Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Fly

Then there’s The Fly. And I don’t mean “fly” in the early 1990s hip-hop slang parlance, meaning of impressive jacket stature and fantastic flat-top haircut.

I mean fly, as in insect.

As in Jeff Goldblum.

As in lays its eggs in poo.

As in I need a can of Raid.

The Cucumber

I’m naming this pud The Cucumber, and not just because of the high likelihood that he bats for the home team. Okay yes, I’m naming him that for exactly that reason.

Staring at torn fishnets and a choke collar dude sandwiched between two sexy if bizarrely eyebrowed hotties, as I’ve been doing all afternoon, brings up an important point.

I’ve been debating for awhile whether the Gaybag actually officially qualifies as a sub-genre category douchebag. Certainly Gaybags can appear douchebaggy. Just take The Cucumber here. But I’ve meditated and ruminated on the topic, and I’m ready to make a decision.

I’m going to rule that Gaybags can not be an official sub-category of Douchebag.

Part of the intrinsic modus operandi of the douchebag is the affectations of douchebaggery in the interests of attracting a hottie. Gaybags may take on douchebag charm through dress, style and forehead grease, but since they’re inherently harmless in the presence of the female, they can never ascend to the true personification of douchitude that is the various categories of scrote we chronicle on this site on a daily basis.

Now I’m sure there are gay douchebags in the gay universe. But I will leave that exploration to another website, perhaps Hot Douchebags with Douchebags. For the purposes of our critical exploration of the cultural ramifications of the douche virus, Gaybags are officially ruled out from qualifying for actual Douchebaggery within the confines of the HCwDB universe.

This, however, does not mean we can’t marvel at the wrongness of this pic. Only that the soul sucking gut punch wrongness of a true HCwDB pic can never really take place unless the central driving thrust of the ‘bag is his intense desire to impress the hottie, and willingness to douche out to do so. Thoughts?

Jurgen

Challo! I am Jurgen!! Es, how you say, duchebag?

Stupid Finland. First Erno, now Jurgen. All those European countries filled with Euro Trash Bags and the hottest milk chocolate treats this side of the Toblerone factory.

We need to reoccupy all of Europe and liberate the hotties. Some form of massive Marshall Plan. The Douchel Plan, maybe. Alls I know is something’s gotta be done on a multinational intercontinental level to free up all the absolutely incredible Euro-hot females having to cuddle up with eyebrow douching turds like Jurgen here.

Surely international treaties make some form of exception for sending in the Marines for limited Hottie Rescue strikes. Someone check the Treaty of Versailles.

HCwD of the Week: Nuclear Radiation Edition

I was looking at this week’s pics and feeling my usual sense of overwhelming nihilism, when I realized all three pics do share a commonality. This week’s finalists all feature some form of Hills Have Eyes nuclear mutant douchitude going on. And that’s not including Xenu, whose superior otherworldly manifestion, and the fact he battles Thetans, catapults him directly into the Hall of Scrote.

Xenu looks down on these three inferior douche contenders. He offers them a free Personality Test on Sunset Boulevard and enrollment in a number of courses for a nominal fee.

So in Xenu’s supernatural honor, lets move on to this week’s finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Fall Out ‘Bag

Like the indie rocker band who shares this pud’s douched out name, Fall Out ‘Bag reminds us all of the college English major who partied like a rock-star, snagged the saline debutante everyone fantasized to, then spent the next twelve years pulling pints of Guiness while trying to get his band The Arthritic Tics off the ground.

Suck it, Indie Boy. Your six inch gelled hair and drooling tongue are mere signifiers of a future of dollar tips and bar-counter wipe downs. Or at least I’ll tell myself that while trying to block out the joy that fantastic Cleavite would bring me for a solid forty-five seconds each night. She is Hot. Verb, adjective or noun. Hot.

I am surprised to see the Ubiquitous Red Cup hasn’t found a way to sneak into this pic. Instead its grandfather, the Clear Plastic Cup, seems to be maintaining its tenuous grip on relevance.

Sorry Clear Plastic. The U.R.C. is next-gen alcoholic vessel.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: The Rooster

This striped beauty is a long-time fan fave here at HCwDB. She’s also a douche magnet. Here she is with Federline ‘Bag. And here she is with the Vortex of Douche. What’s clear in all three of these pics, aside from the wide spectrum of choad, is that she is absolutely fantastic.

Rooster here may be the ‘baggiest of the three, peacocking his douchitude for the world to see. Given the demand to include this pic in a weekly contest, his greasiness has clearly struck a chord. And by chord I mean root canal.

Cock-a-doodle-douche indeed, Rooster Wank. Get yer hands of the Holy Blue Triangle, or I’ll… I’ll… stare angrily at this pic.

sigh.

