Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

'WeenBag

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Okay kids, before you go trick-or-treating, make sure you toast your Mike-n-Ike Fun Paks to bandana boy here, a true ‘ween bag for the Hallow’s Eve.

Yes, faced with the fantastic fact that hotties dress like total sluts on Halloween, ‘WeenBag instead prefers to star vacantly into the camera. Even with the best child bearing thighs I’ve seen since my last trip to Tuscany staring him in the face.

And hotties, if you dress like slutty princesses, half naked cats, or french maids tonight, I have one thing to say to you… god bless you. And I’ll take the “treat.” To go.

Head

I don’t know how douchebaggy this dude is, he just sort of looks happy to be there, but man alive is that a big forehead. I could land planes on that thing.

The head puns run through my mind, yet I must resist…

He’s a fan of the book, “How to Get ahead in Advertising.” Stop it. Head on, apply directly to the douchebag. Enough. If he studies hard he’ll get a good headucation. His favorite director is Head Wood.

That’s it. I quit.

Great.

Where's Waldouche: Halloween Edition

Boo!

Happy Halloween fellow hotties, ‘bags and ‘bag hunters.

For your treat, I’ve hidden a total and complete douchebag somewhere in this pic filled with Halloween Hotties. Can you find him?

Speaking of Halloween Hotties, when did halloween became a chance for sexy little things to suddenly dress as porn-star slutty as humanly possible and have it be completely socially acceptable? And who can I thank for making up that rule?

Classic 'Bag Sandwich #523

I apologize for subjecting you to this so early in the morning. Please don’t be mad at me. But I can’t tell if the Backstreet Boys let themselves go or if Scrote’s Anonymous got out early. I thought of a number of names for these two wankers but then I got hungry and made myself breakfast.

But it’s vital that we sear our eyeballs every day with the pain of our societal scrote. To study the douchebag in its natural habit so we can learn from our communal tragedy and perhaps change course. Maybe we can hunt down those ‘bags still in the wild like Double-Fisty here, and his partner, Look At My Shaved Chest and Dimples. And at least rescue their hotties.

There’s one thing for certain in this crazy mixed up world. That gorgeous slice of turkey in the middle could freeze vodka. I love her. I’d marry her and let her divorce me and take half my money. She’s my soul mate. For at least the next fifteen seconds I will dream of spending the rest of my life with her. Then I will move on to the next pic.

Death Metal and Skinny Hot

The last time I saw this ‘bag I was aiming my laser gun at his forehead while playing “The House of the Dead” in the lobby of the Loews discount movie theater on 52nd Street and 9th Ave in the mid 90s. I’m still pissed about having to pay 75 cents to play that game. Although blowing off this undead scrote’s head was worth any amount of quarters.

I’m not sure that that facial hair is human. Busting the “death metal t-shirt + sportscoat” look has to qualify for uberdouche status. And look at how he holds that drink. It’s wrong. So terribly wrong.

Blondie’s skinnyness makes me see and appreciate bulimia in a whole new light.

Sir Douche-a-lot

All hail Sir Douche-a-lot, King of all Scrote!

Slaying dragons and saving hottie maidens wherever he may go, Sir Douche-a-lot has no need for armor or fancy clothes. His simple untucked white shirt and old-man-in-Miami
shorts simply work to conceal his enormous power in an aura of pathetic and weak k-mart douchitude.

But Sir Douche-a-lot is not to be trifled with. He hides behind the clothes of the Kathy Lee Gifford ‘Bag product line to belie his powerful presence and kingly demeanor.

So bow! Bow to Sir Douche-a-lot!

I see you’re still fooled by the extensive facial pubes and sub-Supercuts Flowbee haircut. Sir Douche-a-Lot cares not for outward appearances. Sir Douche-a-lot simply lets his scrote do the talking.

And what tales that scrote can tell. What fables those balls can spin. Listen closely for Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrotum sings the poems and fables of ancient lands where douchitude runs free and hotties are Bleethed out beyond all recognition.

Listen.

Listen to Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrote. For it weaves a magic tapestry of rhythmic delights and eternal longing. Of years of fruitless quest and loneliness and isolation. Of unchanged underwear.

He is Sir Douche-a-lot. And he is saluting you right now in ways you can not, and would prefer not, see. Hail to his kingly presence once and for all! Lest he pull his sword from its stone. And believe me, that’s not a pretty sight.

Pravdouche

I’m not sure when twelve year olds with mutant ears are allowed to cuddle with three Soviet hotties as absolutely perfect as these three. But I do know Carlsberg Boy hasn’t had it this good since he won his Junior High Halo II tourney, beating Chet, Bradley and Scooter. You go, Master Chief.

I would read Marx and contemplate the inadequacies of hegemony simply to fondle their bikini tops in inappropriate ways. They would break me, Ivan Drago style. I would embargo their Cuban Missiles. I would Gorbechev their Yeltsins. I would vodka their Dostoyevsky.

The Helmet

There are douchebags. There are uber-douchebags. There’s Pat. And there’s Helmet. Helmet performs the Triple Lindig of douche, engaging in ‘bag hand gesture #17, ‘bag face gesture #4, and ‘bag mouth toothpick variation #A53. Toss in douche glasses and only the lack of popped collar prevents scrote orbit from being achieved.

Oh yeah. I forgot.

The hottie. Who is super smoking fantastalicious. I know what you’re thinking. “DB1 said this about other hotties.” And I have. And I will again.

And I’m saying it now.

I would scramble eggs on her stomach, and make a pot of chai tea. She is butter stick hot. Pancakes sexy.

Mmm… time to hit up Ihop for the rutty tooty fresh and fruity. Yup. My life is pathetic.

Blogger Douche

Blogger, the software I use to update the site, has been buggy as hell all weekend freezing the site and losing a bunch of comments. So my apologies if it continues for another day or two. I guess I shouldn’t complain, what with the software being free and all, but I’m convinced Blogger is run by a douchebag like this guy. That being said, there’s some great douchey/hottie combos for the upcoming week as well as the long awaited ‘bag smackdown — the HCwD of the Month contest. That will go up either Tuesday or Wednesday.

It’s almost a shame Pat didn’t make it for this round, but maybe I’ll throw him in there as the Division Winner who got to skip the wildcard rounds. Because seriously, what sums up douche more than Pat and his hottie sister/girlfriend?

Porcelain Man

It kinda looks like Porcelain Man’s snagged Big Red’s only shirt from his closet. But the Ayn Rand Bling is certainly a new direction in douchebag accoutrement. P.M. can’t even muster a smile, instead he busts douchebag face gesture #2. And wrist-bling, which is uber-douche level annoyance. What a tool.

Hottie appears to be paid to pretend she wants to touch porcelain statues and smile for the camera. But her abs are Sunday Best. And I’m a huge fan of choke collars. So this pic gets an honorary “hello there hottie and douchebag” greeting from DB1’s bag of greetings.

And a toast of the Irish Rose.