Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

RoboBag

I always wondered what RoboBag looked like out of his RoboDouche armor.

My Pet Scrote

Far be it for me to judge what Baby Spice Hottie keeps as a personal pet/slave. But what’s with Red’s pained expression? You’d think having one’s hair ruffled affectionately by a curvaceous and healthy wombed cutie of prime procreation age range would be a good thing.

Is Pet Scrote a ‘bag? Meh, maybe not.

But I’d kill to fry pork rinds on those legs then have a Michelob Ultra, sit back and contemplate the joys of the silk bustier.

More 'Bag Hunting: Pink Sock

Who’s that hottie in the lower left? Why none other than longtime site contributor Kelly Belly, who went out and snagged this choadbag in scrotey action:

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Hey DB1,

~kellybelly
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Nicely done KB! Although, while he is making ‘bag hand gestures #23 and #136, and also appears to have the cock-n-balls “mark on the ‘bag” on his forehead sheen, I can’t stamp him as late stage ‘bag. His lack of attacking KB may be part of my lowering to a stage 1/2 ‘bag status. Mmm… attacking KB….

'Bag Hunting

Female reader CB went ‘bag hunting and came up with the following pic:

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Junk

One more hottie/douchey couple to cap a pretty good Monday. And by pretty good I mean repeating the affirmation of the paradox of life through HCwDB coupling wrongness/hotness.

Junk has the crazy googley eyes of a greased up twerpbag. His hottie has the bright eyed happy expression of pure ivory snow.

Together they are a mystifying blend of hott and scrote.

Oh, and the perfect, succulent, pale cleavite of a thousand swans singing harmonic melodies on a bright blue moonlit New Hampshire lake. I would dive betwixt those satin throw pillows and confirm Buddha’s mantra.

Yellow

(with apologies to Coldplay)

Look at the scrote,
Look how he choads for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah ‘bag is all yellow,

His face is douche,
His face is douche for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow…

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

I go back and forth on Jerry Seinfeld HippieBag here. There’s really no reason to call him douche, other than maybe the hair. He’s just some lucky kid who’s found a plump little ball of cute to cuddle up with.

Then again, where are they posing? Some late 1980s airbrush painted traveling carnival booth?

I’m voting Not a ‘Bag, but what say you?

Bedtime for Little Timmy

Drift off to sleep, little Timmy. But before you do, let me tell you the tale of Shirtless Douche and the Blonde Hott.

Like a greek tragedy, the coupling of Shirtless Douche and his Blonde Hott personifies all of the dark fetid underbelly that is douchebaggery. The dark forces unleashed when hottie meets scrotebag.

Oh look. Little Timmy is sad. Don’t be sad, Timmy. We must mourn the greasyness, but also be strong.

Don’t worry, little Timmy. Tomorrow we can light incense and ring the mourner’s gong in the Temple of Douche Spirits. For every time a douchebaggy wankputz pollutes a firm young thing, an angel dies.

Yes Timmy, an angel dies.

Stop crying, Timmy.

It’ll be okay.

Come here, little Timmy. There, there. Stop crying. It’s not your fault douchey pitbulls are mawing hotties as we speak. Nor is it your fault your mommy hates you. What’s important is that, no matter how dark into the realm of the collective douche unconscious we roam, we can still take solace in glimpses of firm cleavite.

What’s that, Timmy? You want to know what cleavite is? It’s what mommy stopped showing daddy, which is why they got divorced, little Timmy. And yes, it is your fault.

Taint Misbehavin'

I don’t quite know what Taint did, but he’s definitely up to something.

Costume Ball Cuties make succulent poses while featuring angelic side boob. Oh sure, they’re bordering dangerously on douchebaguette status. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t change their tires with an inflatable life raft if I could awkwardly sniff their high heels for signs of talcum powder.

But back to Taint. 20 Degree Hat Tilt bespeaks a goofy stage-1 FratBag. And whether or not Taint is misbehavin’, he’s definitely up to no good.

HCwDB of the Month

Yes kids, it’s that time of month. Since the genius of Peaches has already made the Hall of Scrote, Peaches need not lend his sloping caveman brow, his fixed stare, and his Zen Douche powers of unbroken point concentration to the Monthly’s festivities.