She is perfection.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Euro Trash Bag

Euro T.B. is a 15th century plague of douchitude, and the fact he’s polluting these two cuties with a “Sex ‘N’ Roll” shirt only makes the sphincter tightening all the worse. Featuring the early 1990s Kevin Bacon buzzcut, the douche talisman around the neck and some sort of United Nations belt, E.T.B. needs to have his Nations de-Leagued.

And that shoulder on the left is top shelf. I would suckle its ridges while whistling Wagner.

So what say you, people? A worthy finalist round of three, but like the Ancient Mariner says, you can stopeth only one.

Which one will you stopeth?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

The Young Indiana Scrote Chronicles

Picking up where his father left off, Young Indy better be careful or Cat Hottie’s gonna bullwhip his snakes until he digs in the wrong place.

There’s a last crusade joke in there somewhere. But it’s Sunday, and I like to treat myself on Sunday. Time for a bowl of the ole’ premium blend Lucky Charms. With the shooting stars. Mmm… bluish milk.

The Douchinator

Is it just me or does this stubbly tool remind you of Michael Biehn, “Reese” in the first Terminator movie. But then if he’s the douche Michael Biehn, that would make him the hero rather than the Douchinator, which will just ruin my attempts at making various obscure Terminator references.

Dammit.

And I was going to go with the whole young Bill Paxton punk, “Your Hotties, Give them to Me” angle. Toss in a solid “Laser Pulse Hair Gel with L.A. looks wax.” “Hey, just what you see, pal.” Maybe slip in a few “And he will not stop… until you are Bleethed!” lines. Then end with a rousing “You’re Grieco’d, douchebag!”

Man I need to get out more often.

EDIT: Or I can just turn it over to metalmilitia from the comments thread:

ReeseBag: “There was a war. A few years from now. A war on douchebags. The whole thing. All this–“

ReeseBag: “Internet communications. Bloggers. Web designers. Hooked into everything. They saw the effect that the Grieco virus was having on women everywhere. They calculated that nearly 50% of the worlds cuties would be Bleethed to level 3 or worse by by 2020. They saw all douche bags as threats. Decided our fate in a microsecond. Extermination.”

Well played, sir.

Captain Morgan

PIC DELETED
This wizened old choad is the douchebag equivalent of a minority targeting spiced rum ad campaign. Arrr!! It’s spicey!! Serve chilled at parties. And by chilled I mean stuffed and formaldehyded, then propped up behind the bar so the hotties can play ring toss on his tri-colored head.

Mmm… wispy haired Jennifer Connolly cutie makes the sun rise on a cloudy Saturday in Los Angeles. Stupid clouds. It’s supposed to be sunny and ‘bag filled every day in this city. Well, it’s still ‘bag filled. But cloudy.

Saturday Hot

In honor of the DB1’s “headache,” the word “hangover” has such alcoholic connotations, I’m posting another pic of Hot and her Fratty army pants wearing ‘bag. Just because. I need a dose of the Hot. And by hot I mean boobs.

A wonderful glimpse of the Holy Cleavite and the headache is almost gone. Almost but not quite.

They warned me not to alternate vodka and scotch. They was right.

D.J. Baggy Bag

I go back and forth on whether or not DJs are inherently scrote. It seems unfair to paint an entire profession with the ‘bag brush. And yet isn’t a club DJ really just a glorified used speaker salesman with added grease? They’re like the club equivalent of the audio/visual techie nerd at Best Buy suddenly blessed by the stud gods into a powerhouse of douche-force attraction.

Play a record at the senior citizens home on a Sunday, you’re a minimum wage flunky. Turn out all the lights, get those seniors dosed up on E, pass out Red Bulls and you’re hip hop Hugh Hefner. If you go for the grandma contingent, that is.

And yet DJ celebrity culture continues. They rule the roost and attract the lithe stalks of sunflower corn like Blue Wave here. So clearly they know what’s up on some intuitive level.

Play that funky music white douche. I would spin your Blue Wave friend at 44 rpms until my needle scratched. And as we all know, there’s nothing worse than when your needle scratches.

Okay, lame analogy, but what are ya gonna do. It’s Friday.

Snow White and Douchey

I don’t like to post too many trade convention pics because hiring a hottie forced to pose with creepy nerdbags doesn’t exactly summon up the rage factor, but I’ll make an exception for Snow White and Douchey here.

Douchey was one of the lesser known dwarfs, rejected by Sleepy, Grumpy and Dopey for wearing a tie that ridiculous. Douchey grew up and became an investment banker, and now he trolls trade shows for hired hotties to pose with.

Oh, Snow White. How far you’ve fallen since you switched agents, cancelled your Disney contract, and began doing Skinemax films under the nom de plume “Snow White Doll.” Very sad.