Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwD of the Week: Footbag Edition

Since the Superbowl is coming up, and since my Pats blew the big one yesterday, I thought we’d do our own version of Footbag here at HCwD. Except instead of a game involving throwing, kicking and catching a football, “Footbag” involves the game of determining just how much you want to plant your foot up one of these goonballa’s asses and carry his hottie off for an extended session of wine tasting and foot massage.

So while there were many fine pillows featuring arcing curves of dancing cleavite presented on the site last week, I am instead focusing this week’s contest on how much I want to put a boot in these three doberman turd’s asses.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Fraggle Choad

Something about this douchebag’s facial expression combo’d with his black tux jacket and absolutely perfect ball of lipton iced tea leaning into him makes me want to kick a field goal with his nads.

I’m not sure Fraggle Choad’s hottie got the love on the site that she deserves. She’s an absolute kumquat.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: Mr. Fungus

Hard to argue with Mr. Fungus as a finalist, since he makes my uvula itch. Blondie is a definite stage-3 Bleeth, pretty much unrecoverable at this point. She makes angels cry and spirits weep for her choice of man.

But she does score strange points for wearing a plastic naked chick around her neck, as someone pointed out in the comments thread. So for that alone I’d love this flaxen haired doe for at least 120 seconds.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: The Mug

I left off “The Boob” and “On the Choad” because while the hotties appeared of age, the ‘bags looked like 10th grade budding ‘bags, and I’m trying to post less high school pics. As a result, lets get back to douchebag basics with this eight-head and his mandana holding back an explosion of douche-hair, while ‘bag headlocking two curly fries with extra salt.

Mmm… curly fries.

So what say you, people? If there’s an outcry for The Boob or On the Choad in the comments thread, I may add them to this week’s contest, but I think we have a fairly good pu pu platter of douchetidue, the kind I’d definitely like to Footbag for a 50 yard fieldgoal as time expires.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Go Pats!

Having grown up in New England, I gotta show my love today for the Pats in the playoffs. I know I know, the team is spoiled, too many wins, yadda yadda, but who cares? They’re my team, so here’s a shoutout from DB1 for today’s game.

Although I’m not sure posting a pic of this wanky scrote in a Pats jersey is quite the tribute I’d hoped to provide. Although perhaps that tasty cleavite will inspire a tackle or two.

Man, staring at this pudd makes me want to root for the Colts.

On the Choad

Sadly, much of the academic canon has neglected a lost classic of literature. One of the great masterpieces of the early 1950s Beatnik movement, the novel that helped define that generation, On the Choad. This lost masterwork helped codify the struggling and confused youth of post-war America in the 1950s. The almost musical cadences and challenging discourses of social and ethnic taboo helped reveal the stasis of hegemony and expose the truth of a generation drifting toward douchebaggery and the self-scroteing need to pollute hotties with their greasy seed.

An improvised, rambling and poetic free structure, “On the Choad” is a brilliant classic by the writer Alan Greaseberg, pictured here, that deserves acclaim that has been long neglected. Here’s an excerpt:

Great New Jersey glowed red before our eyes. We were suddenly on Trenton Street among hordes of douchebags, some of them sprawled out on the street with their feet on the curb, hundreds of others milling in the doorways of saloons and alleys. “Wup! wup! look sharp for old Poppy McCollar there, he may be in Jersey by accident this year.” We let out the ‘bags on this street and proceeded to downtown Jersey. Screeching trolleys, scrotey frat ‘bags, Bleethed out hotties, cutting by, the smell of hair gel, Axe Body Shots and beer in the air, neons winking–“We’re in the big town, Sal! Whooee!” First thing to do was park the SUV in a good dark spot and wash up and dress for the night. Across the street from the Limelight we found a redbrick alley between buildings, where we stashed the SUV with her snout pointed to the street and ready to go, then followed the college ‘bags up to the club, where they got a room and allowed us to use their facilities for an hour… Old brown Jersey with the strange semi-scrote, semi-douchebag types going to work and spitting. Poppy stood in the cafeteria rubbing his belly and taking it all in. He wanted to talk to a strange middle-aged douchebagette woman who had come into the cafeteria with a story about how she had no money but she had buns with her and would they give her butter. She came in flapping her hips, was turned down, and went out flipping her butt. “Whoo!” said Poppy. “Let’s follow her down the street, let’s take her to the ole SUV in the alley. We’ll have a ball.” But we forgot that and headed straight for North Clark Street, after a spin in the Loop, to see the hootchy-kootchy joints and hear the bop. And what a night it was. “Oh, man,” said Poppy to me as we stood in front of a bar, “dig the street of life, the rank choads that cut by in Jersey. What a weird town–wow, and that woman in that window up there, just looking down with her big breasts hanging from her nightgown, big wide eyes. Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there.”

