Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Nozzle

Not enough classic greaseball douchebags on the site lately? Here you go. Feast on this oil producing third world country, yanking on a champagne bottle with the grip of a decade of sexual frustration. And, of course, the bling of a thousand year old scrote.

And yet, there she is. A sexy senorita of hot, with the most fantastic shirt of belly reveal since vintage early 1990s Jennifer Connolly.

He’s taunting you. His lips say no. But his eyes say, “Jess.”

Jess being his shower nozzle.

Kangaroo Poo

This unnamed former Friday Haiku couple wanted to return to remind you to vote for the HCwD of the Week.

She reminds me of that big eyed “Crossing Jordan” actress. He reminds me of fetid kangaroo poo.

Not that I’ve ever seen kangaroo poo. I mean, I went to the San Diego Zoo a few years ago, and I think I saw kangaroos there. But did I see their poo?

No matter.

If I were to picture kangaroo poo in its natural environment, it would look exactly like douchey popped-Elvis dog-tag nose bling spew here.

HCwD of the Week: 'Roid Edition

It was tough to cull the Jersey this week into a trio of finalists, but cull I must. Especially after Labor Day ‘Bag received an unexpected smackdown from the HoS ‘Baggers. I thought LDB was fairly iconic, certainly enough for the HoS, but the committee said no. Tough crowd. Incidentally, Gerard Depardouche has been added to the committee after sending me hot pics of his girlfriend in compromising positions. Like I said, I’m cheap and easy that way.

Nice work, GD, and welcome to the committee. Your hottie’s quite the pool player.

So without further ado, here are this week’s candidates for the trophy:

HCwD of the Week Candidate #1: Pumpy

Pumpy’s one of those rare ‘bag pics to achieve douchosity through pure douche-face, or in this case, douche-bulge. It’s rare that a scrote gets celebrated without at least a few douche products. Even the ‘baggy 10 degree hat tilt is only at 2 degrees on Pumpy.

Oh sure, I suppose the low hanging pants and sunglasses might count, and the boob grab, ‘bag hand gesture #29, is definitely rank. And of course the latest trend in defining the ‘bag aesthetic — shirtlessness — but the dude is at a beach after all.

And yet, he’s douchey. But douchey enough for HCwD of the Week?

She is a tiny ball of perky cute, and definitely holds up the HC side of the equation quite nicely. I would slather her belly button ring in cream cheese and serve on a lightly toasted onion bagel. If she really was a grade school teacher, I went to the wrong damn schools. My grade school teachers looked like refried beans.

HCwD of the Week #2: Harry Beaver

Well there were plenty of Jersey ‘roid candidates from last week, but I had to give Harry Beaver a shot at the title. Something about that look, that hirsute hairyness, and the way he’s carrying off his catch of the day, just scream roofie douchitude.

This poor confused doe has perfect thighs of succulent perfection. And she likes short-shorts. Me likes shorts-shorts.

The gorilla t-shirt sends this pic over the crest of the absurd and into the realm of the sublime. Or maybe it’s those thighs.

HCwD of the Week #3: Rambag

This pic is as painful as Stallone’s 1986 epic arm wrestling classic, “Over the Top.” That film starred that annoying ten year old kid who looked like a girl, yelling “C’mon dad! Over the top!” During the climactic arm wrestling finale.

It’s sad that I remember that.

Since this is also likely the Jersey Pic’s hero, and be hero I mean upchuck, I figured he needed a name. Since Rocky Baldouchebag didn’t have the best ring to it, I went with “Rambag.”

She is pure cuddle. Watching Rambag’s giant arm hang limply by while she cuddles with him is enough to make me marry Brigitte Nielson.

Remember, HCwDs are to be judged solely on the inherent wrongness of the pic and it’s affect on causing you to smash your head into your monitor and spit-take your coffee. But I suppose it’s inevitable that the fuller body of work is an influence. In this case, it’s also last week’s New Jersey pic. And for Pumpy, it’s also the “America” pic (assuming they’re the same dude).

Also just because I titled this week’s contest “Roid Edition,” that should not be a reason to discount Harry Beaver. All three pics should be given their shot at the title. And by shot at the title, I mean injections of douchitude to help beef up the ‘bag-face.

I like that. “Beefing up the ‘Bag-Face.” Wasn’t that an early Men at Work album?

Vote as always, in the comments thread.

