Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

JoeyPorsche

And while you’re mulling your HCwDB vote, here’s a pic from the Zen Transcendence of JoeyPorsche to inspire you.

You can almost see the Grieco Virus jump from douche-lips to douche-lips. ‘Bag, ‘Bag, ‘Bag, Bleethed out Hottie. Very sad.

Joey, Joey, Joey. I try to keep all my pics anonymous, but how do I not feature your greatness on this site?

I humbly bow down to one of the few sourche-douches out there. You transcend, my friend. And your blonde teenage cupcake is perfection.

EDIT: In what may be a first here at HCwDB, the JoeyPorsche experience inspired a reader to create a Tribute Pic in his douchey honor. Let the JoeyPorsche tributes commence, send me your best work and I’ll post it on the site. And I’m putting his MySpace directly into the Hall of Scrote. No need for the Weekly for an Ur-Douche that rivals the Holy Grieco Itself.

HCwDB of the Week

Welcome back, fellow journeyers on the dark exploration of a mass culture gone Douche. I’ve spent the weekend meditating on the ‘Bag genius that is JoeyPorsche. I’ve focused on the pain of plucked eyebrows as a test of my psyche. And by Sunday I had achieved a state of what I like to call Zen Porsche. In other words, I digggggggg.

So while it should be time for the HCwDB Monthly, I’m making an executive decision and bumping The Prompa directly to the Hall of Scrote. There’s just no way mere mortal hottie/douchey combos can compete with that genius. And by genius, I mean orange chocolate stirring short guys who sing rhythmic chants to teach young children important lessons.

Secondly, I’m itching to line up last week’s top pics while they’re still fresh in everyone’s mind. Fresh, of course, meaning rage inducing, psychosis triggering, moldy peaches of “How in holy ass smelling New Jersey is she with him?” wrongness.

Finally, I’m promoting the Prompa to honor the fact Tony Soprano got whacked and America didn’t seem to be able to figure it out. We’ll bump the Monthly to next Monday, in which one of these three fine cuts of quality ‘Bag/Hott will take on the previous three Weekly winners. So without further ado, do ya digggggg? Here are your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Creeper

With an alien space slug tongue from a 1980s horror film, The Creeper does a good job making me feel, well, extremely dirty.

On the rage scale, his quasi-Japanese hair pullback, earrings, classic teenage puka shell necklace which not only screams douuuuuuche like JoeyPorsche on a three day bender, but an OldBag desperately trying to hang on to a long faded youth, all make this pic transcendently douchey.

It ain’t 1982, bub. The tongue piercing makes you ‘Bag, OldBag and uberBag all in one scrotey stroke. Yeech.

Patsy Kensit Perfection only makes the whole thing worse. Holy sweet Vishnu, someone tell me right after this pic was taken, we arbitrarily cut to black. Oh wait, no moving imagery here. Just this searing electroshock to my scrotate forever.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Blister

The Blister is an important test case in this week’s contest as it’s one of the rare HCwDB pics that features an overpoweringly juicyfruit hottie with your standard issue run of the mill choad with kung-fu grip.

Well, he does have a pretty fantstically douchey soul patch porn-star pube fungus growing. And

She is overbite perfection.

I would discuss Ayn Rand with easily swayed 15 year olds for an hour over tea if it meant I could wash her used and sweaty rayon shirt with a toothbrush.

She is a perfect ripe peach. Two of them. But can she carry his mediocre averageosity douchitude across the finish line?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Circus Clown

There comes a time in every ‘Bag Hunter’s life when he’s forced to stare down the muzzle of an enriched uber-wank.

That moment is now.

‘Bag Hand Gesture #30, the douche-face, and two rather gnaw-worthy cuties elevate this pic as a worthy finalist.

The pic is ruined only by one of the bit players from My Name is Earl wandering into the photo and blocking the mass appreciation of firm jello butt greatness.

But it is still all good, and by good I mean hottie/douchey. A slice of scroted out Americana at its worst.

God damn, now that’s a Weekly. The Creeper, The Blister and The Circus Clown. Sounds like my ex-girlfriend. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Nicole. Just because he was better looking, taller, thinner, had more teeth, bathed more frequently, had things like a “job” and “integrity” and “stamina.” Other than that, what did he have over me?

Oh right. He wasn’t caught locked in your closet fondling your high heels with crisco at two in the morning.

Wait, am I still typing all of this? ahem

Vote for your winner, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday at the Rehab

Ah, the Rehab Brunch at the Hard Rock in Vegas. Douche Mecca. The Land of Holy Scrote.

