Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Insane in the Douchebrane

If this pic doesn’t make you want to spew cheerios across your livingroom I don’t know what will.

I would nuzzle Bratz Doll Hottie’s bunny slippers in creepy shoe-fetish ways, then kick Cypress Hill in the tunica vaginalis.

What? Men have a tunica vaginalis. And by the looks of it, this stained jeans paunchy goober has two.

Dada Bag

PIC DELETED

I often like to think of the perfect HCwD hottie/douchey pic as a form of 21st century dadaist art. Something Marcel Duchamp would stick on a bicycle wheel and call “Douche Wheel.”

Take this couple right here. Stare at them long enough and any notions of their human form quickly denatures. They become abstract. Out of time. Removed from all reality.

They become dada. Irrational, frivolous and silly.

Spikey haired tight-jacket wank has the anti-aesthetic revulsion of a modern art movement. His porcupine head and ginormous chin echo the surrealist masterpieces of Dali and Ernst. He confuses and astounds with his illogical surreal douchitudte.

He is dadouche.

Midwestern Turtleneck makes me want to rub up and down on the wall. I’d Man Ray her Klee. I’d Picasso her Braque. I’d, uhm, paint her boobies.

Short Bus

Look, they’re not “retarded,” okay? Lets get our terminology correct. They’re “special people.” With “special gifts.” One of them being the ability to score pouty hotties, apparently.

Actually anyone can get caught in a moment of tonguebaggery. It’s not like we all haven’t been there. Only when I go there, I’m not standing next to a drunk party girl. I’m usually lying on my rug, listening to Stevie Ray, picking crumbs off my shirt and reaching for another swig of the ‘Train.

Maybe that’s the problem. When I get retarded, I need to head-butt a puffy lipped pixie stick. Or at least stop scratching myself. Stupid rash.

Siddharta 'Bag

There comes a time in every ‘bag’s life when he must choose. To take that next step. To reach that higher level of Buddhist consciousness through the act of full commitment to The Holy Grieco. Body, soul, spirit and grillz. Combining and permuting together in waves of perfect synchronic harmony. Transcendent awareness of the self. And by self, I mean douche.

It takes a special level of greased focusing consciousness to reach such a hallowed and rarefied plateau. A triumph of choad, if you will. A wealth of wigga. A trancendence of tribal tat.

Those legendary few who raise their game to this plateau eclipse mere skeeze, mere fratbaggery, mere low level amateur ‘baggedness involving tongue and hand gesturing. For these enlightened scrotes, such physical gesture is simply unnecessary. Their leptons, muons, protons, electrons and hairy nutsack all vibrate with transcendent harmony. For they have reached what I like to term, “douche plateau.” A privileged place of consciousness that only the chosen few can drink from. With tag bodyshots, inappropriate tattoo, and requisite sexy Miami hoohas by one’s side, Jonathan Livingston Seagull opens his enlightened wings and flies off into the setting sun of spiritual awakening. A setting sun, that is, of douche.

Fan Mail

(language edited for the kids):

First of all, I am writing on my boyfriend’s account. You have pictures up from me & my girlfriends, and let me say this first. You are the uglies peace of s@#$ on earth. Do you get @#$@ed a lot by men b/c you look like the biggest fag I have ever seen. Here you are. Making fun of people when from what I’ve heard (I’m originally from Cali and know more people than you ever would in your life) you have the smallest dick in the world. Don’t care if your straight, gay, or bi. I don’t know who the f#$@ would even wanna f#$@ your scrawny ass. You look like a goat. Well not even that good. Please take a shower sometime b/c you seriously look greasy and s@#@. You are such a loser. Maybe you should go back to school, get a f@#$in education and do something with yourself rather than this gay ass web site. Your lucky I don’t know your address because I’d find out where you live and beat the f@#$ out of you, or better sue you for all your worth. BTW you don’t wanna know who my dad is. He will kill you himself.

Seriously. I would highly recommend you take the pictures posted from New York & Chicago down soon. You don’t wanna see what will happen to you, you f@#$@in p@#$@y.
————

Was it something I said?

Note to all hotties and ‘bags, if you’re in a pic and genuinely upset, which you really shouldn’t be, email me. But, for Grieco’s sake, tell me which pic you’re upset about. And please do not make fun of my small willy nor my goatlike appearance. That’s simply mean. My small, goat-like willy gets upset.

Muffin Top

I feel the same way, sweetie.

