Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Tiny Gangster

What are ya, a wiseguy? I got boobs here, see? And I’m gonna take ’em out back and slap ’em around, see? So scram!

This pic is just confounding on so many levels. What is going on here? It’s like a James Cagney porn film. What variety of factors and circumstances let to the intermingling of this amazonian princess of boobage and 1940s Tiny Gansgter ‘Bag? I can’t tell whether Tiny Gangster’s going to bury his head between those majestic hills, or grab his tommy gun and start shooting at the coppers.

Come and get me, ya dirty rats!

Yo go, Tiny Gangster. Show that femme fatale who’s boss.

Windy

We’ve seen the entire spectrum of douchey/hottie wrongness on this site over the last year. But rare is the ‘bag who’s smarmy douchosity actually inspires me to rethink ‘bag hierarchies and ascribe a new branch, a new section, to the ‘bag tree.

Windy is that ‘bag. He is ‘bag wind. Wafting air of scrote. Scent of douche.

Not simply for scorting a brunette hottie with the great smile, shiny eyes and hint of shoulder I would gnaw into like rodents on nitrous. But for the angrogyne Pat sweater. The greased hair that looks like a Six Flags Great Adventure water park ride. And, of course, the douche-face.

I think this is an important pic as we’ve been discussing and analyzing the differentiations between performative douche and douche essence. This ‘bag isn’t overtly filled with makeup, tats and bling. But for the DB1, he makes my eyelid twitch. I propose a perfume in his honor: Essence du ‘Bag. And a new category: The Windy ‘Bag.

Saturday 'Bag / Not a 'Bag

And here I was thinking “douche stain” was simply a metaphor. But is it enough to qualify for ‘bag?

First question: can someone explain to me how, exactly, a male of the species, any male of the species, ends up holding a champagne glass like that?

As to Happy New Year Cutie, yes. Happy New Year indeed. Just don’t turn around.

Douche Mecca Reopened

I almost forgot to mention that the Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas just started up the Sunday Rehab party again in the last few weeks. Long time readers know that not only have I termed The Vegas Hard Rock “Douche Mecca” because of every practicing ‘bag’s yearly pilgrimage there, but I even ventured into the Land of Source Douche myself, last August.

DB1’s Trip to Douche Mecca Part 1.

DB1’s Trip to Douche Mecca Part 2.

I’m pleased as cheap vodka spiked punch to report that this land of endless hottie/scrotey comingling in an expansive pool filled with over 4,000 strands of unique DNA has reopened, to provide this site with endless resources to pull from. And by resources I mean, uhm, douchebags and hot chicks. Together. Looking like ass.

If we ever do get around to organizing a HCwDB Convention, this is the place we will meet, my friends. This is the place.

Fast Times at Douchemont

Since we had Spicolli Bag a few days ago, it’s like Ridgmont’s next generation douchebaggery around here. Damone ‘Bag and Jennifer Jason Leigh cutie in the pool while Judge Reinhold spanks it in the bathroom.

Sadly, J.J. Leigh Hottie’s sunglasses suggest a creeping Grieco infection. Not surprising, given this ‘bag’s rare ability to maintain shoulder grease levels even while immersed in water.

Mmm… Phoebe Cates boobies.

Friday Haiku

Bleached chin pubes, douche face.
Brunette Hotness. Bosom speaks,
It begs us, kill douche.

Eyes far apart,
Blazer like a black grouper,
Without question: ‘bag

— mitch meats

Senior prom gone wrong
Rage inducing Blue-tie bag
Almost a nipslip

— Ronald McDouchenald

her: spectacular.
him: suit defies description.
me: aneurysm.

— douche of earl

Albino pube chin..
Take out-of-style satin tie..
and hang yourself.

— douchebag out!

Goat faced man, bleached beard
Suit of fish scales, neon tie
Sweet breast emerges.

–Vinny Scumbaglia

Racoon II: Douche and Gabana

The Racoon really is a woodland creature of confounding esssence. Is he real? Or doucherex? In analyzing the steaming scroaditude wafting from your computer screen, some interesting facets of the discussion emerge.

Is he ‘bag? Or is he simply performing the part of DJ Douche for his adoring fans? If we allow him entrance into our understanding of ‘bag, does this expand the definition into too many performance based areas?

At its heart, douchebaggery centers around the feminized affectations of your average douche doing his best to get some hottie attention. Some of us are born ‘bag. Others of us work to acquire ‘bag. But all of us have the ‘bag within. For women, it is a stage-4 Bleeth state, otherwise known as douchebaguettery.

So how to process The Racoon within this rubric? I would argue that when in doubt, go to the rage factor. Does Rac’ here make your leg involuntarily kick at the general level of a man’s scrotae? Does his cutie’s exotic charms make you want to slam your head in a car door Pesci style? On these levels, the Rac’ definitely makes the grade. And for that reason alone, I say he merits ‘bag, if not uberbag status. The Grieco Virus is strong. Respek.

Manmaries

One of the variants of the shirtless classic Jersey ‘bag is the emergence of what can only be described as “Manmaries.” I’m not sure what causes these toxic bumps to rise from the chest of a waxed up Jersey scrote. Too much chest oil? The gravitational affect of a nearby mandana?

Whatever it is, it’s a disturbing trend in the genetic devolution of the modern ‘bag. For it marks not just a return to a state of animal primitivity but an actual off-shoot into a sub-branch of genetic variation. Much like the Douche Sprouts we saw a few weeks ago, Manmaries signal a troubling “next generation” as homo-sapien and douchus-baggus begin to further diverge and divest of shared characteristic.

She, on the other hand, makes me want to summon a genetic discourse of a very different manifestation.

Bottle 'Bag

PIC DELETED

Nothing quite says gender confusion like awkwardly fellating a 40 while being embraced by two balls of nightclub hotness. Look A-Rod, if you want to bat for the home team there are many clubs in West Hollywood looking to honorably discharge your firearm. No need to bottle substitute like a hungry two year old.

Someone needs to get Rasta Dude in the background to liberate Liberace from his terrifying conundrum. Send him home to marinate on the porch with his homies. No breastes for you.

I would perform extreme feats of gymnastics for angry Russian judges if it meant I could sniff the velveteen backside of cheekboney hotness until passing out from hyperventilation. Her shoulder is award winning suckle worthy fleshy spongecake goodness. I would partake. Yes I would.

The Aviator

I haven’t seen a shirt fit that awkwardly since my junior high prom. Heh, stupid Jason. He looked like a clown.

Mmm… side cleavite. She’s no Purg Hottie, but anyone with a jar of pickles that big deserves props.