Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Fecal Cough

A reader writes in and suggests the term “Fecal Cough” as an apt descriptor for certain nuances when deconstructing the larger ‘bag hierarchies.

I like it. Fecal Cough. It has a certain poetic resonance. A mixture of the polite euphemisms of late 19th century Russian literature yet with a whiff of early 20th Century modernism and futurism. And by whiff, I mean poo.

And so it is with Arthurian pomp and circumstance that I knight white tie ‘bag here Fecal Cough. Not simply for the bling. Not simply for the facial pubes. But simply for the uber-douchen silken white tie + no t-shirt look. If that don’t say ‘bag, then my name ain’t DB1.

Inflated hottie has a nicely hybridized 1920s German Cabaret + Alex in “A Clockwork Orange” look going. Sure she may need a little dental work. But, to paraphrase Ferris Bueller’s Ed Rooney quoting Faulkner: Between teeth and boobies. I’ll take boobies.

See, I knew we’d wax poetic eventually.

Furry Popped Collar

It’s not that I’m a befuddled, alcoholic, slightly confused douchebag, although I am all of those things.

It’s simply the existential crisis that plagues my soul when I’m forced to contemplate such visual stimuli that so shakes my world view. The troubling reminders of human futility. The sobering soul shaking disruption of any claims to importance and achievement we think we have made in this world.

That reminder exists in simple form. The Furry Popped Collar.

Six millennia into our collective transformation and ascension. Six millennia into the development of irrigation, medicine, morality, art, culture, society, literature, music, philosophy, science and here we are.

Beholding Furry Popped Collar.

Furry Popped Collar mocks our collective achievements. Furry Popped Collar laughs hysterically at our puerile attempts to rise above primordial base instinct and ascend to a higher plateau of consciousness.

Furry Popped Collar is the grounding force of real world actuality. The check on human gravitas and self appointed importance. The slap in the face, the dash of cold water, the sobering and uncanny reminder of the only emotion we should ever partake in when contemplating our role in the universe. Humility.

Furry Popped Collar allows for the paradigm shifting process of self actualization through absurdity. And so we should thank Furry Popped Collar. For it checks our intellectual need to arrogantly ascribe transcendence to the human condition. Furry Popped Collar speaks to us. It retells the story we need to constantly be retold. The folly of self aggrandizing importance. The reminder to be humble in the face of a cold and vast universe that spans billions of years. A universe that blinks once and we’re here, and twice, and we’re gone. A universe of Furry Popped Collar.

Or we could just call it douche.

Schmuck

Schmuck.

searching for something more to say….

Schmuck.

Uhm…

Schmuck.

Yup.

HCwDB of the Week: Glendouchey Glen Bagg Edition

Hooboy this is going to be a drag out smack ’em down hair pulling Axe Bodyspray squirting fight to the finish this week. We have three aged bottles of 18 year Glenbaggy scotch to choose from. To paraphrase the tough loving Alec Baldwin’s advice to these three choad traders, A.B.D.

Always Be Douching. Always. Be. Douching.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Fish Slap

Put. Those dog tags down. Dog tags. Are for douchebags.

It’s hard to argue with such classic signfiers of all-American douchebaggery. The eye shavings. The nose piercing. The giant diamond earring. Sure this chin stubbley stubblebag has appeared on the site before. But when it comes down to the purity of essence that defines douchebaggery, is this not he?

I ask you. Is. This. Not. He? Yes. Yes it is.

Man boobs and hat tilt round out the goodness. And by goodness I mean badness. And by badness I mean douche.

She’s got one of those cute little mouths I could crawl into and hide for a weekend or three. And fantastic sexy eyes. I know I always write about boobies being, well, boobies. But the eyes are important too. Because I’m magnanimous like that.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Link

Will you put on a shirt? Put on a shirt. Will. You. Put on a shirt!

I used the second pic we’ve seen of Link because it further confirms the fantasticness of the brunette waif’s perfection as well as introduces a mysterious second femme angling to steal the Glendouchey leads.

But really, a plastic chain necklace + ginormous mandana? Shirtless, hoop earring, annoying tatt and smug douchey expression? Fantastic. Pure, uncut HCwDB-ery.

Yet there’s something performative about the pic. Like they’re starring in the off-Broadway production of Douche Man Group. But that is no determent. This pic is pure fantastic hottie/douchey wrongness. It deserves respect. And by respect I mean spew.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Raccoon

You never open your mouth until you know who the ‘bag is.

What else can be said about terminal stage-4 D.J/Rockerbag wrongness? The hair, the eye shadow, the Japanese tatt which, roughly translated means, “I bow to your cereal.”

