Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Simon and Douchefunkle

Hello doucheness my old friend…
I’ve come to rag on you again…

There comes a time in every scrotebag’s life when he must choose whether or not to bust the unearned dog tags, the 10 degree hat tilt, the douchey facial expression, and of course, the aviator glasses. Thinking, as every aspiring ‘bag does, that such accoutrement will summon the hottie to his dark sleazy flame, he makes that choice. He pulls that lever. He wanks that pud.

And… uhm…. it worked.

sigh

Dammit.

I would light bonfires in the dried cackle brush of the Serengeti until the smoke signals summoned the rare white tailed mongoose. I would then explain in graphic and lurid detail to that mongoose how much I’d like to lick a pair of black short-shorts with white trim. Sure the mongoose wouldn’t understand. But I would. I would.

The Sleeper

I’m thinking of proposing that paramedics carry around this pic of The Sleeper and Blondie Bazumbas with them on call. Find a patient in cardiac arrest, show them this acid-washed Sleeper and his lithe cutie, and the adrenaline would fire up the heart pumpin’ in no time. If you can keep down their Exorcist spew from pea souping across the room, it’s gotta be a great method of visual psychosomatic stimulus.

Either that, or it’ll kill them on the spot. I can’t tell which.

But I do know it’s Friday, which means The DB1 will be doing something he never usually does — get drunk off a bottle of cheap wine, microwave a burrito, and watch Cartoon Network. Yup, it’s a party in my life.

Thanks to all for the great submits this week, apologies if I don’t respond to every email. Don’t forget, I’m a douchebag.

Another reminder that the new URL is functioning if you’re tired of typing out the full name of the site: www.HCwDB.com.

I was ruminating on an eloquent summation of this week’s philosophic exploration of all things hottie/douchey. As we explore the simulacrum, Derrida, Baudrillard and Freud, I considered a number of discourses to reference. But then it came to me. The perfect word to end the week with.

Boobies.

It says it all. Boobies.

The Dharma 'Bag

I’m not sure where we went wrong. At what historical point we split off from the potential for a Utopian future of enlightenment and instead descended into the cultural train-wreck that is this absolutely soul shredding slice of swirling sexy and sewage.

Yeah, I’m down with alliteration.

We’ve featured Buddha ‘Bags on the site before, but this may be the douche equivalent of the Bliss State. Dharma ‘Bag has achieved douche transcendence. He teaches The Four Douchey Truths and offers us the Eightfold Path. Unfortunately, that path leads to uber-douche. I’m transformed through six levels of douche-consciousness just comprehending that this pic exists.

Or maybe it’s that glimpse of tanned lower back that sings of the potential to right our societal ship before we iceberg across the bow of velvet choads and asymmetric facial scruff. Both of those fantastic glimpses, of shoulder and hip, restores hope for the future. It makes Nietzsche believe in God and inspires frogs to line-dance in Saskatchewan.

There remains a glimpse of utopian potential. And if I choose to find it in a backside I’d like to slobber on for a weekend, then so be it.

Sir Pecsalot

There’s nothing more enjoyable than a rowdy night out of douche-karaoke, in which someone finally gets drunk enough to put 0n the late 80s Sir Pecsalot classic “Douchey Got Back.” Its moments like that when we all remember the retro-grease genius that is Sir Pecsalot in all his douche-rapping genius.

And by genius, I mean ‘roids.

In analyzing the enhanced douchebaggery of Sir Pecsalot, it is important to note that he can, with very little effort, break me in half. Like a twix bar. I hate it when the greasy pumped up ‘bag pictured can snap my sad little spine like a twix bar. Because I like twix bars. And they’re easy to snap in half. That being said, the dude is dripping hair gel, Tag Bodyshots and bling like a Corsican sailor selling dried apricots.I have no idea what that means. But I like dried apricots.

I’m hoping once his tats are translated, we’ll have more fragments of the Douche Sea Scrolls with which to expand our knowledge of the early 2nd Century Gnostic Scrotebags.

Asian hottie busting the skulls bikini sends my synapses popping with confusion by using the age old simu-attraction/repulsion technique. I’m lost. Dazed and confused. I want to explore the ambiguous inflated hinterlands but reel at the douche virus infection’s douchey douchiness.

So instead I will much on a twix bar and dried apricots, and stare longingly at the red thigh scarf while hoping Sir Pecsalot doesn’t two turntables and microphone my face.

Friday Haiku

Douchebaggery plague,
Pestilence, sickness, greased choads,
Bud Light Cries out, “No!”

A Kubrick nightmare
Swathed in cliched ink of Bag
Wyatt Douche: Frontier Choad

-DuckDuckDouche

I think its quite clear,
The Blonde is CC Deville.
My god he loves drugs.

— the alpha douche

Blond is a tranny,
nipple pastey, pube-faced scrote
White trash with Douchebag

-Grigori Rasdouchin

'Bags of Corinthians

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of douche, I will fear no hotties: for thou art with me; thy Izod and thy empty liquor bottles because you’re too cheap to buy new ones, they comfort me. [‘Bags of Corinthians 23:4]

Platoon

It’s like that moment in war after a long battle, when the platoon is outgunned on every side, surrounded by the enemy, but fighting for every inch. If instead of a platoon, it was a supernova sexy hottie, and instead of an enemy, it was a bunch of steaming, greased up choads.

But otherwise the analogy holds.

Puka Shells

Puka Shells are:

a) Named for the Hawaiian word for “hole”

b) Tiny cone shaped snail shells with holes in them

c) Ground by surf and coral into a smooth, polished shape

d) Frequently find themselves forced to cohabitate with smelly Tag Bodshot and Armani Exchange covered douchebags

e) All of the above

Carpe Boobum

To answer your shirt, little PP: No but those big DDs make me forget you’re a big DB.

There’s something amusing in the exchange of glances going on here. PP actually has a clever plan in action. Feature tiny type on his shirt to ensnare the local cuties into being forced to lean in to read what it says. At that moment, Lil’ P.P. is free to engage in what is known in the Himalayas as “The Eyeball Quest.” The surreptitious journey into the hinterlands. The sense memory exersize in which a fraction in time is preserved for future recall during a more, lets say private, moment.

But instead of taking that spiritual journey of the soul when the chance arises, Lil’ P.P. chooses instead to glance at the camera.

They have a word for that around here… What is it… It’ll come to me in a moment… Oh yeah. Douchebag.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Shut up and post the funny pics, clown. And I will. But consider this. Those chances in life to gaze at the Holy Cleavite must not be wantonly spent on the frivolity of the nearby camera. Whence facing such a moment, remember this.

Glance.

Glance like the wind. Glance like you might never glance again. Before the moment is lost.

Carpe Boobum, boys. Carpet Boobum. Or regret it forever.

Glassy

Where can I get a pair of upside-down sunglasses as cool as those? Scroteglasses Hut?

More to the point, where can I get a Miami hooha as fine as that one? She looks like Pumpy’s fawn crossed with Reece Witherspoon, only with meatier shoulders. I would sprinkle paprika on them and enter them in a cajun cooking contest. She is delectable.

Glassy’s facial fungle, on the other hand, is not.