HCwD of the Week: Insect Edition
Since Big Red rides on a higher plane of Zen Douche, this week’s HCwDotW contest will focus on the insectbags of the last few rounds of scrotey pics and the hotties who love them. This week’s contest is also brought to you by Bagbalm, a loyal ‘Bag Hunter who requested I get off my lazy ass and get the weekly contests going again.
So without further ado, here are the finalists for this week’s HCwD of the Week contest. Remember to vote in the comments section of this thread. Votes must factor in not just the douchey douchitude of the smelly poobags, but the hot factor of the various cuties. In combination. Mixture. Overall wrongness. Here are the finalists:
HCwD #1: The Earwig
This pink shirted greasy abomination can’t even be bothered to take out his bluetooth while cuddling/molesting his sexy fiery hottie.
And while I usually look for outward signs of douchebaggery (tilted hat, bling, etc.), in this case douche-face is all the qualification this ‘bag needs.
HCwD #2: Khan’s Insect
Inspired by thoughts of earwigs in the previous pic, I termed this greaser Khan’s Insect after the greatest villian in film history’s evil alien brain eaters. And if you think that’s just hyperbole, imagine glancing into a motorcycle helmet and seeing a version of this dude crawling around inside it. Would you put it on?
I didn’t think so.
This sexy floozy doesn’t know she’s cuddling up to an alien insect, suggesting the ‘bag viruses have taken deep hold. She’s likely incurable at this point. Very sad.
HCwD #3: Morning ‘Bag Meditation, aka “The Dung Beetle”
I didn’t knight this turd with insect status the first time round, so for the purposes of including him with the other insects, lets call him “The Dung Beetle.” Anyone sneering with such douchey pleasures in the presence of this sexy, if likely enhanced, hottie, deserves our jealous rage.
It’s not just the glasses, Dung. We’re also including you for the slightly aggessive way you’re grabbing her waist. That finger-grip suggests you know you ain’t gonna be holding her much longer. And for that, you are douche.
So break out the Raid, grab a flyswatter, and vote for which of the three insects, and the hotties who love them, combine to destroy all higher motor function and render you a babbling, incoherent mess. Or is that just me?
Caesar's Scrote
Caesar here is just so many sorts of douchey wrongness it’s almost enough to shake the DB1 out of his brain addled Saturday afternoon stupor. In fact nothing makes me angrier than seeing a skeezy muscle-boy grasping my second favorite beer (behind PBR). If I ever catch this poobag with a bottle of the ‘Train, I might need to fly to Provincetown and track his metro ass down where I’ll drown him in Axe Bodyspray and six gallons of Vidal Sassoon Extra-Hold Hair Gel.
Princess Hottie makes me believe in the Tooth Fairy, Frosty the Snowman and Suri Cruise. She’s as fine as a shiny El Dorado on a dusty southern highway.
Big Red III: Big Red Strikes Back
It’s hard to put in words just how genius this pic of Big Red is. It’s like a needle of douche adrenaline (adrenadouche?) to the heart. This pic raises the ghosts of all departed douchebags past who sing Big Red’s douchey praises while lusting after this dark haired beaut.
This pic warms the coals on the fire of ‘baggitude in so many fantastic ways, that it’s not just the Night Train talking or the fact I’m half passed out on my floor on a Friday, or even that the smell in my kitchen seems to have gone away.
This pic is so fantastic, I’m giddy like a French schoolgirl. Goofy like a wigga Nick Carter sibling on that new show. Big Red, like The Shocker, like Glinty, Mellonhead, Chubawumbag or even The Warthog (yech!), joins the Pantheon of uber-scrote. For that reason I can’t add him in next week’s HCwD of the Week contest. He gets his own special corner of the HCwD ‘Bags and Legends section on the strength of this pic alone.
So lets ride this glorious muppet-head scrote and the hottie he’s mugging on into the weekend, and may you all have a douche-free night filled with un-Bleethed hotties…
The Return of Big Red
Somewhere, across the high plains of Texas, Big Red rides…
In the setting sun, astride his horse, Big Red rides…
Wherever there is trouble, Big Red will be there.
Wherever hotties are in need, Big Red will find a way.
He’s the Clint Eastwood of douche. The Good, the Bad, and the Douchey. Billy the ‘Bag. A fearless scrote cowboy, always ready, always able. A douche lawman on the ride for all things rank and skeezy. The Sheriff of DoucheWood. Big Red.
ooooeeeoooeeeooo… wahhh wahhh wahhh….
ScrotesBusters
Who ya gonna call?
Rhyme of the Ancient Marinated Douche
Yea, ‘cross yonder bar,
There lies a mystic scrotum,
Powers of douche, strong.
Perhaps my dark thoughts,
are tempered by raven hair.
Not enough, I rage.
Set face on fire, lo!
Behold pink shirt, oiled grease.
Save the minx, I must.
Tribe tatted greaseball,
Embers of discontent stoked.
I’d lick her kneecaps.
Unholy union,
Ripped shirt tragedy, karmic loss.
My soul dies many deaths.
Walk the Line
This douche is walking that fine line between gay’bag and metro’bag, and both sides are trying to reject his sorry, whispy, grinny scrote.
Blondie looks a little too porny for my tastes, not to mention exhausted, but I’d still cuddle up in her mountains to shield me from the rain.
Man, I can’t tear my gaze away from this lanky pile of rat cheese’s jawline. It’s like douche granite. In fact this may be a flesh colored statue. Am I supposed to believe that veiny hand exists anywhere outside a DaVinci carving? I don’t think so.
Chins Gets Some
Nothing’s hotter than a double chinned white suited uber-blinged Horatio Sanz douche gettin’ freaky in a club. Chins here busts the Travolta suit like he’s got Night Fever. I almost don’t have the heart to tell him that the spreading rash in his nether regions isn’t “Night Fever” at all. Penicillin should help clear that right up.
The Cleavite Talks:
Cleavite: Luf me. Touch me. Worship at my soft, pillowy cotton candy flavored altar.
DB1: Uhm. Okay.
Big Red
Looks like Big Red snagged a Doublemint Girl. I’d almost have some sympathy for this Alfred E. Newman looking putz if he didn’t have that collar pop.
Granted the dude is wearing his dad’s shirt, but still, a collar pop can not be forgiven. Douchebaggery, even in this pre-pubscent rube, has been achieved.
Khan's Insect
Speaking of earwigs, tell me this ‘bag isn’t the spitting image of that little alien slug Ricardo Montelban put into Checkov’s helmet in “Star Trek II.”
He burrows in… then eats his way into your brain… KHAN!!
And somone please tell me that hairline is painted on. That can not be natural genetics. I refuse to believe evolution is that cruel. Then again perhaps Star Trek Earwig here disproves all theories of evolution. Yet he’s not “Intelligent Design” either. We need a whole new theory to explain this monstrosity.
Lets call it “Accidental Design.” This theory states that there’s no such thing as evolution, yet nor is there a God. There’s simply accidental scrote. It’s Nietzsche by way of Richard Grieco. Douchebag Existentialism. What do you think?
That’s it. I’m going back to bed.
