Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Wednesday Limerick

There once was a muscle scrote named Dell,
who smelled like a moldy eggshell,
But his hottie’s backside is glorious,
So I’ll name it Delores,
And take it to lunch at Taco Bell.

HCwDB of the Week: The Gator

A total mudslide. A jaws crunching 1970s horror film of over tanned skin and oiled simian brow getting loose in the pipelines of New York.

The Gator takes the crown Louisiana Crawfish Po’ Boy style.

motherofsquirrelkiller sums up the ass crunches:

Gator aka “well oiled, water resistant leather boots” should win this title bellydown.

Can you imagine what he must be like excecuting the Reptilian “Death Roll”??? That’s something I’d love to witness!!! I wonder if his Hottie’s hair gets entangled in his wild thrashing and I’m sure anything in the imediate area is toast.

A scary thought indeed, MOSK. montana mandana agrees and makes the always appreciated “V” reference in his smackdown:

His piercing glare, his tanned (aaarrrgggghhhh orange) skin that would make such a lovely pair of boots i would use to stand on the back of his neck all while forcing him to repeat the phrase “In awhile Crocodile” as i administer an E.P.T. on his feathery puffin of hottness.

It brings back a glimpse of the 80’s mini-series classic “V” imagine as THE GATOR rips away his fake orange flesh to reveal none other than his reptilian scales much to the dismay of the hot when she realizes soon she will birth Halfalligatorhalfman.

Heh. “V” kicks ass. Almost as much as The Gator’s retched hide of scum and tannery.

My only debate was which Gator pic to use. While the subsequent pics featured far more award winning hotties, I had to go with the first. The iconic. Our introduction to reptilian douchitude.

As sadbag puts it:

And the kicker for me is the amount of Scandidouche vibes I get off this action figure. I sense the Swede is strong in this one. And then sadness sets in… why??? Because as we all know the Scandinavians are the proud descendants of Vikings. Vikings hold a high place in the badasses of history. But this is what has become of a cherished bloodline. THIS!

His ancestors weep and I hear their painful moans through the firmament. I see their raging armies surging, and I fear that they will call upon the heavens to rain down all of Ódinn’s deadly iron arrows to end the earth once and for all.

Nicely played, sadbag. Any references to Scandavian love goddesses deserves a croc hunting nod of respect. But some were concerned that the Gator didn’t feature the obvious douche signifiers like bling and hand gestures. However john von douchemann makes a strong case that such douche manifests would simply detract from the larger “Douche Aura”:

The Gator has my vote, two thumbs, and a few random ‘bag gestures up. The hottie is bearing my children by way of artificial insemination but I am about to tear up the surrogate agreement.

The Gator’s vacant stare and O-Ring are all it takes. A hat tilt or bag gesture would ruin the essence of his genuine homegrown ‘baggerie.

Well put, JvD. Now the Qwerty kittens and Douche Gossage also found some spittle flying. It wasn’t enough to knock off The Gator, but still enough to warrant mentioning. Like my hangover. As scrunt put it:

I have to go with Qwerty. So what if he hired them. Anyone who walks around with a whisk broom on their head deserves kudos. At least kudos from this website.

I wish I was his left hand.

But this Weekly wasn’t a competition so much as a coronation. reservoir douche puts the final stamp on the devastation of the Leather Skin:

Gator, all the way. From his super-intense doucheface, you can tell he’s in the process of trying to use a Jedi Douchetrick to hypnotize us all. If the Force weren’t so strong with me, I think I’d be shaving my chest and painting myself orange as we speak.

Unfortunately, many others are, R.D.

I’m not ready to concede “Hall of Scrote” just yet, as I think every new choad/hott combo deserves at least a two week waiting period. Well, that’s not really true. I’ve insta-elevated a few. But lets give The Gator some time to adapt to his new role as douchebasador for the site. During which we will continue to mock his aligator skin and uber-douche douche face in as many linguistically creative ways that we can.

Chalk up The Gator for the Weekly and book his ticket in the Monthly.

Velvet Jones

It’s a troubling development in the study of scrotology when douchewanks like Velvet Jones start appearing on the scene.

The personification of early 80s SNL Eddie Murphy sketches just should not be taking place in an irony free reality.

