Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Puka Bra

The Puka Bra. For those moments when a simply puka shell necklace won’t be enough to scream choad.

The Douchetron

People often ask me, DB1, what happens when the Grieco Virus reaches a terminal hybrid state of combo hottie/douchey infection? When the Bleeth has passed the point of no return?

Ah, I say.

Ah.

You seek the mystical Double Bag-Head. Few have glimpsed this state of spiritual hybridity, of dual douche enmeshment and entwinement. HCwDB couples who reach this terminal state of ‘baggery are far beyond redemption. They have fused into one nuclear proton/electron state known as the douchetron. And by “douchetron” I do not mean an early 80s Disney movie featuring Jeff Bridges trapped inside a digital New Jersey.

I mean the moment at which the HC and DB fuse to create a black hole of douchitude. A singularity of wrongness. Witness exhibit A, featured here. Then avert your eyes. For the douchetron is not a sight to be stared at for any length of time without deep psychological and socioeconomic ramifications.

HCwDB of the Week: The Cowlicker

Fantastic discussion, dissection, debate and other words inspired by the letter “D” in the comments thread this week. But then, these were three HCwDBotW Award Winning candidates. But in the end the perfect curvy hotness of this toothy beauty and the bovine that’s licking her face were too much to overcome.

As bag em dano puts it:

Cowlick – This guy single handedly has irritated my acid reflux and manages to take douchery in a whole new direction. First off, if you’re going to use the Tan-in-a-can; don’t forget to do your hands.

Nice smackdown bag ’em dano, and I was always a big fan of the show you draw your moniker inspiration from, “Douchenet.” Crankyprof concurred, chiming in with an eloquent haiku:

My vote: the Cowlick.
Greasy, lank, disgusting ‘bag.
Fetch me a crowbar.

Poetic. But both the Newlybags and the legend that is K-Scrote also found their share of admirers. And by admirers I mean Detroit baseball fans. douchey_dutchman makes the case for K-Scrote:

My vote has to go to Kevin McScrote.

The oil… the facial expression… the loyal Woo’s mounting a futile, bleethed-out attempt at defending the scrote using poorly formed sentences ending in prepositions… This contains all the ingredients of a douche-a-colada.

Indeed, Mortimer. Indeed. the arch douche agrees:

#3’s days of Bleething young girls are over. I know it, you know it, he knows it, and most importantly the hotties know it.

The win has to go to #3. It’s our duty to remove him, lest he gets that close to any other girls that hot (It think it’s the top button I am willing to pop off as soon as cowlick is gone) ever again. He won’t stop at her – we have to end it now. Hell, I’d go down without the scuba gear for that scrote.

The excellent verbal smackdown assassin baron von goolo lays into the pumped up Miami superstar with precision:

While Cowlick definitely has the highest db:hc dissonance ratio, McScrote just has too many other undeniable factors going for him. The hat tilt, the Elvis shades, that come hither Liza Minelli pout, the obvious age gap between him and the pulsating Pyramid of Bleeth before him. Note the way his overdeveloped pectorals and trapezius have entirely consumed his neck: perhaps in lieu of a flight response, McScrote can withdraw his head like a turtle, serving well to hide his bald spot when no baseball cap can be found. And that posture, asking us all to BEHOLD! like a feudal srotelord surveying his livestock. Nay! Not as a lord – as a GOD! McScrote is a Zeus of Douche, appearing before a writhing pile of Letas as a swan. An oily, Vanilla Ice of a swan, old enough to be their dad.

Wasn’t “Zeus of Douche” a late 70s Ted Nugent album? Regardless, excellent work BvG. Newlybags also received some excellent attention from jladouche, and by attention I mean purple lips:

If you wanna go for sleaze, Cowlick’s yer guy. But being a douchebag and being a sleazoid are only overlapping circles, my friend. NewlyBags combines the essentials – a certain flagrant idiocy, an armband, a boy-band pout, and WWF muscles exposed for maximum effect. Oh, and the Jersey grease that broadcasts its smell over digital miles. And the luscious, all-too hidden boobs.

But chozun sums up this week’s struggle between these three hottie/pukey inspired pics, as he reluctantly casts in with The Cowlick for the win.

