Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Douche-Poo

That acrid odor. That pungent aroma. I know I’ve smelt it before. What could it be?

Oh yes.

Douche-poo.

Hippie Hott may be long lost to the ways of douchebaguette, but I would nurse her back to health after surgically removing the mandana by feeding her figs and snozzleberries while licking her hairbrush to taste the aqua-net when no one’s looking.

Saturday Limerick

Joe Douche was a man from Nantucket,
Whose grease smelled like a KFC bucket,
His side combover reeked,
Of desperate middle aged choadbag pathetic doucheyness and something that rhymes with reeked,
And now I’d like to kick him in the Kirby Puckett.

Man, I gotta get better at this limerick thing.

The Fish Tank

For years I had a 30 gallon tropical fish-tank and about six or seven beautiful tropical fish. One of those tall glass tanks that sat in my apartment, cast a gorgeous blue light and bubbled soothingly. Any time one of my fish died, I would walk down the street to the pet store and pick out another one to add to the tank.

On my way back to the apartment, clutching the plastic baggy with my new pet fish, I would stop off in a sushi place and grab a sushi lunch to go. Then, as I was integrating the new fish into his tank, I would feast on assorted sushi.

I did this because I felt it echoed the absurdity and folly of life’s arbitrary assignments. One fish was meant to enjoy my artificial ecosystem. The other was meant for processing by my small intestine. I felt this ritual had importance as a spiritual reminder. As a process of opening my eyes and remaining both humble and silly in the face of my petty attempts to give order and classification to nature’s chaos.

I felt it was important to always remember the random happenstance that leads to such arbitrary designations among living creatures. The absurdity that can elevate certain fish as “pets” and certain fish as “food.” And to never forget the siliness and ultimate folly of humanity’s attempt to create artificial order through regulated PH, soft water, filtration and food pellets.

I bring this anecdote up to remind myself that goofy fratwanks crashing hot sorority sister parties are simply arbitrary fish. Fratwanks can find themselves privileged by arbitrary placement into an invisible ecosystem that provides everything they need. Or they could be served up on a small slice of warm rice meant for digestion.

In an economic world rocked by happenstance, we are all either in fish tanks or being served up by a sushi chef. We privilege some. We process others. Fish-tank or sushi. We must endeavor to remind ourselves of the eternal recurrance of these sorts of outward projections as the means by which we understand what we think of as “the real.”

Oh, and this fratwank is a douchebag.

Raisinhead

Looking at this greasy dimpled choadbag smirking his way to a state of oblong head I haven’t seen since MTV’s Liquid Television is like having midgets tweaser my inner thigh with rusty pliers dipped in Bosco.

It’s just plain Johnny Walker Black wrong.

It’s bad enough that I would shave lamb wool into fractal patterns that spell out my love for pouty blonde Rockstar drinking Hott in Base-13 code. But to cuddle with Raisinhead?

That’s just not nice to the DB1, Blonde Rockstar. He’s on vaca in NYC. Now he’s gotta know you’re out there cuddling with a dude whose forehead could cause a land war in Asia? Not nice.

FratChoad Speaks

The stage-1 Fratchoader featured in commenter KellyBelly’s pic from her ‘bag hunting expedition last week, writes in:

———
Take down the 2 photos KellyBelly has of me ASAP. One is on the June 2007 archives and one is on her Blog page. (the one in the hat with the Got Brew shirt)
——–

Now normally I honor all requests to remove a pic, but since KellyBelly herself submitted the pic that she had taken, I may leave this one up. Especially since this dude is actually asking me to remove the pic on her blog page. I would, but, uhm, I’m not KellyBelly. Although I wouldn’t mind occupying her personal space for a solid minute while thinking about baseball.

EDIT: Okay, as per KellyBelly’s request, I’ve taken down the pic. Which means K.B. has two options. Go out and scrote-hunt again, or come to L.A. and feed the DB1 raisins while we watch reruns of Black Adder together. What’s it gonna be, K.B?

Where's Waldouche: Pool Party Edition

Somewhere in this bizarre college fantasy pool party pic, I’ve hidden your typical stuffed horse mounting college Fratchoad.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Friday Haiku

I’ll have a Glenlivet,
Bartender. Put down the girls,
and get back to work.

Bleached out bleeths,
Drunk from the red cup.
Every UPS man’s dream.

— el douchablo

your aim is too high.
real men know, girls like it when
you kiss them down south.

— pfahass

Brown. Brown: like a turd
Waste. Waste of beautiful bread
For this turd sandwich

–Vinny Scumbaglia

Choad shorts make me wretch;
bareback hottie has slutty
Baby Phat tattoo

— oscar de la douchea

He pumped my gas on
the way to work, Love the hoetag earings
I’d hits it, all of em

— The Commenter

Shmoo

And then there are HCwDB pics so filled with unholy hottie/douchey wrongness that all I can think to do is crawl back into bed, attempt to regress to a state of infant bliss and forget I ever witnessed such atrocity.

Shmoo is one of those times.

Suburban PunkBags

The white suburban coopt of the 80s punk/hardcore look may be one of the more annoying offshoots of the douchebaggery tree. PunkBags embody the store bought artifice that would’ve caused true punks to toss them through a windshield then go for a pizza.

Archie McDoucheface, fun with a razor and a bottle of peroxide does not make you punk. Douche handgestures in the presence of Jenny Princess only render you douche.

So take your illegally burned Fishbone CD, your overpaid retro Vans, your well worn copy of Legs McNeil’s “Please Kill Me” and, well, please kill yourself.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

Other than his rotund presence, furry chest and Jersey bling, there’s really not too much to delineate whether having a head the size of a 747 and working in New Jersey “sanitation” qualifies as douche or not. I’m leaning towards not a douche.

Because I like my legs. Unbroken.

What say you?

‘Bag? Or simply a middle aged dude who lucked into a Mira Sorvino pie?