Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Starter 'Bag?

PIC DELETED

Hang in there, kid.

There’s still hope for you.

Silky McDouchowitz

Silky McDouchowitz flashing his I.D.

‘Bag? Not a ‘Bag?

Uhm, ‘Bag.

Now that, my friends, is the curvature of Ass Heaven.

You might have missed the chapter on Ass Heaven in the Bible. It’s right after the section on chopping off someone’s wrist for touching leather and right before the part on the legalities of stoning your wife for churning butter incorrectly. Say what you will about the Bible, at least it’s got Ass Heaven in there.

The 'Bagling

Ah, the stage-1 choadbag. A young ‘bagling crawling out of his gelled up cocoon for the first time and taking his first awkward steps into a larger scrotey world.

While those blue satin shorts belong to the woman behind you, ‘Bagling Boy, it somehow informs your budding douche essence. That tentative, raw power of ‘Bagling — the blue satin shorts of your scrotey soul.

She is slender curvy iced banana perfection. I would blend her into a smoothie with a shot of vitamin powder and called it “Hotberry.” I would nibble her earlobes softly and whisper the ingredients off a package of HoHos with all the sexiness I could muster: Wheat gluten… Sodium Caseinate… Sorbic Acid…

Because I’m studly like that.

Syndrome

It’s always impressive when the many varieties and permutations of American ‘Baguousness produces a cartoon character lookalike.

Yup, muscle choad here is the douche version of Syndrome from The Incredibles. Same whipped up cheesecloth hair, black and white superhero outfit, and assorted ‘bag hand gestures. The only thing missing is the red hair. But I can fix that. By setting his hair on fire.

The ladies seem to love the leopard prints these days. Nia Long Hottie is a drink of spied up paprika sexiness that I would give my full attention to for at least a solid 42 seconds. Then I would make excuses about how tired and stressed I was while she gave me vague reassurances that it happens all the time.

Wait, that fantasy wasn’t so good.

I blame Syndrome’s beady gaze. It’s hard to concentrate.

HCwDB of the Week: Sinatra Edition

A hearty good morning, fellow ‘bag slayers and pouty lipped hotties. I hope your weekend was free of all uber-douchosity popped collar greaseknobs and Bleethed out unrecoverable hotties long lost to the ways of the douche. Before we get to this week’s HCwDB contest, I have but one quote I’d like to add.

“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” — Frank Sinatra

Tip o’ the hat, Chairman. It’s in your Jersey born honor that we mock these three fine scrotey specimens and the hotties who’ve been cursed to love them. Or at least occupy space near them for the 1/30th of a second that a digital camera shutter opened and closed. On to the finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Mack

‘Bag did it his way.

This is the type the Rat Pack would’ve taken out back behind the casino and introduced face to garbage can. He’s classic scrub brush choad. Greased up and chin first. The two confused cuties undressing him only heighten and fine tune the pain.

If, as Doc claims, this is The ‘Bagsgiver turkey from last Thanksgiving, then perhaps he shouldn’t be in the running this week.

But I asked myself, What Would Sinatra Do? The answer, is put this choad up for a vote. This pic earned it. If he’s the same as the douchebag Macking on the naked chicks in the sauna, all the better. And by better I mean worse.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Axl Rose ‘Bag

From here to douchebaggery.

Chin pubes in the night.

Start spreading the douche.

I’m using pic #2 of our Rose ‘Bag simply for the reason that it’s a purer example of the stench of douchosity that wafts off this choad like a rose. If the rose smelled like ass.

She is gumball leopard print innocence. He is a ball of gum. Douche gum. That stuck to my shoe last week and now I can’t get it off.

Dammit, the rage is rising. I want to pluck those chin pubes out one by one with a tweezer then flush his grillz down a toilet. Staring at this one’s killing me. Lets move on.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Tragedy of Oldbag: Mullet Toad

The man with the douchey gut.

