Where's Waldouche: Cheerleader Edition

Once again buried deep in this photo of luscious cheerleading hotness, I’ve hidden a greasy slimey scrote of rank proportions.

Can you find him?

And can you avoid making the obvious bean’bag joke in the process? I know I can’t.

As to Pink Shorts on the left, I haven’t seen legs that great since Jack Diamond in the 1920s. What, too obscure?

Teeth

There are moments in life when gender ambiguous grinning balls of douche-white find themselves gripping two hotties on either side at the exact moment a camera flashes. Most moments in life, this doesn’t happen. And then it does.

This is one of those moments.

The curves on these two objects of adoration can not be understated in any meaningful way. Or, to rephrase: they’s hot as hell.

And then there’s this chicken necked white-on-white scrote. Grinning at us as if to say, “Hey, I may have no chest hair, and I may get mistaken for a raging bull dyke on occasion, but this is still me. And you’re still you.”

I would take him to the local amusement park, strap him to the Tilt-O-Whirl and set it on “High,” then take these two for ice-cream and popcorn while we watch the new season of Battlestar on my portable LCD wristwatch T.V. While Oompa-Loompas play Turkish fighting songs on trumpets while riding shetland ponies. Damn my fantasies are getting esoteric.

HCwD of the Week: The Dung Beetle

Well it was a landslide this week, with this creepy fanged douche taking the cake largely on the strength of the painfully hot hottie he’s tackled with his ‘baggy charms. As L’ Douchebago Venezolano sums it up:

It’s a done deal, HCwD #3: Morning ‘Bag Meditation, aka “The Dung Beetle” takes it all!
I would go down to Mexico, with 500 pesos buy a burro and take it to the hottie’s house in order to see those big mountains of health she carries on her chest in a donkey show. As to the mango-faced, rico-suave @#$@ pie, well, I’d leave him in Mexico with my friend Nachoooo so he would do the flight of the eagle and kill him immediately.

But there was some love thrown at The Earwig and Khan’s Insect. And by “Love” I mean regurgitative spew. Big Bag of Douche sums up the Earwig’s overpowering douchitude:

#1 is clearly a no-brainer. C’mon.. he got the most hair gel and spikiest spikes of the pack.. hair vote. The pink shirt secures a win for douchiest clothing selection. And the bluetooth… that’s the icing on the cake! He’s such a greasy douchebag he even needs a bluetooth to take calls at the bar and pretend they’re important business communications when it’s really mom yelling at him for using up all the AquaNet again.

As PunchingBag waxes poetic in near iambic pentameter:

Senor Dung Beetle
You’re creepy and sick
It’s obvious you paid for this photo op
With this super hot porno chick

PunchingBag

Count Douchula tackles Khan’s Insect:

That smug look and the point to the camera just scream “I am king @#$@.” It makes me want to destroy the Earth. This hottie makes me very happy in the pants. She’s got this look on her face that says “I’m drunk and ready to @#$@,” which is A OK with me. And the way that she is just grinding on that piece of @#$@’s crotch just proves that God is a malicious bastard who thinks it’s fun to torture the people that he created.

(Sorry C.D., as much as I love the epithets, this is a family site and I gotta think of the kiddies)

So lets raise Dung Beetle to the rafters. We’ll see him again for another uber-scrote smackdown when we do the HCwD of the Month contest in a few weeks. We’ll see how well his douchitude holds up on the rage-o-meter then.

Greased Lightning

Greased Lightning here is creepy. Stalkerbag creepy. I could land airplanes on that head. Opec is hoping to drill in his right temple to assist with the futures market.

And yet…

He’s grabbed this blonde twinkie in his meaty arms and moved in for the classic ‘Bag Head Butt.

While I sit here watching The Home Shopping Network. Thank you, thighmaster!

It just ain’t fair.

More Fun with Mangina

We first featured The Mangina on the site a few weeks ago, and here he is again, back to announce his douchitude in yet more scrotey ways.

Now I suppose if I had the Facehugger from Alien: Resurrection living inside my chest, I might want to show it off in a club, too. Then again, if I had a giant orange potato-head, I’d never leave the house.

Seriously, if we planted this turtle turd’s head in some soil, could we grow orange potatoes? Or would they be yams? Or would a giant douche tree grow which would sprout gel-flowers every spring with that lovely odor of Tag Bodyspray mixed with Old Spice? Or maybe we should just pour a bucket of herbicide on his spud and be done with it.

The Fungley Mohawk

And while you’re deciding who to vote for the in the HCwDotW contest below, here’s a little stubbley mohawk douchiness to touch off your Monday with.