#2: Let me think… Faux-Euro douche and milfy blondie with the gorgeous and her ever-so-tempting cleavite that I have seen ever. This pic infuriates me like no other. I want to punch the guy out right as he starts to stick out his tongue. Then I become sad at the stage 3 bleeth infection of the hottie and I weep openly. To think of the love we could have had…

Vote goes to #2 Cowlick.

It was a tough, epic battle this week. Props to the triumphant douche dissection and dissemination in the comments thread, everyone brought their A Game once to again. Next week (or two weeks?) will feature an fantastic monthly smackdown for the crown of HCwDB of the Month. But until then, good work everyone. Lets drag The Cowlick to the bottom of the ocean on our next scuba dive, swim back to the boat, pop open a PBR and feast on some lesser pics as our chaser.

Good work everyone.

The Flounder

Occasionally you can tell when an aspiring douchebag has no chance. None. Nada. Zip. This fresh off the boat New England flounder can’t even swim in the same stream as this flaxen haired salmon, let alone spawn.

Give it up, Flounder. Let a bear catch you in his gape and munch on you for lunch. Your effort to spawn may be yeoman’s work, but it won’t get you to the promised land.

The 'Bagrobe

PIC SADLY DELETED. SEE THRU SLIP HOTTIE’S HOTNESS REMAINS IMPRINTED ON MY SOUL.

Note to all hotties: The see-thru slip? Yes, please.

As to this chin fungusy douched out choad in the bathrobe, I’d lock him in the sauna until his man-boobs prune like dried raisins. He is cocktail swilling wrongness.

Then again, I’m Night Train swilling wrongness. So maybe I should start going out in my bathrobe. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be gang tackled by two cuties in underwear in a bar classy enough to feature red christmas lights under the tables. It could happen.

Mandana Boy

It’s hard to come down off the genius hair explosions of the last two pics, so I thought I’d go with a thematic answer, a response if you will to giant cactus-head explosions — the giant 8-head Mandana.

Megods that thing’s enormous. There’s enough cloth in that swath for Christo to wrap half of Italy.

She’s not the hottest cookie in the bakery, but there’s still enough frosting to make a tasty after dinner treat.

Hair Magnon

Some people like to wake up with a cup of quality coffee. That slow roasted kind whose aroma wafts through the house and perks you up. You sit down, read the paper, and sip away at that dark roasted delight while preparing for the day with excitment and purpose.

Me? I like to wake myself up by smacking myself in the face with the unholy wretchedness that is a true HCwDB spew.

Hair Magnon here likes to rent out his jaw as a garlic press.

Hottie has all sorts of beaded goodness going on.

Together, they make purple.

Like a ten thousand volt shot of caffeine right to the gut, I feel refreshed and ready to face the day. And by refreshed I mean alcoholic.

Douchsplosion

It’s as if millions of follicles suddenly cried out in gel and were suddenly silenced. I fear something ‘baggy has happened.

Cup o' Nip

It’s not enough that Matt Dillon’s douchey brother wants to show the world his nip. But did Molly Shannon hottie have to show up and enhance the spectacle?

Wait, what’s that? The nip wants to say something:

Nip: Hey guys, don’t forget to vote in the HCwD of the Week contest down below!!

Hey Nip, thanks for the plug. But is that all you have to say?

Nip: This oily scrote likes to fondle me while watching the Golden Girls on Nick at Nite.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

I haven’t seen a breast that flaccid, limp and pale since I had the chicken at Olive Garden. I don’t care how many free breadsticks and salad you get, honey, send it back. Send it back.

The Rorschach Test

There’s so many confusing aspects to this pic, it’s like one of those ink-blot rorschach pictures they use to help figure out your subconscious desires. Help me make sense of the following elements, and lets see what the test teaches us about ourselves:

1. Wanky college ‘bag with classic hipster ironic gas station t-shirt, Matrix sunglasses and mini-shocker hand gesture.

2. Super cutie stripper type displaying fantastic cleavite and a see through lace top.

3. HCwDB commingling taking place in what appears to be a furniture show room mixed with a giant erector set.

4. A wizened old dude, slumped on a couch in the background.

What is the backstory here? How does any of this make sense? Did Joe College ‘Bag wander into a furniture show room in between pre-med classes, only to discover couches being sold at a stripper convention?

I was trying to come up with a more complex explanation for the irrationality of this pic, but then I saw two fantastic chopstick legs, and now I want to dim sum those won tons until I’m hungry again in an hour.