Well since we can’t rightly call him Oldbag, I’m suggesting Mullet Toad unless anyone has any other names for this rotund wank.

She is pull my finger fantasy. He is 1970s gold chain wearing hot-tub dunking E.S.T. enrolling choat cream. I want to fire-hose his ass until he goes flippity floppity through that forest like the hat in Miller’s Crossing.

Damn.

To paraphrase Frank, you’re no-douchey ’till somebody mocks you. For the hotties, those boots are made for Bleething. Three burn worthy hottie/douchey combos this week.

The winner?

Well, that’s up to you, my ‘bag slaying hottie adoring compatriots.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Beatnik

Ah the Beatnik Bags. A rarity here at HCwDB. To paraphrase Ginsberg, I saw the best bods of my generation destroyed by douchebaggery.

Red Poet makes me want to snap my fingers and bongo to the sounds of rapid fire free association. And by “rapid fire free association” I mean two sessions of primal gnawing. On her right thigh. Cool, daddy-o. I dig it.

Clearing out the ole’ pic attic on a Sunday that finds the DB1 lounging around in his bathrobe, sipping ‘Train and OJ, munching on a big bowl of Count Chocula, and meditating on the esoteric conundrum that is “The ‘Bag Within.”

Where do we draw the line between douche and putz? If, as Jacques Derrida argues, “truth” must be separate and distinct from our notions of “The Real,” than can we ever truly comprehend ‘Bag? Or does our understanding of ‘Bag fundamentally do violence to the role of ‘Bag within the larger societal construct? And by do violence, I mean punch in the face.

Meh. Time to watch The Hills.

Scrote Caesar

Slacker Tarantino Bag might be able to quote Larry Cohen directed Blaxploitation films with the acerbic wit and gen-x sarcasm of a dated Ben Stiller movie, but he’s still Scrote Caesar. And if you think that was too many confusing and half baked references for one sentence, you should see my other car.

Hottie’s a little hippy, and I don’t mean in the hemp clothes wearing San Francisco post-dot-com slacker aesthetic kind of way, but I’d still love her child bearing hips with pickles and a jar of crisco.

Corn on the 'Bag

If there’s one overriding concept at work in the creation of ‘bag, in the exploration of utter douchosity that shines from within, it is that ironic ‘bag is still ‘bag. Attempts to satirize the douche merely creates a secondary level of douchosity as pungent as any rotting, fetid primary level douchuousness.

My point? I’m hung over.

My second point? Doing the Farmer Ted + Dog Tags thing when it ain’t a costume party doesn’t mean you’re aware of the performative ‘bag and are thus satirizing the ‘bag. It still makes you ‘bag. The ‘bag within, externalized through irony, is still ‘bag.

As to tablecloth hottie, her body sings like sparrows on a warm summer day. As the wind rustles through the foliage of a perfect sunrise, the wind whispers, “booooooobieeessss.”

And I nuzzle in those hills for a fortnight while eating trail mix and pop rocks.

The Tragedy of Oldbag

As the great Oscar Wilde once remarked: The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.

I’d like to paraphrase Wilde’s brilliant words with the following thought: The tragedy of oldbag is not that one is old, but that one is ‘bag.

And on that note, the DB1 is off for a weekend of heavy drinking, dressing in a rubber diving suit and smacking himself repeatedly in the ass with a moldy ping pong paddle.

Private Doublechin

Listen up, Private Doublechin, you ain’t cool for going into the “jungle” dressed like a short-bus choad who watched too many Hogan’s Heroes reruns growing up. You’re simply ‘bag.

Private D.C., it’s okay if you want to put on makeup. You don’t need to hide behind the army to do so. Simply go all the way, Frank N. Furter it up, Rocky Horror style. But drop the pretense of heterosexuality. It may fool pouty lipped peroxided hottie with the ridiculously sexy arm fishnets, but it don’t fool me.

So, uhm, take that.

Yeah.

God damn I’d chew through a lamp cord just to curdle milk on her fryer.