Hoops
Nothing says “NBA” like a shaved headed 5’4″ psycho-killer wannabe. Besides, that jersey doubles as a mumu dress. Nothing wrong with 2-for-1 savings on clothing purchases.
The DB1 could’ve played in the NBA. I was thisclose. All I needed was to be a foot taller and know how to play basketball. Other than that, I was on the verge. Just like Hoops here.
The dark haired beaut on the left has one of the perkiest bodies I’ve ever seen. It’s practically saluting. And while the Tori Spelling looking chicka on the right may not blow you out of the water, never underestimate the power of legs that fantastic. Blazers Boy wouldn’t know what hit him.
Puffyshirt McGrease
This is just so very, very wrong.
Like when your Uncle Frank would come over and stare at your 10th grade sister’s training bras hanging on the back line, wrong.
Look at this perv’s cat-that-ate-the-hottie expression. He knows he’s scrote. And yet he’s won.
Gangsta Douchin'
Nothing says straight up gangsta “hard” like twelve year old trust fund hiphop Lola here. This street playah terrorizes them crazy-ass suburban junior high kids inhaling reddi-whip behind the 7-11 over on Main Street.
Word. You throw down like your bad self, Lola!
Of course these two suburban princesses fall drunkenly under Whitey McWhite’s urban gangsta spell. Of course. Because Lola ain’t no joke. He’s the baddest badass on the JV Lacrosse team.
Cowbell
PIC DELETED
Addendum to the ‘Bag T-Shirt Rule #104, any reference to SNL skits, while not as ‘baggy as “I’d Fcuk me” or “Emotionally Unavailable” sloganeering, still qualify for secondary ‘bag points on the scrote scale.
Double pube chin here looks like one of the undead in “Halo 2”. I want to toss a plasma grenade into his second chin before reloading my needler.
Chicka ain’t the hottest hottie on the HC end of the ledger but I’d still let her spank me with a Japanese geisha fan while shouting out vegan recipes in Greek.
Gilligan Gets Lucky
Oh, sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,
a tale of a scrubby douche,
With facial pubes and a giant shnozz,
He votes for Lyndon LaRouche.
God damn this red haired Ginger is gloriously perfect. Those may be the finest legs this side of the dim sum special at Joe’s Shanghai in Chinatown. And that Mighty Cleavite conquers all. She is superb.
How did this unholy spawn of Gilligan and Screech ever score such a tropical island paradise? Why by making Douchebag Hand Gesture #17, of course. Did you even have to ask?
Atomic Douche
This one’s for those of you complaining we haven’t feature enough of the Classic ‘Bags lately. Here’s a scrote as All Douchinian as Glinty’s Levis or CactusHead’s Jesus bling.
Rule #52 of Zen ‘Baggery: A t-shirt featuring an airbrushed rendition of your head in the exact same position as your actual head is ur-Douche. Meta-douche. Self reflexive Douchosity. Post modern douchitude.
In short, it’s really really douchey.
Add in a mircophone, aluminum foil teeth, and what appears to be Chocolate Turtle Bling, and Douche-Om enlightenment has been attained.
Factor in the hottest woman you will never be in the same room with, even if her badge implies she was paid to be there, and all the elements to form Atomic Douche have been achieved.
This pic could stop an army in its tracks. Hitchcock used to build entire plot twists around pics this painful. If this pic were an opera it would shatter champaigne flutes. If this pic were The Arc of the Covenant we’d have to cover our eyes or our faces would melt off.
It’s the perfect Sunday HCwD implosion to go with your Mimosas and scrambled eggs.
Saturday Doughboy
Consuming a HCwD pic sometimes is like enjoying a big, tasty chocolate frosted doughnut. If that doughnut was part douchebag that is.
This turd is proof positive that you don’t always need the obvious signs of douchebaggery (Jersey Guido, Jesus Bling, etc.). Sometimes the Soul of a ‘Bag can be spotted in one instant face moment of douchitude. This would be that moment.
As to the two hotties on display here, you can thank me later.
'Bag of Ice
There’s a special subsection of the douchebag oeuvre, it involves the knuckle-tat. It’s one thing to ink up some pseudo-“tribal” sig on your shoulderblade to prove how big your nuts are. But the knuckle-tats don’t just scream “douche.” They scream STD Uber-‘Bag.
Factor in the 10 Degree Hat, runway stripe facial pubes, and a shirt that appears to have a Gary Coleman trading card ironed onto it, and you have hyper-skeeze.
Hottie has that skinny Long Island dirrty look that I will always toast my Thunderbird to.
You're a Stroce
Proving once again that ironic shirts proclaiming one’s douchitude are fast becoming a staple of the New Douche “look,” 180 Degree Hat ‘Bag here has pulled not one, not two, but three sexy signoritas.
That tiny little ball of hot in the middle, displaying tender veal chops and clad only in bra, makes my heart go tha-thump. And that’s in spite of her obvious early ‘Bag Infection status. Dig those mesh stockings too. She’s just dirrty in so many wrong ways.
Guess this lanky scrote’s having more success than my pickup line, “Wanna come back to my basement apartment and split some Hostess Cupcakes and a one liter bottle of Irish Rose?”
'Bag Soup
Add some peas and carrots and you could feed a family of 15 in New Guinea.
