Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB of the Month

In a month of hottie/choad abundance in which we’ve sailed the douchey winds to such unexplored heights as The Joey Porsche Experience and the Oompa Prompa, the following four pics may not be auto “Hall of Scrote,” but they have fought the battles and worn the scars to make it to the finals.

Each is a worthy selection of the rotting fetid doucheyness caught in mid-grease, as well as the gorgeous cottonballs of Hott that fell into their scrotey orbit. Four can enter. But only one can win the Monthly.

So sure, I could keep rambling here about my long weekend of drunken debauchery, my endless run-ins with Bleethed out Hollywood Hotties who asked me what car I drove until my posse left because, “this place is dead anyways.” But you don’t want to hear about my sorry-ass life. You want the finalists. So here they is:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Creeper

The Tongue of Wrongness. The leaping alien slug that turns us into zombies and lays eggs in our brains.

We see a lot of sleazy/sexy combo permutations here at HCwDB, but something about the unique wrongness struck a nerve with Hot/’Bag-Nation.

Maybe it’s the tongue stud + puka shell combo on a pudgy middle aged clown who refuses to go gently into that good night.

Maybe it’s that perfectly sexy drink of Swedish Nordic Hitlerian master race fantasy.

I would attack her ankles with the inspired energy of a Jack Russell terrier on sixteen pills of No-Doze.

So what do we look for in a special HCwDB pic? That perfect swirling mix of utterly skeezy wrongness, douched out clothes, a mini mustache that makes you want to spew burrito chunks like Heather #1, and a perfect ball of hot that couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t actually be in that presence. But is.

This pic’s got it in spades.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: ChandlerBag and the Bumper

Have you ever seen a bumper that perfect?

No, not since breakfast.

Yeah, I might be rehashing overused Fletch dialogue, but when under the gravitational pull of Perfectus Assicus there can be no other reaction.

She is perfect pouty lipped Nobel Sexy Prize winning uberperfection.

And then there’s Chandlerchoad. With the ancient “mark of the ‘bag” on his greasy forehead. What they used to call the Cockinballs. The signifier of true scrotebaggitude.

Beware the Cockinballs, perfect bumpered hottie. For he has the mark of the ‘bag.

Not to mention, an expression of punch-worthy douchitude.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: The Mack

Classic Jersey Scroad, served up on a greasy fryer and garnished with two spicy chiquita bananas, The Mack is true HCwDB spew.

This is an interesting pic, as the rage factor on the Mack is more than the sum of any parts. It is inspirational HCwDB ethereal impulse.

Like a flash of inspiration, a moment of spiritual clarity, or a baseball bat to the genitals.

I would love perky Zebra Hottie in enough permutations to require an extra chapter in the 2008 Kama Sutra. Or at least I like to tell myself that. Actually I’d give her 20 seconds of awkward bra fumbling before she called her Sorority sisters to complain that I’m a “perv.” Which, of course, I am.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Twin ‘Bags

Ah, you’d forgotten about the Twin ‘Bags.

Silly you.

While you’d moved on to other servings of douchey choadbags hitting on rosarie beaded hotties, The Twin ‘Bags lay in wait to surprise you once again.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Meh. I’m over it. But I give you two key points to make you reconsider this pic.

One: Mandana that is literally so big, the New York skyline is on it. And two: Twins.

So, like a JoeyPorsche trip to “Acapulo,” four bag/hottie couples enter. Only one can triumph. What say you? Should the Monthly Crown go to the Twin ‘Bags? Chandlerbag’s Cockinballs? The Mack? Or the Creeper?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Ab Lobster Says

HCwDB favorite Ab Lobster wanted to come by and say hi. Wait, what’s that Abby L? You want to say something else?

Ab Lobster: Yo, my abs are buggin’!

Yes, we know that because you like to point at them, A.L. But what was it you wanted to say to the readers?

Ab Lobster: Just excited about tomorrow’s HCwDB of the Month contest, ya digggg?

Oh, I dig, Ab Lobster. I dig to the extreme.

EDIT: Am moving the site over to a dedicated server tonight, so it may be buggy and or douchebaggy. But after this, no more “access denied” posts, just pure, uncut angelic hotness commingling with rank choad.

Sonny Chebag

Sonny Chebag knows how to chopstick the hotties with the power of true douchitude. He is Kung Fu Douchin’. Feel his scrotey zen powers manifest and coalesce like the wizards of wor. The warlocks of wiz.