Political Blogs

HCwD received some notice on political blogs last week, and while I welcome all who’d like to mock scrote and the hotties who love them, there was some confusion. Apparently some political blogger dude named “Jim Treacher” was credited on a few of these blogs as the guy behind this site. I am not he, and I don’t know who he is.

In fact, this pic could be Jim Treacher. Why not? It makes at about as much sense as crediting him with my blog.

So Jim Treacher is a pumped up douchebag who loves unicorns. Why not believe it? You read it on a blog!

As I said, I welcome all sides of the political spectrum to our ongoing deconstruction of the cultural manifestation of douchey/hottie comingling. This is not a political blog, and it is my contention that the horrorshow that is the rise of the Douche/Hot convergence is more important than any partisan differences we might have. But since these blogs have credited some guy named Treacher with my site, I will now make my sole political comment on this blog: George W. Bush sucks donkey ass.

Thank you, and we now return to regular programming.

The Swamp

It’s like swimming in a murky pool of Grieco virus, hairspray, Tag bodyshots and the vague whiff of three day old Trojan condoms. I feel genetically soiled just staring at this pic. Like the mutant douche Grieco DNA is affecting my retinas.

Stare not long, fellow ‘bags, ‘bag hunters and hotties. For such imagery can distort reality until small dancing Vanilla Ices mambo across the peripheral vision.

'Bag Reflecting Pool

First they came for the Scrotebags, and I didn’t speak up,
because I wasn’t a Scrotebag.

Then they came for the Grease Wanks, and I didn’t speak up,

because I wasn’t a Grease Wank.

Then they came for the Oil Knobs, and I didn’t speak up,

because I wasn’t an Oil Knob.

Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left

to speak up for me.

Except for hottie in the purple bikini.

America

And lo, they marched ‘cross the ancient fjords and inlets of the sunbaked land, their skin parched and their legs tired. But they carried on. Oh yes. They carried on.

With each desperate gasp of hot, arid air they wanted to fall to their knees, let their packs slide from their backs, and close their throbbing eyes. Just for a moment.

But to delay meant death.

And so they soldiered on. For they knew their lives and the lives of their loved ones depended on it.

And when they finally settled in the New Land, they knew that their time had come. The pain and agony of such a long journey would not be for naught. The incalcuable losses, in lives, in years, in effort, would coalesce in the notion that their children, and their children’s childen, would find nourishment in a land unencumbered by European strife and war.

In short, they dreamed of tomorrow.

Across the horizon of their mind’s eye they could forsee a future of plenty. Of riches and bounty and peace. A land where their children’s children, and their children’s children could study Shakespeare, learn Latin, develop art, science, music and architecture. A new land of culture. A new land of aesthetic fulfillment. Of enlightenment. Of maturity.

That vision, over five hundred years ago, came to those first Americans who dreamed of a world of today they could only barely glimpse.

And now, five hundred years later, there’s these two.

Perhaps they should’ve saved themselves the trip.

Mac

It’s been awhile since we’ve had some true Jesus Bling on the site. I was beginning to think dog-tags had permanently replaced that ‘bag accessory. Then again, maybe word on the douche-shift hasn’t filtered all the way up the scrote hierarchy to reach Mac here.

OldBags often achieve antihero status on the site, but methinks Mac will, like Yellowtail, simply disturb.

Love that shirt, Mac. I also love Hillary Swank hottie on the right, and Perky’s abs on the left could sterilize a sea lion. They are tutto buono.

Yup, Mac and his two lovelies are a nice absurdist pic to start my weekend off with. Last night the DB1 got drunk, and while still recovering from a mild flu, that was not such a good idea. So today I park my ass on the floor, watch T.V., and enjoy a nice bag of Joe-Joes and milk. Which pretty much makes it just like every other day.

Tom-Toms

Butts soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is getting macked on by a beefy gyrodouche.

— An early draft of Shakespeare’s “Grieco and Juliet”

I would tap out distinctive complex rhythms on those four tom-toms, Keith Moon style. With a sharp downbeat I’d tap out 16th notes on the high-hat, which in this case would be scrotey boy’s muggy greased up face. Then I’d stomp his balls repeatedly for the bass drum, and we’d have the perfect HCwD drum solo.

I’m talking “Ina-gatta-davita” epic.

Where's Waldouche: Toejam Edition

Okay kids, this one’s a ‘bag sudoku. Arrange the permutations up-down, left-right and within each square to produce a piece of hidden Waldouche’s toejam in each quadrant.

Can you find him? Can you rearrange the hotties into perfect HCwD lines?