Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Toad III

I didn’t realize The Toad was the same uber-scrote from the “Scrum De Douche” photo (thanks to dooouche_head for catching that in the comments section), but here he is a third time. Methinks we should celebrate The Toad as we elevate him into our Hall of Scrote as one of the rare and unholy “Source Douche.” Those who lurk among us spreading ‘baggery, a disciple of The Grieco, a Douche Bishop (Douchop?) in the Church of Douchebaggery.

Here he is polluting yet another hottie with his rank grip and greasy mug. He’s traded in the red shirt look for a Zoot Suit but the same pooey glasses, earring and Toad face remain intact. Preserved in hair-gel amber if you will.

Jessica Alba hottie is all that is gorgeous in life. Like a Georges-Pierre Seurat painted sunset, she’s a million dots of goodness.

EDIT: Wow that is the same chick as in the last pic. I love her. I’d give up my first born just to lick her shoulderblades.

The Toad

When I was a kid my Mom used to read me a book at night when I was drifting off to sleep called “Frog and Toad are Friends.” I used to imagine Frog and Toad. What they would look like in real life. What they would look like if they were people.

Little did my five year old brain realize that Toad did, in fact, exist. And he was a red shirt fungle faced douchebag.

I’ll never think of that book the same way again.

And yet somehow Toad has secured a big haired sexy Jersey girl with a fantastic set of Baby Back Ribs. What would Frog say?

One Bourbon, One Douche, One Beer

This only thing saving this uber-scrote from violating the laws of space/time douche physics is the lack of popped collar.

I don’t know how this hottie ended up being embraced by this double fisting pile of toe sludge.

All I know is “Sasquatch Mountain” was on Sci-Fi channel tonight at 9pm. So it’s all good.

Scrum De Douche

Look at the tongue-scrote in the red about to lick this perfect little cuban sandwich and tell me you don’t want to spew stomach acid. The oil on that wank’s forehead could power Vegas for a weekend.

Happy happy cleavite and the DB1’s Saturday is off to a good start. Now if only I can shake this massive wine-headache. Stupid karaoke.

Journey of a Thousand Boobies

Clearly Greasy McChin has a huge Asian fetish, what with the tat and the ambiguously Asian hottie in his grasp. Thus the last name “McChin” takes on dual meaning when I rank on his scrotiness and want to set his gel-head on fire.

Or I could just call him a whiff of seagull crap and remove all entendres completely.

Looking at this hottie inspires me. I’d like to explore those Malaysian caves of Saline for a two month journey of self discovery, meditation and contemplation. I would nuzzle in their warm fleshy hills, chant the rhythmic Om, search my shakra and discover a higher consciousness.

I call this experience “Journey of a Thousand Boobies.” I will travel to the Shrine of the Sufi saint Baha al-Din al-Naqshbandi in Bukhara where I will humbly prostate myself and ask the Eternal Spirit to explain to me the secret of the joyous Thousand Boobies. Just as ancient Kings of the Bukhara before me, I will search the heavenly Boobies of higher consciousness for meaning and for guidance.

And lo, answers will come in nipple shapped visions of bouncing hotties and luscious tatas. And I will know that my Journey of a Thousand Boobies has taken me halfway across the world to discover the one deep and incontestible eternal truth: I likes me the boobies.

Affliction 'Bag

It’s pics like this that make me want to brain myself with a coconut. I’d like to roll Affliction here down a flight of stairs until his lay gets caught in his fungle. Anyone who can bust ‘Bag Hand Gesture #08 while holding the smallest plastic cup outside of a Thumbilina picturebook deserves uber-douche scorn.

And hotties will always score points when featuring flower motifs. Not sure why. It kind of makes me think of gardens. Which makes me think of garden gnomes. Which makes me think of Night Train and getting drunk tonight. Because I’m good with the associations like that.

Chester the Molester

This pic makes me feel unclean.

Or that could be because I haven’t showered in three days.

Flower Boobies

Ah the sideways peace sign. Once used by children in simpler times during games of “Rock Paper Scissors,” today it is a gesture of scrote. I’m also sensing a black Yankee cap to Douchebag correlation of late.

The chicka isn’t super hot but flower boobies makes the DB1’s Friday that much more special.

The Bas

Bas like this country.

Bas like this country very much. The women American like The Bas. They think him very to kiss. His sexy hair want they to fondle. He make their underwear feel the excited.

He is The Bas. Please to meet you.

"The face screams 'bag."

The face screams ‘bag.

The above line isn’t one of the famous opening lines of literature, but it should be. Like “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” “The face screams bag.” is Dostoyevskian in its pathos yet with shades of Joyce and Beckett dancing around its modernism.

“The face screams ‘bag” could be tone poetry. A cry to action, as when Dylan Thomas pleaded with his dying father, “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

“The face screams ‘bag.”

It may not have the eloquence of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the populism of Dickens or the fantasticism of Huxley. Think of it as Vonnegut by way of Maxim.

“The face screams ‘bag.”

The first sentence of the Douchebag Manifesto. And it does. It most certainly does.