Sonny is a disciple of the Buddhist Monks of Douchapest. Thus, he is both douche, and pest.

The chicks are sadly infected by the ‘Bag virus to a state of pure douchebaguette. There is no saving them. Which saddens me. Because I care. It’s not just about their boobs. It’s about their souls.

So even though I sense how far they are lost to the power of the douche-side, I weep for their hotness.

For I would recite experimental theater dialogue written by Richard Foreman while slapping myself with a pancake just for the chance to attend avant-garde musical ukulele performances with their second cousins. Especially Jenny McCarthy inflated blond on the right. She can peroxide my kittens any day and twice on sundays.

I'm a Choad Again

With apologies to Willie:

I’m a choad again
Just can’t wait to be a choad again
This hottie just can’t wait to get back to her friends,
And I can’t wait to be a choad again
I’m a choad again
Goin’ place that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again,
And I can’t wait to be a choad again.

Just can’t wait to be a choad again
This hottie just can’t wait to get back to her friends,
And I can’t wait to be a choad again
And I can’t wait to be a choad again.

Father Douche

Grease me Father Douche, for I have sinned. It’s been almost 12 hours since my last HCwDB pic. I must confess, I’ve been having impure thoughts about your Nun Hotties. I also confess that your rosary beads as fashion statement are not an improvement over the unearned dogtags trend of 2006. I confess, I think about boobies all day, as well as flushing your sunglasses down a toilet and lighting your chest hair on fire with lighter fluid.

Bless you, Father Douche. And by bless you, I mean please, kill yourself.

Just planting seeds.

Cro Bagnon Weekend

HCwDB legend Cro Bagnon says, Don’t be a fool, stay in school.

Oh wait.

That was Mr. T.

A Sea of Choad

Wow, I’m pleased as JoeyPorsche spiked fruit punch to see the site getting so much attention these days. Pleased, because it means the world appreciates and understands the need, nay the Holy Compulsion, to shine the light of awareness into the deepest darkest corners of our societal douchebaggery and the hotties inexplicably drawn to them. Like Odysseus to the Sirens, Siddharta to his travels, or greased up muscle choads to jinormous bandanas, our hottie/douchey combos draw together by forces beyond their comprehension. And so we seek their liberation. And by liberation I mean separation. With a fire hose.

Let it be known, ‘bags, ‘bag hunters, hotties and bleeths, that collars continue to pop across this country as we speak. Baseball caps continue to tilt 10 degrees. Hand gestures are made. Bling is adorned.

We must fight this epic battle of wills through the sheer collective power of our gaze. We focus on the compulsion to ‘Bag and the urge to Scrote on hotties that lies within us all. And by confronting this crisis of identity, we purge the ‘Bag Within. We liberate the proverbial hottie to run free once again.

And by fight this epic battle, I mean mercilessly mock their pics on a daily basis by laughing at their utter douchosity. Then drooling on their pixelated hottie’s frozen boobage.

Walken Bag

Tell the angels in heaven you never seen doucheyness so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who headbutted you.

EDIT: The site is running as tight as Walken Bag’s t-shirt today thanks to our plug as The Yahoo Pick of the Day . So if you get an “Access Denied” simply hit reload, and the site should work as smooth as Walken Bag’s pecs.

Meet Joe Douche

By day, Joe Douche works quietly in his dad’s car repair shop.

But by night?

Joe Douche lives for the night.

Bracelets. Rolled up silk shirt sleeves. Frost tipped receding hairline. Oiled brow.

Dual ‘Bag headlock on two sweet spongecake frostings with soft pink shoulders I’d rub vick’s vapo-rub into while shouting the recipe for rice crispy treats.

Mad respect, J.D. Mad respect. And by “Mad” I mean “You are” and by “respect” I mean “a heaving scrotebag.”

Prince 'Baguous The V

Rock on, sweet prince. You may indeed be Fandouchego uncapped. Either way, the world is your oyster. And by oyster, I mean ferret poo.

I’d like to fixate on your popped collar, your ‘Bag Hand Gesture #96, your giant earring or even the douche-man’s overbite. But all I can see is fourteen acres of white patterened cotton fabric. That isn’t even a mandana. It is Shakespearean tragedy.

And for that, sir, not to mention the bleethed out hottie, I summon the spirits of ‘Bags past, present and future, and bestow you with the honor of Prince Baguous the V.

And by “V” I mean alien lizard.