Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB of the Week

It’s not easy coming down off last week’s HCwDB Weekly, which featured one of the most intense ‘baggle royales we’ve featured on the site. But this week brings us three finalists of disparate douchitude. Three punchbowl turds and curvy mellonballs occupying varying corners of the hottie/douchey chessboard.

I’ve tuned this week’s finalists to reincorporate the hott that represents the boobie Yang to the Yin of douchebaggery in any good slice of HCwDB contradiction.

So without further ado, let the mocking begin. Here’s this week’s finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Greaseheads

First featured in last Friday’s Haiku poetry contest, the Greaseheads offer new and unparalleled, well greased heads.

Their greasery hasn’t been seen since last Fall’s classic “Hall of Scrote” winning oil slick, Socrates.

These two Platonic Aristotileans are no Socrates, but they are indeed finalist worthy scrotebags. Pincushion on the left busting a junior Peaches Point simply ads to the festivities.

Ulle is all sorts of Eastern European accented erotic hotness. Just look at that hint of cavernous cleavite. Tell me you wouldn’t build shrines to those two hills that pull at the loins like so many bribed Norwegian freedom fighters. I don’t know what that means. But I do know boobies.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The S.O.D

Standard Operating Douche-Face is an important reminder of how ‘baggy can transcend mere accoutrement. Although this wonky toad has his fair share of the external signifiers as well as reeking Aqua Velva douche all over my computer screen.

And lest we neglect the hottie, his opposite is one fantastic country fair bouncing inflatable ride that costs four tickets and requires a 15 minute wait to get on.

She is carrot stick healthy, energy drink inspiring, and cracked up shetland pony riding horny toad humpaliscious sno cone meltitude.

He’s got three metal chain necklace medallions on. And a shirt statement that starts with the word “I’m.”

I’m gonna put you in the HCwDB Finals, S.O.D.

That’s what I’m going to do.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Jenny

Jennifer oh Jenny.

I have no idea what this sexy lioness’s real name is, so I anoint her Jenny and ask her why she’s cohabitating with a transient house painter from Hoboken who likes to make “Westside” hand gestures and features an Easter Island statue chin.

I would cover my head in melted Polly-O string cheese, pour tomato sauce on those doughy abs and make Hott Pizzas with my forehead.

There’s a special corner of douchebaggery reserved for gang insignia making early 30s choadbags like Carl here. And that corner is here. At HCwDB. Where I can sit on my floor, scratch my stomach, and mock his douchuous spew in the confort of my living room.

So Jenny and the House Painter Douche are finalist #3.

I don’t think the world is ready for a critical reexamination of Tatman Begins, so we will let that pale, soggy loaf of tatted up uberchoad fade from our collective consciousness as quickly as possible.

Them’s your three, and three are your thems. Let the hot side Hott. Let the douche side douche.

Which one makes you want to smack your grandmother with a Flowbee?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday Where's Waldouche

Somewhere in this extra broad sampling of extra broad broads, I’ve carefully hidden a hairy grizzly mountain choad.

Look carefully.

Can you find him?

The Drifter

I’m off to the yearly Sunset Junction Festival in Silver Lake to observe the excess overflow of Emobags and Hipsterbags colliding like so many supercharged douche particles, like so much late 1990s quaffed post-grunge detritus.

But mainly I’m going to enjoy the amazing sounds of “Blonde Redhead” on the main stage at 7:30.

But before I head off, I must mock at least one more ‘bag and lust after his hottie’s boobage. For it is my compunction. My raison d’scrotre.

And so it falls to you, Jersey choadwank, to rile the bile before I head off. Your awkward gait and ginormous head pour douche-drinks in the metaphysical scroadwank singles bar of my soul. You are douche, and so I mock.

Sexy S&M taskmaster on the left has that unconventional cuteness that makes me want to get spanked with ruler before I fondle her shoes and cry “Mama!” like a newborn New Zealand lamb. I will love her pixelated form for a solid twenty more seconds, and then I’m out the door to spot real life HCwDBs and enjoy some good music.

Amateur 'Bagology

Note to all aspiring Jerseybags: There is only one official douche boob-grab, and it is Pumpy. Long may you reside in his pumped up shadow before you can call yourself uberdouche.

Many ‘baglings dream of ascending to a higher spiritual state of douchology. And by higher, I mean lower. They practice the rare douche arts of the cactus head, the forehead grease and the vacant stare.

But few break through to greatness.

Pumpy did.

Jon Bon Douchey? Not so much.

