Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

David Beckham is a Douchebag

Somebody needed to call out this Nordic Aryan Dolph Lundgren in drag uber-douche as the scrotey wank he is. So it might as well be me.

Here’s to you, pretty boy occasional soccer playing greased up metro-douche. I’ve seen less oil in the United Arab Emirates. I’ve seen less carefully chiseled attention to detail in Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

You are the empty vessel of shiny pretty douchebaggery. The physical specimen with nothing to say and nothing to offer except name-brand designer douche, excessive hair-gel and annoying tats that’ll be out of style by March of 2008.

Your once cute girlfriend has become so distorted by extended exposure to your Brit-douche colonial invasion that she’s mutating into a smurf. You denegrate the country of Shakespeare by virtue of your vacuousness. Your opinion-free corporate hegemony would inspire Guy Fawkes to blow up a soccer ball. Your only contribution to society is having your last name in a movie that brought us Keira Knightley.

For getting off a plane last week and polluting my already shallow city with corporate sponsored pseudo-hype and brand-name manufactured media created “spontaneous enthusiasm,” heres to you, Soccer Scrote. You are a douche.

Now take your soccer ball and go home.

Piranha II: The Douching

We’re gonna need a bigger ‘bag.

The Paradox

Okay, enough with my Bollywood fetish, lets get back to the good stuff.

Here’s your classic stage-4 all-American douchebag. Apple Pie is to America what Douchechoad here is to Douchebaggery.

You get all the markers of classic ‘bag/hott wrongness. Creepy tats. Simultaneous ‘bag hand gesture and beer hold. The smug douche-face of ownership. And, of course, the ‘bag headbutt into Creamed Corn Hottie.

She is shiny cheeked perfection. That dark sultry ambiguously Spanish hot tamale hott. Healthy bosoms that promise to feed and nourish all of humanity. Large swells that whisper poems of water trickling over rocks, metaphors of hope, peace and a better tomorrow. I would bury myself betwixt their health and dream of flowerpots and sugarplum pancakes.

She is sexpot. He is choad.

It is the perfect HCwDB weekend pic to fire all of us up and keep us going. It’s like a shot of spiritual Red Bull. You rage. You desire. You rage some more.

The paradox is life itself. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds good. And the DB1 is hungover.

Bombay Nights

Proving once again that douchebaggery cuts across not only racial and ethnic lines, but regional and national ones, behold creepy Indian Dirk Diggler showing off his large banana.

I’d line dance to falsetto melodies with ten thousand extras being paid in grape-leaves and orange juice, just for the chance to co-star in her sixteenth movie shot over four months. Then I would sword fight while overacting for the long shots until the love triangle emerged in Act 2. There would be only one way to solve the love triangle while charming her father, and that would be with more song and dance numbers.

My masterly skill would involve numerous chase scenes and one evil Pakistani, whom I’d pay off with tobacco barrels and Chinese rice wines. After saving the princess, stopping only for one more extended song and dance number, I’d lean in for the kiss as the screen faded out.

Mmm… then back in our trailers I would curry her vindaloo and ask Vishnu for forgiveness.

The Love Scrote

Where’s Captain Stubing to punch this douchescrote in the nads?

DinnerBag

Uhm yes, waiter, I’ll have a side order of pale, muscleless rocker scroad showing his underwear and, uhm, for my main course I’ll have Duff Hottie Abs. With wasabe and ginger.

On second thought, burn the rocker scroad, then toss it out back in the trash. I’ll just have the Duff Hottie Abs.

Oh, and bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia, and put it on the Underhills. Mucho gracias.

Color Him Bagg

PIC DELETED

I think it’s kind of cool that when the lost member of Color Me Badd goes out partying, he remembers to bring both mandana and 10 degree cap tilt. The color coordination with his shirt is impeccable. And by impeccable, I mean douche.

Hard to tell how hot blondie is from the angle, she’s either Long Island Annoying Hott or Nicole Ritchie meh. But it’s Friday. And we need something to come down off those Hawaiian Coconuts.

Where's Lei Hottie?

Somewhere in this pic of three greasy choadbags and four Woo Hotties, I’ve carefully hidden a Lei Hott.

Can you find her?

She’s no Purg Hottie, but is raidly gaining on the “girls DB1 would like to read Heidegger to while foldling her lower boobage with a horsefeather” scale.

Separated at Birth?

As per the comments thread… Neckglasses Choad and Buddy Hackett?

EDIT: Reader Darksock finds the connection:

“Hackett starred in the 1980 film Hey Babe! with a twelve year old Yasmine Bleeth in her first screen appearance.”

Now it all makes sense…

Lei Hottie

Here’s Lei Hottie, the middle hott from the Haiku pic, getting scroted on by a Anne Heche in drag. Or maybe he’s Ellen?

Also, note the dude with the T-Rex vestigal arms in the back. It’s gotta be chaos theory. That’s the only explanation.

She’s got meat on her bones in all the right places. I’d take her to Sizzler but only let her order the shrimp, before taking her home and making her put me in diapers and spank me with a ping-pong paddle, Vitter style.