Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Concerto in B(ag) Flat Minor

After uncomfortably trying to determine Black Lung’s gender only to watch my eyes melt into puddles of room temperature goo, I decided the best cure was a ‘Bag Overture, a douche symphony if you will.

Here we have multiple melodic scrotages interweaving with Philip “Forehead Grease” Glass dexterity yet maintaining the modern classical structures of an Aaron “Facial Pube” Copland. It is a cacophony of phony caca. Douche harmony with just a touch of greasy tonal dissonance.

There was a bit of nudity in this composition, however, which as any classical music afficianado knows is frowned upon at Lincoln Center. Therefore I’ve been forced to invoke the Holy Spirit of Douche Lee (hallowed be thy androgynous name) to preserve the performative nature of this modern composition.

Like any great douche symphony, measure the quality of the composition in the ability to invoke the urge to spew wildly while desiring to suck on the thigh of an Asian cutie in a blue slip (even if she is long past Stage-4, never to come back). Given those criteria, this performance ranks with an early Arthur “Popped Collar” Fiedler. It is that good (and by “good” I mean spew).

Yet this performance of rank douchebaggery is not, apparently, enough to distract text messaging cell phone boy in the background.

Black Lung a DykeBag?

In the comments thread, c-freak posited that Black Lung is, in fact, a dyke ‘bag. And now that I study the drawn in eyebrows, I think C.F. may be onto something.

Yech.

Lets toss Black Lung in with Douche Lee and Pat as ‘bags on a higher plane of consciousness, bow to their Holy Manifestation, and down a six pack of PBRs, stat.

Black Lung

Holy sweet Yasmine, I haven’t had enough coffee yet to have to stare at this sausage when I’m still nursing a New Years hangover of epic proportions.

I have many problems with this scrote. Many. But what churns the butter beyond the multitude of douchebaggery has to be those eyebrows.

Those shaved, painted on, pube-like eyebrows from douchebag hell.

They taunt me.

They are 1980s horror film Rick Baker level special effects. They are alien mutant viruses. They are follicles of pure, uncut evil. They are the smoking black thing in the microwave at the end of “Time Bandits.” Mom! Dad! Don’t touch it!

Dark haired cutie appears to be just my type. As she spirals down into her black hole of ‘baggery, it is Dickensian tragedy of 1850s England. She is a working class Londoner, and he is black lung.

Tickle Me Emo

One of the hottest toys this holiday season was the “Tickle Me Emo” doll, complete with earring and fauxhawk accessories. Here we see a lucky recipient of the toy, enjoying a night out on the town.

Other hot toys this season were the “Cab’bag Patch Kids,” the “Chin Furby” and the hardest to get of toys, the “Bleeth Free Barbie.” Blondie with the healthy Cleavite seems to have done well for herself.

The San Francisco ArtBag

San Francisco opens up an interesting subsection of HCwD discourse. As I’ve mentioned, the DB1 (that’s me), is having an alcoholic New Years celebration in this city of the beats, hippies and designer clothing boutiques. As I’ve stumbled drunkenly from North Beach to Noe Valley, I’ve observed an interesting subgroup of douchebaggery we haven’t discussed much on the site: The “art’bag.” Artbags are an urban hipster variant of the douche genetically redesigned for city scrotitude. Signs of ‘baggery are not as overt as White Chocolate level regurgitation, the Jesus Bling and popped Izods. Instead, art’bags are subtler. More “sensitive.”

Of course, being the drunk douchebag that I am, I haven’t actually snapped any pics of these art-school scrotents in action, but I am going to make a concerted effort in the next few weeks to find and isolate this mutant strain of the ‘bag virus in hottie corralling action. Like Curie or Pasteur, I must first isolate the contagion, exposing it to the purifying light of the collective mock (that’s where you guys come in), and as such, seek to cure it through the reframing of the cultural capital as understood in Bourdieu’s theory of “habitus.”

Man. Too many shots last night. It’s the new year and I’m making even less sense then before.

Better you ignore my ramblings and simply glare at this arty demon seed and the two cuties he’s polluting. This isn’t an exact demonstration of the San Francisco art’bag in action, but it’s the best I could find given I’m still recovering from doing schlager with some sexy Norwegian “On Golden Blonde” at 2am.