Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Haiku

Beach Blanket Beauties,
A choad washed up on the beach,
His crabs are showing.

pube exhibition
all that really needs trimming
are the three grass skirts

— anonymous

Silk skinned goddesses
Piss off, Lurch and Moonpie Grin
You will not get Lei’d

— darksock

Three are beautiful
Don’t want to see the choads pubes
Girl on left makes face

— tyler choaden

D’Bag shaves his chest,
Cool guy gets with the hot chicks,
Should be eating my fist.

— dances with d’bags

sloe-eyed topless choad
exposes pubes. I almost
missed waldouche in rear.

— oscar de la douchea

Thursday Afternoon Musings

It’s a lazy, hazy Los Angeles afternoon. The unemployed hottie actresses are sitting around the Coffee Bean typing text messages to their ‘bags. Traffic has plugged up Melrose like the colon of a constipated dock worker. Hollywood smells like a mixture of desert flower, grease from a Jack-in-the-Box, and monkey poo.

Another day in the naked city. Your unshaven narrator in all things scrotey/boobie, The DB1, is sitting on his couch, basking in the afterglow of the genius of Pumpy and watching Judge Judy.

As I sit on my ass munching on Malomars and washing ’em down with Trader Joe’s sublime Blood Orange soda, I can’t help but ponder more of the mystifying questions of the ‘bag/hott.

When entering into Woo orbit, what triggers the mind of the Hott to seek out the greasy muggings of one so ‘baggish? Is the sexual component a vestigal holdover from primitive tribes and alpha-male peacocking? Or does it relate to visual dress as a cultural signifier? Think bandana as communication of workout obsession and thus implication of sexual power. Does the Hott seek cultural capital within the codes and signifiers of tricked out uber-douche bling and 10 degree cap tilt?

Or are the Hott simply dumbasses?

I don’t know.

But I do know this. My feet smell like elderberries and honeysuckle. Because I had my first pedicure yesterday. Oh sure, the Hottie Korean was none too pleased with the state of my feet. But them’s the breaks kiddo. And now my nails are shiny and bright.

As to tomorrow, the Friday Haiku is almost too painful to comprehend. So be warned. Sharpen up your Japanese 5-7-5 and get ready. As for now, I’m ditchin’ the Blood Orange and going with the strong stuff. Thunderbird.

Pumpy III

There are many pretenders to the throne.

There is only one Pumpy.

Pumpy's Coming

10 minutes to a new Pumpy pic…

Pointing. At. Her. Boobs.

There comes a time in every Hottie’s journey where she thinks like the ‘bag. She becomes the ‘bag. She echoes the ‘bag.

Historians will note whether Rachel Green Hottie ever escaped the dark descent into The Bleeth State imposed on her by Joey Tribidouchey. For now, we can only pray she saves herself from douche virus before it is too late.

Oh, and boobies.

Woo Hotties say WOO!! Take 2

I hadn’t noticed those nasty patches on the thigh of one of the Woo Hotties two pics down, so I’m deleting that pic. Yeech.

Instead, here’s another gaggle of Woo Hotties, although not saying WOO!! with quite so much enthusiasm. But some quality cuts of octopus hott nonetheless.

Oh yeah, and a sideways peace sign making uberscrotebag.

The Fly

I have traveled many places in my short time on this Earth. I’ve hunted Caribou in Nunavut and the Northwest Territories. I’ve played blackjack for rum while stowing away on illegal spice trading missions off the coast of Uruguay. I’ve fought alongside Henry Darger and the Vivian girls in the Realms of the Unreal during the Glandeco-Angelinnian war storms caused by the Child Slave Rebellion.

But the one constant through so many of my adventures in ‘bag fighting and hottie saving has been the common housefly.

Buzzing, ever present, annoying and distracting. The fly moves too quickly to swat, always out of reach. Yet refusing to leave you alone, the fly always returns to circle and hover. To buzz and bother.

And really, is there any more apt metaphor for the insectuous sliming taking place on this spicy little meatball?

Insectuous might not be an actual word. But it should be.

Woo Hotties say WOO!!

PIC DELETED

WOO!!!

(douchebag)

(douchebag)

WOO!!!

WOO!!!

Taxi Doucher

If Travis Bickle were recast as a doughy middle aged black man, it would look something like this. Then again I’m not sure the subtext of loneliness, chaos and racial tensions in 1970s New York would’ve quite translated the same way.

However Cybill Shepard was all sorts of primary ur-hot-chick origin story goodness back then. She can Jacy Farrow my Sonny Crawford any day of the week. What, too obscure?

That’s it. I’m gettin’ a coffee.

1970s film references before 8am means the DB1 drank too much Shiraz with a hottie at Buddha’s Belly in Hollywood last night.

Speaking of Buddha’s belly, if I rub black Travis Bickle’s tub, will it bring me good luck?

Fro

Haloween pic? Or natural ‘fro?

Either way, I would negotiate peace treaties in Antwerp while feasting on kleinblatt and dolphin-chocolat just for the chance to massage her grandmother’s sick ferret.