Douchefreak

I try to stay away from celebs here on the site, but Chriss Angel’s Douchefreakitude is just too much to keep on ignoring.

Hey Chrissss, how did you make my half digested lunch disappear from my stomach? If I pick a card, any card, will it be the 8 of “Greased Up Uberchoad”?

I generally have respect for magicians because there’s nothing quite so hard as performing closeup in front of a skeptical crowd. So I’ll give The Douchefreak his due on that front. I’ve been to “The Magic Castle” here in Hollywood. MagicBags deserve a little wiggle room within their performative douchosity.

But enough is enough.

Running around town like a cross between Tommy Lee, the half-price bin at Urban Outfitters, and a blender set on “puree”? Douche.

Hitting on skanky celebs to get your name in the paper? Uberdouche.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Half of the site’s title is “Hot Chicks” and yet here’s a picture of she whom makes Anna Nicole’s corpse appear erudite. But I’m going with it. Because nobody inspired more underage fantasies in 1999 than Ms. Spears. In many ways, she’s the 21st Century Yasmine Bleeth. She messed with the douchebags, and she got Bleethed.

So here’s to you Douchefreak. May you continue to spread your greasy douche stains from Malibu to Silverlake. Or more to the point, may you slip on a puddle of hair gel and have your Siegfrieds Royed.

The Pouch

One of the lesser seen douche categories is the shirtless 1-pack. Or, as I like to call it, “The Pouch.”

Most variations on shirtless douchebaggery involve a four point process of ab revelation. Each stage involves gesturing towards the abs and making various “Woo!” and “Yeah boy!” guttural cries in the hopes of impressing the hottie through the announcing of superior stomach muscular development.

But Pouchbag here is different. Unique. And by unique I mean slovenly douchuous. Pouchbag finds no need to hit the gym. His undeveloped gut and nauseating revelation of pale nether region combine with bling to cauterize infected wounds with the sheer force of scrotebaggery.

Young hotties know not what they do, for the power of the skin pouch has overwhelmed them.

I would love Rosario Dawson hottie with a tub of chicken fat and a bottle of Bosco. For at least a solid twenty three seconds.

Reader Mail

A professional psychologist writes in:

——–
DB1, as a psychologist, I now have multiple male clients who are referring to your site as they work out their psychological difficulties. They are dealing with anger management issues regarding how, on earth, these douchebags can get such hot women.

And yet, they (and I) cannot resist reading HCwDB.com, despite the rage it invokes. You are making my job much more challenging, and for this I thank you.
——–

If there’s anything I desire to do in life, it is to send more people into therapy, so I’m glad I’m having a positive effect on the world. But the question is this. Was it Jung, Marx, Lacan or Freud who most closely advocated for the “Punch a ‘Bag in the Face” method of confronting primal rage through transference?

And, if we accept Lacanian mirror stage affect taking place within our consumption of the simulacrum’s HCwDB couplings, do we project outward ourselves as the ‘bag? There will be more discussion on this subject in my book in the section The ‘Bag Within.

And yes, that’s a gratuitous plug.

Friday Haiku

Greasy sweat pours,
Untouched hottie, can she see?
Purple Tie. Soul dies.

Oily Pipefarters
Backstage at the choad awards
Won best new douchebags

— douchetorious b.a.g

Bag hand hott sandwich.
Mighty cleavite to be sure.
Douche bookends please die.

— ol’ dirty douchebag

arbys has less grease
than these two douchebag sources
of biodiesel

— douche vader

our scrote boat broke down
had to swim to hott island
found some coconuts

– little douche kook

Dripping wet with clear slime
Like a baby fresh from mothers womb
Need to clean my screen

-Bagglio

Spiked scrotes spread disease,
Carol Brady’s kid sister.
Doomed to get herpes.

— douchebag out!

Bobbin

I smelled something burning. I checked the kitchen. Nope, everything was fine in there. I checked in the living room. All was well, just the usual piles of laundry and cereal stains.

So where was that smell coming from?

Oh yeah.

My computer.

The waft of three week old spilled beer mixing with hair gel, sweat and chin pube lotions. Oh sure I couldn’t actually smell it as my computer lacks smell-a-round, but just look at this toad. You can virtually smell the stench from here.

And if Tatman ever gets a sidekick, it’ll be Bobbin.

I do so love slutty Euro Dutch Dominatrix hotties. Spank me with your Van Goghs, Elke! I’ve been a naughty boy.

The…

I…

Uhm…

The…

His…

Time to start drinking…