Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Cheesecake to Go

Whoops, looks like having Douche Aura isn’t enough, as this giant heaping pile of scrote stepped in to carry off Cheesecake.

Sorry, D.A. Guess you’ll need facial pubes and nuclear reactor sunglasses before you’ll get a piece of the cake.

Douche Aura

In spotting a douchebag, there are the obvious signs we’ve grown to know and love (and by “love” I mean spew). But this pic illustrates something I’d like to term Douche Aura. Douche Aura (D.A.) is even more subtle than the tonguebag or the douche-face. It exists on an ethereal plane that can only be approached obliquely and through much zen douche practice.

In glancing at this white shirted pudgy pile of poo here, you might say, “DB1, where’s the bling? Where’s the earings and hand gestures? How is this mole a douchebag?”

Aha. I’ll show you.

Simply squint your eyes and tilt your head. Now glance at the pic again. If you’re lucky, if you’re one of the chosen few, you’ll begin to see something flickering around the edges of his body. A gelly, Old Spice type of energy field that reeks of a closet full of porn and six popped collar Izods.

Do you see it? That, my friends, is Douche Aura.

As to the cheesecake, I’ll have a slice with strawberries, thanks.

Friday Haiku

Bubble Couch Douchebag,
Your blonde’s twin delights are great,
You, however, aren’t.

Big Yellow

Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.
Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.

Lord I want, to be,
in that hottie sandwich…
Oh when the douche,
comes marchin’ in.

Low Collars and Dirt

Witnessing this atrocity and his girl, I don’t feel angry. I don’t feel upset. I don’t feel like setting fire to my face, nor to his.

I simply feel unclean.

Very unclean.

The fact they’re both showing off their boobs with identical low cut tops may play an integral role in that sensation. And the fact I’m about to go into the bathroom and scrub my eyes out with a toothbrush dipped in bleach.

The Flour Tortilla

This skeeze-mug appeared recently in another pic here on the site, but I’m too hung over to go back and look for it. I’d know that douche-face anywhere. I know it because I have the same twinge in my neck. The sudden desire to smash my head into my refrigerator numerous times.

I want to roll this senorita up in a giant flower tortilla, sprinkle hot fudge and avacado slices on it, add some sour cream, then climb inside with her and roll down a daisy covered grass mountainside in the Swiss Alps while singing showtunes from “The King and I.”

Sounds a little bizarre?

Hey, it’s my fantasy bub, and if I want to roll around with this spicy little minx in a giant hot fudge covered flour tortilla, than that’s my douche given right. Her Cleavite sends me to a very happy place.

I do wish the girl clutching the Long Island Iced Tea on the right would dump it on Country/Western Douche’s head though.

The Tipping Point

Many ‘bag hunting grasshoppers ask me, “DB1, ‘Bag Master of all things hottie/douchey, how do we know when a fair maiden has become tainted through so much overwhelming exposure to radioactive douchitude that she herself becomes Bleethed to a point of unredeemability?”

And I meditate on this question.

I study the wafts of Tag bodyshots and hair gels that circle the hottie like a million digital Griecos and Kid Rock ‘Bags on the hunt in some teal/pink Say Challo to My Littel Frend club, and I ponder.

At what point does a hottie cross? At what point does she become so denatured by extensive exposure to ‘bags head butting her and choke holding for pics that she ends up on the far side of the river Styx? Trapped forever in Dante’s Douchebag Hell, never to return. A stage-4 terminal Bleeth infection like the one pictured here.

So where is the tipping point between redeemable stage-2 and forever lost deep stage-3?

Let us meditate on this. We must still find that locus where no amount of ‘bag-antibiotics can reach a hottie as she slips down the greasy path of sideways hand gestures and excessive bling. Never to return from the land of the greasy foreheads and people who wear brand-name gibberish on their arms, like this sackless knob.

Barton Stink

I’m not sure when John Turturro’s retarded brother escaped the asylum. Someone needs to grab a butterfly net and snag this nutjob before he spreads his sweaty sideways ‘bag headbuttery into any other hotties.

I do love that duel green-yellow wristband action. Not to mention the sweat stains. Classy.

What’s with the 15 ounce can convention? No one can afford bottles? And nice ambient lighting. Nothing sets the mood like broad, evenly lit fluorescent white. It’s like they’re partying in a giant meat locker office. A big douche filled meat locker office. With weird John Turturro looking scrotes. Oh wait, I said that already.

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.