Where everyday hottie blond girl-next-door types go to wear perky pink striped bikinis, smile sweetly, and cohabitate next to two beefy uberchoads simply for the purposes of ruining the DB1’s Sunday.

Thanks a lot, Marsha. Now how am I supposed to enjoy my bowl of Fruity Pebbles?

HallowBags

Feh, I say. Feh to the Halloween pics people keep sending me. Feh.

Okay, here’s one.

Because it’s a lazy Saturday, she’s got a backside I could eat jello off, I’m cleaning out the HCwDB pic attic, and my feet smell like Gouda.

At least I think that’s a Halloween pic.

Either way, his doucheyness scares small children and causes lab rats and gypsy moths to turn sterile. And the crotch grab on the spandex just screams class. And by class, I mean poo.

Note the ubiquitous red cup in the background, reminding us that, much like the grease penis forehead reflection, the signifiers are always there to code ‘Bag.

You Always Were a Douchebag

Were the image not cropped, the explosion of Cactus Hair would cinch the rank douchosity wafting from t-shirt boy here. He looks like a cross between Barbra Streisand and a vat of used cooking oil.

She, on the other hand, can fry my chicken wings in a gold plated wok. I’m not sure why I’m using chinese food references to describe Marisa Tomei Hottie, who I’m sure I’ve seen on the site before. Let me try again.

I would wrestle hogs at a county fair while shouting the lyrics to Gil-Scott Heron’s Whitey On the Moon if it meant I could gnaw her stuffed teddy bears for an hour. And no, stuffed teddy bears are not a euphemism for her curvy mammaries. I mean her actual stuffed animals. Because hotties like this always have stuffed teddy bears on the bed. Named Pookey and Lookey. I would gnaw them. Because I like to gnaw.

EDIT: I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve run this pic before on the site a few months ago. If so, lets mock him again. He deserves it.

Sunshine

Sunshine. On my shoulder. Makes me itchy.

Sunshine. On my shoulder. Smells like Tag.

Where's Waldouche: Wily Tiger Shark Edition

Okay fellow ‘bag hunters and Bleeth resistant hotties, time to play another round of Where’s Waldouche.

Somewhere in this photo of Miami Beach hotties, I’ve carefully hidden not one, but two wily tigershark Waldouches.

Can you find them?

Look carefully. They’re in there, prowling away as only a Floridouche can.

Click on the picture for a closer examination. And by examination I mean boobies.

EDIT: Image enhanced for better boobie viewing by The Hate Crime

LawnGilander

If Ryan Gosling were to mate with a mango, and its spawn dressed in a zoot suit, we might come up with something approximating this heroic and immortal douche legend, LawnGilander.

Many don’t know the legend of the immortal deity, LawnGilander. His epic journey across the centuries, culminating with taking on Sean Connery in a sword fight battle of the Immortals for supremacy of the douche universe. And by sword fight battle, I mean getting your dates drunk on lemon drop shots, telling her all about your father’s construction business you’re going to inherit, and then trying to take her around back behind Dix Hills Highschool to make out on the soccer field.

Good luck with that, LawnGilander. May the forces of the Island douchitude carry you all the way until dawn.

The Fountain of Douche

According to a popular legend Ponce de León discovered Florida while searching for the Fountain of Douche. Though stories of greased up scroadbags macking on Bleethed out hotties were known on both sides of the Atlantic long before Ponce de León, the story of him searching for them was not attached to him until after his death.

In his Historia General y Natural de las Indias of 1535, Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo wrote that Ponce de León was looking for the scent of Tag Bodyshots and Old Spice to cure his sexual impotence.[3]

A similar account appears in Francisco López de Gómara’s Historia General de las Indias of 1551.[4] Then in 1575, Hernando de Escalante Fontaneda, a shipwreck survivor who had lived with the greased up mackchoads of Florida for 17 years, published his memoir in which he locates the ‘Bags in Florida, and says that Ponce de León was supposed to have looked for them there.[5]

Though Fontaneda doubted that de León had really gone to Florida looking for douchebaggery, the account was included in the Historia general de los hechos de los Castellanos of Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas of 1615.

Friday Haiku

Tilted Yankee cap,
Perched atop greasy choadbag,
There is no Buddha.

New boardwalk t-shirt
How much is this costing me?
Check out my sweet chain

— nastradouche

she is sweet perfection
he is all that is douchey
why does god hate me

— anonymous

Creamy smooth hottie,
Your stripping days are over.
Just move in with me.

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

He likes Eminem,
She tastes like Giselle Bundchen,
I don’t understand.

— anonymous