Instead we have four worthy servings of corn meal douche and the hotties that roll them on wax paper and bake for twenty minutes at 350 degrees. Four frozen digital images of a culture gone horribly wrong, a wasteland of confusion, hair gel, and most importantly, tatas I’d motorboat like a sumabitch.

Yes, it’s early on a Monday morning, and the DB1 hasn’t had his coffee to kill last night’s hangover. So without further ado, I give you your four Monthly finalists:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Meet Joe Douche

What more can be said about Z-list celebrities attempting to score youthful balls of cotton hott while busting gel induced side-overs with their receding hairlines? A lot, actually. I could make fun of Joe Douche until the cows actually did come home. And by cows I mean hotties.

The genius of the orangutan head, the sideways hand gesture and the douche-face all contribute to the DB1’s deep depression that can only be treated with extensive doses of cheap alcohol.

The hotties have that stern taskmaster quality that always makes my toes tingle with glorious anticipation. Like they’re about to slap my outer thigh with a ruler and tell me God hates me for fondling myself. What can I say? I dig on dominatrix chickas. Don’t count out Joe Douche as a Monthly winner. He’s got the glow, got the glow, got the glow. He’s the last Douche-Dragon.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: King Douchuous IV

All hail the King of Scrotuousness. And by hail, I mean mock mercilessly, then drool over the pushed together Bed, Bath and Beyond skin pillows directly to Douchuous the IV’s left.

I would take my time loving each and every one of these gorgeous blond party girls in deep, nihilistic and existential ways. Just like Alvy Singer, while the Ph.Ds in the other room discussed modes of alienation, I would be in here, quietly humping.

After I stripped King Douchuousness of his power and exiled him to the island of St. Helena, that is.

What a silly douched out uberscroad King Douchuous is. It’s not that I’m ragingly jealous of the king. I just want to sew up the rip in his jeans with poison ivy, then honk polka-dot’s bumper like a clown horn.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: The Trainwreck and Snuggles

The odds-on favorite in this week’s contest, The Trainwreck not only introduced us to the new douche-position of The Doggie ‘Bag, but offered us a surreal cacaphony of imagery that rivals and echoes Salvador Dali’s famous self portrait photograph.

Toss in Snuggles, the Fabric Softened Hot Chick, and this is one hell of an overwhelming HCwDB pic. Probably borderline Hall of Scrote in its own right. And by right I mean wrong. And by wrong I mean douchey.

Which just confirms the high quality of submitted pics over the past month. Which reconfirms that I need to stop sitting around on my floor and drooling over pink perfect derrières in pixelated frozen form and at least hit the gym once in awhile. Stupid gut.

Stupid Trainwreck. Nice douche bandana. Nice douche wristdana. Nice douche-face. Nice douche everything.

You piss me off in new and profound ways, Trainwreck. And that’s impressive indeed.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Lei Hotties and the Puberchoad

What can be said about three sexy extremely feminine cuties in grass skirts? Not much. What can be said tossing in a younger brother dropping trou to douche up the pic with his scrotey charms? A lot more.

Add in his grinny best friend Potzie clutching his beer but still able to slip in the rare ‘bag hand gesture #301 (the pinky finger drop), and all the elements come together for award winning cleavitey/doucheyness.

Also, blonde on the left wants me. I know I say that about a lot of cuties, but this time I can tell. It’s not all a deluded and extensive fantasy narrative I’ve constructed out of one glance. A glance that wasn’t even at me, but at a camera, which I’ve now projected my notion of the self into as a form of Lacanian mirror stage echo via the simulacrum. She still wants me.

I can tell. She knows she wants me.

Okay, lest my fantasies get any more absurd, I’m turning the floor over to you, the reader. Which one of these four Weekly winners combines the most toxic combination of innocent young boobaliscious flowers and greased up mackchoad halibuts?

Rage, rage against the douching of the blight.

Let your sloping brow lose all expression as you reach out and point at one of these pics to win the Monthly. Don’t just do it for yourself. Do it for Peaches. Do it for Fish Slap. Do it for all previous winners who need a worthy winner to join them in the hallowed circle of Monthly winners.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.