Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Spike's Corner

It’s been awhile since Spike, my penis, has chimed in on the site, so I thought I’d let Spike take this pic. How’s it going, Spike?

Spike: You’ve been neglecting me.

Sorry about that. So how ya been, Spike?

Spike: You know. Sometimes up. Sometimes down.

Can’t believe you’re making puns that lame.

Spike: Hey, you’re the one talking to your penis.

Hmm. Good point. So Spike, what did you want to say today?

Spike: (ahem) First I’d like to announce that underwear is confining and I conceptually reject it as the subjugation of the scrotundae by a society uncomfortable with sexual freedom…

No Spike, what did you want to say about the pic?

Spike: Oh, right. Sorry. She, uhm, makes me stand up, rooted firmly in a sense of self. And he makes me want to fall off and die. I’m very confused.

Yes, I know, Spike. Anything else?

Spike: She makes you want to play Mahler’s Fifth Symphony on a plastic kuzoo before fondling her kneecaps with shredded wheat, doesn’t she?

Yes Spike. Yes she does.

The Firefly

Ah, a lazy Saturday for The DB1. Last night’s adventures in debauchery featured extensive alcohol, followed by loud monosyllabic conversations with Bleethed out hotties. But the hotness attracted me like gel to follicle, and I attempted to liberate them from the clutches of the L.A. HipsterBags, pawing them like so many feral cats.

Today finds my supplies of Night Train and HoHos running dangerously low, which means a run to the deli this afternoon. Instead I munch on pop tarts and orange juice. Because every so often, I gotta mix in some health foodstuffs.

I also plan to pick up a fire extinguisher. Because someone’s gotta put out the fire raging on Greasy McAqua’s head there. As to big haired Persian Hotness, I would learn Farsi and ply them with overpriced cocktails on Sunset if it meant I could sniff their hairspray while fondling their inner thighs with an oven mitt.

The Mirror Stage

Here’s my theory. Plaid Hottie who looks like a hispanic Mena Suvari is actually standing behind an angled mirror which is only picking up the reflection of one of these two choadbags.

But which one is real? Which one is simply the reflection of porn star landing strip facial pubes, 10 degree hat and the douche-face?

And more to the point, if I go fishing with Plaid Hottie’s fishnet top, would I catch two saline jelly-fish as plump and succulent as hers are?

Porschenheit 9-11

As your narrator, The DB1, sits and contemplates the conundrum of the beautiful girl with oranges picked from the douche-tree, the unholy visage of JoeyPorsche comes to me yet again.

I gaze at this pic, and the spectacle of tall club chairs, Long Island scrote and late teen hotness vexes me. How does the 18 year old orange spikey haired choadbag wankdouche form? Is it vegetable? Animal? Mineral? And why does feral hotness go there to feast?

As the Grieco Virus progresses on its rampage of cultural douchosity, should we quarantine? Is there immunization? And do hotties like it when I nuzzle their shoes like a baby panda when they’re not looking?

These are the questions we must ask ourselves. These are the manifestations we must comprehend and confront with every hottie/douchey picture that comes our way.

As you head into your Friday nights, toast a ubiquitous red cup of the ‘Train to another week of examination, contemplation, revelation and douche-nation confrontation. Toast your cup to JoeyPorsche. For he has forced you to confront that deepest, douchiest part of our collective cultural douchosity. And in so doing, JoeyPorsche offers you revelation.

Friday Limerick

There once were two douches at the Hard Rock,
With scrotey sunglasses and faux hawk,
They ‘Bag sandwiched a dumpling,
with hopes for a humping,
But she doesn’t commingle with livestock.

College

col·lege
–noun

1. an institution of higher learning, esp. one providing a general or liberal arts education rather than technical or professional training. Compare university.

2. a constituent unit of a university, furnishing courses of instruction in the liberal arts and sciences, usually leading to a bachelor’s degree.

3. an institution for vocational, technical, or professional instruction, as in medicine, pharmacy, agriculture, or music, often a part of a university.

4. an endowed, self-governing association of scholars incorporated within a university, as at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge in England.

5. A place where pudgy fratchoads can get drunk and act like utter and complete buffoons and still pull hot 18 year old hotties.

Smug McChoadwanker

There’s nothing overwhelmingly douchey about Smug McChoadwanker here except the bizarre facial pubes. That beard has a thinner character arc than Johnny Drama on Entourage. It evokes the dusty soil and barren harvest of a winter crop in the 1500s that killed dozens of Pilgrims.

Pout Hottie is a little too skinny for my tastes, which means I would pause for at least two milliseconds before jumping into her laundry bin and sniffing her used bobby socks while she called my therapist and asked if my medication had been changed.

Friday Haiku

Muscle-T Alba,
Don’t look now but, douche-head is
growing like a weed

Milky white milk glands
Time to wean this utter choad
Receding hairline

— danny bonnadouchey

Loving those hip-bones
Attractive exotic girl
do the judo throw

— anonymous

Is it cold in here?
The Blister will just get worse
if you keep scratching.

-D’Ouchetagnan the Doucheketeer

Pucker/scowl combo
Need to make a hand gesture
You snapped too fast!

— Frodo Douchebaggins

Hans Choad

Watching Hans Choad double headlock these two pieces of key lime pie is like a sharp kick to the groin.

No. It’s worse.

It’s like dipping my scrotundae in hot chilipepper wax.

The Bottle

When did douchebags in clubs holding annoying giant bottles of vodka while making the douche-face begin to incur the wrath of angry and jealous gods?

Is this photoshop? Or have the Lords of Kobol simply had enough of smirking greased up BottleBags?

Look at that face. Sandy Cohen from The O.C., a pint of forehead grease, a dab of Dooshay by Calvin Klein, and mix it all douche-blender. No wonder the cylons are pissed.

As to the milfy hottie, she looks like when I was back in 5th grade and Sam’s mother used to bake me cookies while I would stare at her cleavage. Ah, those first awkward sexual awakenings mixed with the smells of Tollhouse in the oven. Good times.

Run, hottie!! BottleBag’s about to get fraked.