Uhm… boobs

Since this site has been on a boobaliscious bomboobery for the past few weeks or so, why not close down a Friday with,… well, uhm, how do I put this… more boobs.

Oh yeah, and a whisky ‘bag with the most punch worthy douche expression since… well… Donkey Douche.

In fact, lets play one of those optical games. Stare at this douche’s face while rapidly blinking for ten seconds. Then quickly switch your gaze to the mounds of genius and blink for another ten seconds.

Then stare at a wall and continue blinking rapidly.

Do you see that pattern in the shape of your own impotent rage? Fun, isn’t it!

Megods those mountains are majestic and worship worthy. I would lick their shadow on a dirty sidewalk.

Tongue Monkey

It’s hard to compete with the genius of Donkey Douche, but this pic is a nice Friday chaser. You could show this pic to Gandhi and he’d advocate violence, nihilism and sadism. This pic lauched the Pelopenesian War. It started the influenza plague of 1918.

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. But it ain’t good. I’d describe it as a series of electric impulses, pixelated 1s and 0s, that form a digital spear to my groin. That tongue itself is a weapon of psychological mass destruction.

The lithe brunette makes apple pie taste better. And as to the girl in blue on the left, to paraphrase an eloquent poster in the comments thread, boobs.

Another fantastic week of pics, thanks to all who are sending in submits. If I don’t get back to you, it’s only because I’m trying to get chocolate HoHo stains out of my ratty t-shirt. Have pity on a hung over douchebag. Unless, it’s this tongue monkey. In which case, kick him in the nads and set his eyebrows on fire.

Friday Haiku

Blonde salmon fish, hark
Why spawn in scrotey water,
Swim away. Swim away.

In the comments thread, Joey buttadouchebag writes:

I love them fake boobs
fake boob make the world go round
boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs

David Hasselhoff,
Meet Pete Dougherty,
And two massive boobs.

Poetic excellence, my friends. Good work.

Donkey Douche II

At first I wasn’t 100% certain that this orange mangina is Donkey Douche. I mean sure they looked identical, but the shade of orange was definitely off. But then I went by the acidity of my backwash upon first laying eyes on this pic, and realized it’s got the exact PH balance it had upon my reaction to the first appearance of the D.D.

Burning throat? Yep.

It’s him.

And hottie makes me want to sing Italian love songs while lounging in front of a brick fireplace and cleaning her toes with a gentle toothbrush. Bristle by bristle across those dainty little feet.

Goldilocks and the Two Scrotes

PIC DELETED

It’s kinda hard to come off a nice dose of Sketch on a Thursday afternoon, but this pic of an absolute peach of a strawberry is one way. Especially in the presence of these two Scrotes, Douche-id Copperfield and Steve Buscemi ‘Bag. It’s a nice head-smack to get the blood running again, after Sketch was doing body shots with his mom.

I have to say that the matching pink halter-top and hair thing (what are those things called?) makes the my little friend want to tap dance, Savion Glover style.

I don’t know what the hell Douche-id Copperfield’s shirt is supposed to be. It looks like regurgitated processed ham. Maybe it’s “spamashirt”?

I love Goldilocks. I know I’ve said that before. This time I mean it as much, if not equal to, if not the same as, the other times I’ve said it.

Sketch Licks

It’s just so very, very wrong.

Pillows

pil·low (pĭl’ō) n.

1. A cloth case, stuffed with something soft, such as down, feathers, or foam rubber, used to cushion the head, especially during sleep.

2. A decorative cushion.

3. The pad on which bobbin lace is made.

v. pil·lowed, pil·low·ing, pil·lows

v. tr.

1. To rest (one’s head) on or as if on a pillow.

2. To serve as a pillow for: Grass pillowed my head.

v. intr.

1. To rest on or as if on a pillow.

2. To assume the shape of a pillow.

[Middle English, from Old English pyle, from West Germanic *pulwī, from Latin pulvīnus.]