Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Man Boobs

I’m not quite sure what confluence of events led Man Boobs to the sorry state we find him in today. Pectoral confusion in high school? Or just an unhealthy obsession with Ringo Starr in 1981’s “Caveman”?

Either way, he is a strangely confounding ‘bag. A disturbing mix of a number of confusing factors. It’s hard to place him within the larger douchebag context.

I’ll say this though, Man Boobs has coordinated nicely with his zebra print girlfriend to create a unique ‘bag duality here at HCwDB. A DB featuring more cleavage, and sadly more cleavite, than his HC.

I’m confused, startled, and vaguely terrified. Man Boobs’s vacant stare. His goatee and scrub brush hairstyle. His zebraic shirt. Thank God 50s Record Shirt guy is in the background to restore at least a semblance of regular douchebaggery to this disturbing pic.

Slappy

Okay, so the HCwDB of the week features some lesser scrotes this week. In the meantime, check out Slappy. Nothing says “stud” like middle aged silk shirt wearing uber-choads featuring the ultra stylin’ “unbuttoned and flared” shirt cuff look.

Blonde on the right has that prim and proper legal analyst by day, candle-wax dripping rubber dress wearing ass kicker by night dichotomy. She would tie me up with black licorice and spank me with an inflatable penguin until I called her “Xena, Warrior Princess of My Ass.”

Oh right. Like you’ve never be spanked with an inflatable penguin before. Or been told to call someone, Xena, Warrior Princess of Your Ass. Yeah, right. Nice try, penguin fetish freak.

HCwDB of the Week: Hair

This week’s choice cuts of douche-meat and the hotties who find solace in their greasy charms has a nicely dated douche-hair motif going on. So, like the ensemble cast of the Broadway hit musical Hair, from Treat Williams and Beverly D’Angelo, we’re going to bust out in spontaneous song, dance around on a stage naked, and represent the counterculture through clever Broadway choreography. Lettttt the douche shinee…. letttt the douche shine in…

Now remember.

The key to a HCwDB vote is to clear your mind from all distractions. If you’re at work, I expect you to do no work for the next two hours while you contemplate your vote. Zen yourself. Breathe in. Let your gaze fall upon each of these three wankoffs and the hotties who love them. Factor in the scrote. Factor in the gel. Factor in the hotness. Let your emotions swirl like a Lohan prescription drug cocktail. Hatred, depression, arousal, hope, exhilaration, crotch itch, all must enter the mind only through that most primal place of emotive discourse — the subconscious.

From there you will feel yourself pulled to one of the three pics more than the other two. Do not doubt your impulses. Let your conscious mind begin to process the decision. And cast your vote proudly.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Hair Magnon

A douche celeb for the teen crowd, Hair Magnon knows the proper way to go hair-douche. Full speed ahead.

Sure he doesn’t feature any of the other signs of classic ‘baggery. No hand gestures. Relatively benign expression.

But that hair. And that smug grin. And of course that sexy cutie with the fantastic smile.

Together, they make purple.

Also, is that the hint of a puka shell necklace peeking out? I really shouldn’t make too much fun of the puka shells. I, like every other ‘bag on here, have owned a puka shell necklace in my past.

Of course it was back when I was high school scrote. So I take that back. Lets rag on the coral snake signifier of ‘bag accessory.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Douchsplosion

Another relatively benign looking wannabe rocker scroad, but with utterly fantastic douche-fro.

There’s a certain point where I begin to respect a ‘bag for busting hair to such a nuclear extent. And by respect I mean increased mocking.

The hairless chest and bizarre almost masturbatory gripping of the beer bottle round out Douchesplosion’s argument for HCwDBotW honors.

And the hotness of both of these 20 year old Arizona State level cuties enhances the inverted ‘bag sandwich appeal of the pic, and don’t hurt neither.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Ab Lobster

Okay, Ab Lobster isn’t like the other two in featuring the cactii hair. Instead he’s absolutely abhorrent.

