Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Ask DB1

Troy Roidell writes in:

———–
Dear Mr. DB1,

Sincerely,
Troy Roidell
——-

The origin of the ‘Bag Hand Gesture remains mysterious and elusive. Some posit it a cry for attention, a variant of the mating call in the animal kingdom. Like when Balisian rhesus monkeys fling poo, or Brazilian chipmunks whistle various 50 Cent ring tones to attract a mate.

Early historiographical theories explored the notion that ‘Bag Hand Gestures (#001-#265) began in late 19th Century dance halls, when dock workers would signal to find out if a woman nearby was a “lady of the evening.” Throughout much of the 20th Century these early primitive hand signs in proto-douchebags began to develop with increasing complexity, eventually reaching the broad and complex form of hand signal communicative linguistics we see today.

As to your essay, can’t help with that, Troy. But I can make a kick-ass bitchin’ “Westside” with my left hand.

Dawn of the Choad

I don’t know whether to make fun of the grease-cheeks or head for the nearest mall for cover while making sure they don’t bite me by shooting them in the head.

And I’m talking 1970s George Romero Dawn of the Choad, not that remake douchebaggery.

Someone set off a flare and distract them, while I save hottie. Then again, she looks infected. Damn you, Grieco Virus! Damn you to hell.

Lloyd Dobblerbag

I happened to stumble into “Say Anything” on cable the other day. Holy sweet Christos, what I wouldn’t pay to see a group of coked up British thugs in droog outfits kick the holy crap out of Lloyd Dobbler.

It is to that whiny turd that I dedicate this post, and my coining of the “Dobblerbag.” The Dobblerbag is a whiny git who espouses clever one liners while sweating and trembling because he’s “so happy” when he loses his virginity. He may not be a classic ‘Bag, but let there be no mistake, he’s hidden douche at work. He’s a variant of the Emo Bag melded with the Hipster Bag by way of the virus, Unrealisticus Characterus.

Holding up the stereo playing the worst post-Genesis Peter Gabriel song? You are douche. Even as fictional character, true douche is achieved.

Eat me, Dobbler Bag. And you too, pud in the pic.

Oh, and boobies.

Scrotiserie Chicken

And lo, the hills were perfect and golden, flowering with the nectar of swollen bosom. But hark, the douchedragon prowled yonder, roaring with gusts of Tag Bodyshot. Seeking to feast on scrotiserie chicken.

And hark, the DB1 can’t come up with anything else to say about this pic except boobies.

HCwDB of the Week: Oompa Prompa

It wasn’t even close. Prom Oompa Loompa just crushed the competition. And by crushed, I mean Orange.

There’s a certain genius to the Prompa, and it’s not just the zoot suit or the orange or the hair. It’s that nervous moment we can all relate to. That glance around right before going to the prom when you’re waiting in line and making sure your tie’s on straight. The only difference is that unlike all of us at our prom who just felt like we looked ridiculous, Prompa actually does look absolutely ridiculous.

The range of emotions that Prompa inspired in the comments thread ran the gamut from hilarity to depression to heavy drinking. As the everpresent anonymous put it:

I stuck a couple of waffles in the toaster for breakfast but this thing in pink just made me lose my appetite. Time to call in sick to work and crack open the first OE of the day.

Nice Old English reference. I’m not the malt liquor drinker myself, but I respect anyone who mixes it with waffles. Born 2B Bag sums up the Prompa pain:

Grieco High, Newark New Jersey class of ’07. This is why Al Qaeda hates us.

They hate us for our hair gels, B2BB. choadasaurus rex wonders aloud at the development that lies in the future for this ‘Bagling and his sidekick:

WTF IS THAT?!?! This teen ‘Bag is definitely pushing the douchebag envelope. If he continues on this path his future here is bright… it will be interesting to follow his progression from prepubescent uberbagosity into a full blown scrote commando. Orange face, pink tux, gray spiked hair… and this is his prom gear. Imagine what his club ‘Bag attire would look like? I can’t even imagine… he is definitely shooting for the stars of douchedum. Watchout world… this new up and comer promises endless ‘Bag material.

The sky is the limit. He’s like the proverbial “next Michael Jordan” of the douchebag diegesis.

I was sad to see ‘Baggish and Syndrome find less support, as both are fully grown and highly accomplished scrotemeisters, well versed in the Art of ‘Bag. Each brought along a fine hottie to balance the equation, especially Syndrome’s (yum).

But the Orange Prompa was not to be denied. And there will be no cropping of this pic. Part of the genius is the long-shot. Finding the Prompa standing nervously in line.

It’s poetic art. Someone call the Guggenheim. Prompa is 21st Century dada at its finest.

So raise Prompa’s orange jersey to the rafters and book him a ticket to the Monthly. He’s officially enscribed as HCwDB legend.

The Long Journey

During my long existential journey trolling through the swamplands of MySpace/Facebook hottie-douchey wrongness, I have found my soul vexed by many troubling questions.

What are the root causes of douche-hot duality? How does Grieco Virus spread its greasy plague from city to city, ‘Bag to ‘Bag, ‘Bag to Hottie and Hottie to Hottie?

My journey, my vision quest, into the dark festering land of douchitude has offered some answers, but also opened doors to more soul troubling questions. Do greased up uberchoadbags possess awareness? Does the inflated tat-douche ponder quandaries of being and nothingness? Do Hotties know not what they do? And can we forgive?

Most imporantly, can your humble narrator, The DB1, drink a six pack of PBR, down three packets of tasty Hostess HoHos, and still cruise high school parking lots in a beat up Chevy Cavalier?

The Lime Rickey

Holy sweet merciless hooters, I miss being 18. Because when I was 18 I also had two sweet balls of teenage perfection in the back of a limo. Just like this choad.

Okay, maybe not. But the possibility was always there. As far as I knew.

I don’t know whether Suity McSilktie is a ‘bag, but, well, he’s a ‘Bag because I loves me some lime rickey. She makes me tremble like a coked up Kate Hepburn.

Ice Ice Baby

Check out the douche while the DJ revolve it.

Yeah, I’ve done Vanilla Ice jokes on the site before. And I’ll do them again. Because I’m creative like that. And really, what else is there to say about this choad?

She’s like the hot young mom at the PTA meeting who looks all conservative, then dresses up as Wonder Woman on weekends and participates in reiki orgies. I would discuss lunch menus and after-school curriculum with her over lapsang souchong tea at Starbucks before getting my freak on to iPod house music and my expensive shaper image strobe lights.

People are Douchey

People are douchey,
when you’re a douchebag,
Faces look scrotey,
when you’re a scrote.

When you’re douche,
Greasy chest features your bling,
When you’re douche,
Leather pants show off your thing,
When you’re douche…
When you’re douche…
When you’re douche…

Facebag

Those are five of the nicest balloons I’ve seen since The Blizzard.

Other than the douched out shirt, the dude doesn’t really have many classic ‘Bag signifiers. So lets stamp and process him as stage-1 EuroBag. Then ship his ass off to Vienna.

And by Vienna, I mean the sausage factory. Where he’d be more comfortable. While I steal away with sultry brunette by cover of moonlit night, only to ravish her under a chocolate waterfall while tiny Oompa Prompas dance in our peripheral ecstasy.