Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

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.

Late Nite 'Train

Late nite post and the DB1 is hungover like a pickled cactus. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds good. Probably because I’m hung over. Alls I know is an evening spent krunk dancing with Malaysian flower girls while urinating on cats is all sorts of good. At least I think that’s what I did tonight. Not sure if the Malaysian flower girls were really there or not. I could’ve imagined that part. But urinating on cats? Was definitely real.

This grinny tool is just enough to set me off into fits full of rage before I pass out. And this shiney, slightly manly but still extremely attractive waif will send me off into a restless sleep of existential contemplation.

What will the DB1 be contemplating in his subconscious as he sleeps off that bitch of a ‘Train hangover?

The simplest of questions: Does this douchebag’s chin disprove the existence of God? And is it bad that I’m attracted to this slightly manly hottie mainly because her body makes me feel funny in inapppropriate places?

Spike and the Sultry Vixen

Oh sultry vixen,
Whither the spikey douchebag?
Lo, my psyche aches.

Yup, I’m still inspired by all the Haikus we did earlier this week. Anything to help me process Spike The Spikey Haired Knob who’s actually managed to bust upturned collar on a leather jacket. That’s a pretty heady ‘bag accomplishment.

Sultry Sarah Silverman hottie makes me feeble in the knees. God damn she’s award winning.