Featuring the amulet that saved Bastian in The Neverending Story, Ab Lobster is a cross between an uber-guido Jersey douche and a 1980s children’s film. I don’t know whether to throw him out of the club or help him find a giant talking muppet.

There was some discussion of sexy blonde’s potential pregnancy in the comments thread. I don’t see it, I think it’s just an awkward position, but either way I’d read her Cervantes by candlelight while fondling her middle toes in extremely awkward and creepy ways.

Okay folks, them’s the candidates. Definitely a less fantastic class than last week, but what are ya gonna do. Some great submissions came in over the weekend, so gear up for a heavy week of hottie/scrotey analysis.

And cast your vote for this week’s contest, as always, in the comments thread.

Ass.. The Other Douchebag

No it’s not ironic.

You are a douche.

McDoucheburger

Here’s a Sunday McDoucheburger. Supersized, with lots of special sauce.

And two orders of small fries. With salty goodness. And by salty goodness, I mean boobies.

It’s pics like this that make a crisp Sunday morning worth savoring. Because no matter how slimy McDoucheburger is, I’m still looking at his girl’s cleavite. So… uh… take that, burger boy. Yeah.

Milk Tongue

Ladies, when your man has a white furry substance all over his tongue, he just might a douchebag.

If he’s a forty year Satan mutant with jacket collar pop, he just might be a douchebag.

If he’s this guy, he just might be a douchebag.

Ab-solutely Bagulous

I could almost believe someone photoshopped a gnome head onto a mannequin dipped in orange if I didn’t realize this muscle ‘bag has to be real, if only to drive me insane.

If you stare really closely and long enough at the ridges in those abs you can see the faint outline of Tickle Me Elmo. Or at least, I can.

Just a warning. Tickle Me Elmo Abs are laughing at you.

EDIT: The site’s been buggy as hell today, I’m trying to get it cleared up. I blame Orange Gnome head’s abs.

The Hollywood Bagtor

I suppose I should be used to the Actor ‘Bags. After all, I live in Los Angeles, swamp nest of what I like to call “Bagtors,” those hairy, muscely bartender wannabes who haunt every streetcorner from Trader Vics over to Hillhurst. But I’m not. Watching them smear hotties with their circa 2003 solid-color-shirt and jean-jacket look and oozing Grieco Virus from every clogged pore is enough to make me itch in uncomfortable and mostly psychosomatic ways.

Bagtors shouldn’t bother me by now.

But then again, I think we’ve safely established that I’m a bitter-ass douchebag myself. And so I dream happy thoughts of their eyebrows catching fire through the careful use of a butane cigarette lighter, and their hotties awakening from their slumber to realize the grease stains on their walls aren’t the latest exotic desert mold but where their Bagtor left a stain when he bumped into the wall after too many energy drinks and vodka shots.

Which leads us to this D-List choad. When not busy getting killed in the first ten minutes of “The Hills Have Scrote III,” he’s busy cleaning up the cocktail waitress hotties like a douche vacuum cleaner. For that alone he deserves our collective mock.

So since it’s Friday, and we’re all prepping for hoped for binge drinking and boobie grabbing filled evenings, lets take a moment to Zen ourselves and use our collective mental energy to simply perform that most ancient of social rituals, The Mocking of the Bagtor.

There. Don’t you feel better?

Kenny G Scrotae

YEEEAGHHHHH.

The good thing about Kenny G. Scrotae is that in addition to producing the soothing sounds of melodic early 1990s alto sax Christmas albums, he can also snag an extremely curvaceous hottie.

Good on you, Kenny G. Scrotae. Sorry to hear about the douche face.

Angry Young Poo

Well, at least he’s honest.

I haven’t seen three scrotey mugs posing that awkwardly since I got lost in the Turkish section of Brighton Beach while trying to find Coney Island. Stupid F train.

This little Persian flower may find herself amidst three angry young poos, but she is certainly in bloom. I would nurture her delicate petals with rose geranium essential oils, then dance Natya style to Indian musical numbers with six thousand extras until it faded to black just before we kissed.