And hottie’s award winning young-Sheryl-Crow goodness can not be ignored. She is country rocking pink bra sporting cleavite revealing DB1 inspiring happy town. She is essence of hotness. A bouillon cube of sex.

Oh, and he’s got black fingernails. And is fondling her abs while staring at you as if to announce where he’s going to be spending the rest of his evening spreading his unholy greasitude.

Are you going to take it?

Yes. Yes you are.

On the rage factor, this pic is overwhelming. On the hot factor, her Daisy Dukes kill puppies. Cute, furry puppies. Who didn’t do anything wrong.

So there’s your three choices. These are the new ‘bags. These are the Glendouchey ‘bags. Remember, first prize is a douchebag with hottie. Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is, well, another douchebag with hottie who happened to come in third.

Mitch and Murray remind you to vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday 'Bag / Not a 'Bag

At first I wanted to push this steamy college pigeon turd down a slip n’ slide filled with leeches while ska dancing to Fishbone. But then I had a moment of introspection.

Is he really ‘bag?

I posit this hypothetical in the strictly purest sense of the definition.

Surely shaving initials into your concave chest while sporting a triangular hair pattern and quasi homoerotic Top Gun sunglasses would stamp one as choad steam.

But the dude just looks so happy to be there. No overt hand gestures. No anoying douche-face. Just happy go lucky collegeness on display.

And since that delightfully soft wonton noodle thinks it’s amusing, maybe my desire to ska-dance while choad tossing was an incorrect impulse. So I figured I’d open it up for a vote.

What say you? ‘Bag? Or happy go lucky college dude on spring-break?

Sunless Tanning Towelettes

Sunless Tanning Towelettes from One Step Tan

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Aquabag

Ladies, when partying it up in the jacuzz with a bottle of Jack and impending tri-makeout on the horizon, beware of lurking aquabags.

Here we see one of the rarer aquabags, the Aquadouchus Grungus, a mutant hybrid from the early 1990s. He is poised in simultaneous attack/mating position.

In their natural habitat, the aquabag will often swim up on unsuspecting females and bust a variety of hand gestures, facial expressions and primal mating calls. These usually involve variants of the, “Pretty sweet jacuzzi, huh?” and “My parents won’t be back until Sunday” noises, followed by extensive grunting and scratching.

Pity these three floating cuties. For who knows what happened when Aquabag struck.

Fish Slap

If New Kids on the Bag here looks familiar, he should. This old friend, and by friend I mean staple-gun to my uvula, appeared previously on the site last summer. I’d track him down to figure out just which pic he appeared in, but the image of his douched out chin has blurred all higher function and forced me to slap myself repeatedly with a dead fish. How the dead fish got into my pajamas, I’ll never find out.

Note stylish unearned dog tags and 10 degree hat tilt, two classic signifiers of extreme douchebaggery. Not that you needed me to point that out. I can hear your screams and dead fish slapping from miles away.

Hmm. “Dead fish slapping.” That sounds like a vaguely euphemistic something or other…. Oh yeah, that’s it. My ex-girlfriend. Probably needs no further elaboration. Moving on…

She’s got that perky 3rd grade schoolteacher thing working. The type whose skirt you used to run over and look under while she was writing on the blackboard. Or was that just me? I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell. I was only nine. But your granny panties scarred me for life.

No More Club Douche

Unfortunately, the ambiguously Persian hottie from Club Douche’s brick wall inspired bottle party has written in and demanded that her pic be removed. My attempts at assuaging her by offering to rub her thighs with chicken grease were not met with the positive reception I’d hoped for.

——-
Please remove
“HCwDB of the Week: Club Douche”
from your website. and also my bf’s head from the headlights on that car.

Thank you
(Ambiguously Persian Hottie Dating Club Douche)
-------------

Well, at least she said thank you.

Since Club Douche was not able to fulfill the duties and standards expected of the HCwDB of the Week Winner, this means the runner-up in last week’s contest, Purg Hottie and Rogue Choad, will assume the crown.

Geez, you’d think mercilessly mocking her boyfriend as a total and complete douchebag was upsetting or something. Come on now. Have ya looked at him?

Hands

I keep trying to focus on the smirking scroad in the middle of this pic, but I find myself distracted, befuddled and confused by all the hands floating around. I can’t tell if this is a bar or a performance by the theatrical mime troupe, Mummenschanz.

So many hands. Only one, however, expressing what we all feel.

I would love both of these Long Island Iced Teas for a solid thirty seconds each before running out of breath and going to the kitchen for a Gatorade.