HCwD of the Week: Metaphors and Twinkies

This week’s HCwD douche-off has me thinking of the unholy phenomenon we study in terms of the representative abstract metaphor. If the douchebag functions as signifier of societal rot, the hottie embodies the simple pleasures of a tasty Hostess snack cake. Together they form consumption and horrorshow. Pleasure and pain. Tasty chocolate cupcake and sludge poo. One cannot exist without the other. Consumed together, The HC and D combo forms a more complete picture of not just the steaming load of douchebaggery, but plastic packaged mass produced cupcake goodness. Together. Like Yin and Yang. Like poo and gold.

It would be easy for us to simply cast aspersions on the unholy wretch of the blinged out ‘bag and forget the joyful exhileration of the chemically treated sucrose enhanced sponge-cake that is the hottie. As Lacan teaches us, it is precisely within this absence, within this psychological dissonance between Hostess fruit pie and Jersey douche, that we locate true desire.

And on that note, on to this week’s finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: The Ghost

Those sunglasses. Those tats. That grease. That tasty Hostess Hottie. The psychological ramifications of staring at this pic too long can not be understated. It is taint.

Brunette hottie warms the cockles of my heart. And by cockles I mean cockles.

I would lick her shoulder like a snozzleberry.

Who ever heard of a snozzleberry?

We are the music makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams. And she makes my pants feel funny.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: The Mugger

This pic didn’t get as much love on the site as I’d thought it would, and by love I mean twinkies. This combo of perfect Asian soup dumpling hottie and cracked out Paula Abdul 80s clothes wearing creepbag renders the perfect inspiration of head smashing wrongness.

Straight up now tell me, is he really going to molest her forever?

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Yes he is.

She may be inflated, but so’s the Macy’s Day Parade Garfield float. And I always loved Garfield. Because he’s so surly. And he loves Lasagna. And he’s so mean to Jon. I mean really, why’s he so mean to Jon? The guy feeds him and takes care of him. And yet he’s always shredding his clothes before Jon’s big date. What’s that about.

Come on Garfield. Be nice to Jon.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: The Beastie Bag

This pic gained a lot of love, and by love I mean mini muffins, for the purity of the girl-next-door hotness comingling with the dual ‘bag headbutt and hand gesture #28. As Mitch Meats termed him, one lonely Beastie he be. Although lower case bag made the case that he’s simply a college age Dr. Evil. Nicely done lcb, but I gotta go the Mike D route.

She is classy hot. The type you marry for at least a solid three years before you get drunk and cheat on her with that old high school crush you run into at Ralphs, and she divorces you and takes half your stuff leaving you sitting around on your floor, eating ‘Nilla Wafers and watching Judge Judy. Man. Sucks to be you. But it’d be worth it for three years of that sweater suggestive goodness.

Imagining Fratbag pumping out the Ludacris while studying for his Greek and Hellenic Studies class is enough to make me toss a dorm refrigerator into a quad.

Special props to The Hand, Huey and Douchey, Gunter and Klaus, and the
overwhelming Soul Meets Douchey which I just couldn’t stomach looking at again in the finals, all worthy pics in their own pictoral way.

I’m going an extra week for the weeklies, meaning we’ll have four pics in next week’s HCwD of the Month douche smackdown.

What say you, fellow ‘bags, ‘bag hunters and hotties? The Ghost, the Beastie or the Mugger?

Wait, wasn’t that the title of an old Don Knotts movie?

Vote as always in the comments thread.

Droppa Load

Droppa Load, distant cousin of Poppa Chubby, loves the ladies. He dazzles them with hilarious appropriations of ordinary objects in sexually satirical forms. To wit, using buttons for nipples.

To Droppa Load, satire is the key by which the female can be shown the hilarity and wisdom of Load’s outgoing personality. The Load understands this. You do not. For the Load is not you. And never the twain shall meet. Because the Load has his strategy. And that strategy works:

First, you charm them with nipple buttons.

Then you perform coitus.

The Hand

There’s a million stories in the naked city, and they always start with a dame. Getting molested by a greased up turkey douche with a giant, creepy hand.

That swollen appendage haunts me. It tasks my hope. It appears to be moving. Morphing. Mutating. Reaching out not just to grab hottie’s beanbag bebops. Not just reaching out to grope her dueling banjos. Her hand warmers, honeydews, headlamps, hills, honkers, hottentots and humdingers.

But to rend the garments of ideology. To cast aspersions on futurism. To render moot all the progress that has come before. The Hand says “Feh to you, humanity.” And with one grope, an angel dies.

The Beav Scores

Apparently everybody’s favorite hairy douche, The Beaver, has managed to spend his time moonlighting by roping in die hard cuties. Including this sexy, possibly undergage daughter of a celebrity. Care to guess who she is?

I’d pulp her fiction. Oh man that was lame, but what are you gonna do. The DB1 is wildly hungover.