However, a special slice of strawberry cheesecake goes out to whichever designer invented the gravity defying loose boob-cling dress. It has the intoxicating aroma of British fish n’ chips and a pint of Guinness.

I would stuff french fries up my nose and stutter while pronouncing “Cathcart Towers Hotel” just for the chance to Wendy her Wandas. And I’m not just making England references because The Gator’s a Brit. Or maybe I am.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

PIC DELETED

It’s tough cleansing the palette after a Black Betty ‘Bag hunt, Jabbabag and the genius of the Gator. So I’ll slow it down with a ‘Bag / Not a ‘Bag weigh in.

Fey peace sign making dude with the insect hands probably isn’t ‘bag, but I would love the lost Olsen Triplet in so many inconvenient ways that I’d be arrested and strung up for treason in Singapore.

Jabbabag

Speaking of The Gator, by now we’ve well established that pumped up ‘roidbags are a staple of of douchuous/hottie combos.

But what about large sweaty Jabbabags?

At the opposite end of the spectrum from the quasi homoerotic ab fondling ‘roidbag like The Gator, can a Jabbabag still qualify as douche?

I’m kind of doubting it. Looking ridiculous is simply not enough to qualify for ‘baggosity. Frankly, it’s just hard to work up much of a sweat over this pic.

Wait, bad choice of metaphor.

I’m going to rule out toothpaste tubs from the ‘bag canon without further examples of douchebaggery, as their actual power of douche-persuasion is pretty miminal and unthreatening.

While this guy does feature the receding spiked faux-hawk, he looks like my 10th grad math teacher. So I’m going to say, Go in peace, Jabbabag. You’re cool with me. And may all your Salacious Crumbs be hotties like Paprika Spice here.

Croc Hunting

They would pay 20 above premium in Bangladesh for that leather skin tanned and treated. I would pay 50 bucks and my original VHS copy of “Aliens” for the chance to finish Baby Spice’s leftover Cobb Salad at the Sizzler.

Ahhh… The Gator.

You bring me such joy.

I could do Gator pics all day. I mean, look at this guy. If he doesn’t define the essence of douchebaggery/hottie commingling then my name ain’t Nathan Arizona.

Black Betty Bamalam

Resident HCwDB hottie Black Betty (blonde on the right) went off into the hinterlands of Los Angeles douchebaggery and came back with the following catch:

——
Hello my fellow douchebag haters, so this weekend i took up my precious role as Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam and went Douchebag hunting at a porn party i attended yesterday.

Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam
xxxxx
——–

Ahhh… a hottie who not only has the site lingo down but knows how to sort the wheatbags from the chaffbags.

Nicely done, B.B.B! Although hunting for ‘bags at a porn party is like hunting for rabbits in, well, a field filled with rabbits. Because my analogies suck.

The ‘bag hunting bar has been raised significantly. Let this be a notice to all would-be douche hunters out there. Can you top The Bamalam?

And by top, I mean lick her ankles like a meerkat on codine.

The Gator Sez

The Gator sez, “You there! Don’t forget to scroll down and vote in the HCwDB Weekly!”

Although what he really said was “MEEEEAAARRRGHHHHH,” before scratching himself around the armpit area.

I had to sort of extrapolate what he meant from there.

And yes, I think we have a good inkling who’s going to win this week’s Weekly. And setting himself up for a nice run at the Monthly, too.

The Sous Chef

Pasty McDouche with the creepy Euro-eyes and late 1990s pubal facial pattern is probably a sous chef. Named Raoul.

Actually I don’t know what a sous chef is. But I’ve been saying it all afternoon.

Come on, say it with me. It’s fun. It rolls off the tongue in a gaggle of sss and shhh complimentary phonic resonance.

Sous chef.

Say it again. Sous chef.

Rhymes with douche clef.

Maggie’s Irish Eyes are smilin’, and her boobies make me want to pass out drunken into that good snow in front of the White Horse Tavern.

The 99 Cent Double Doucheburger

So yesterday I went to McDonalds to have lunch.

While I occasionally enjoy an egg McMuffin, I hadn’t had a burger there in months. I plunked down my hard earned dollar and bought a double cheeseburger.

What I received from my barely conscious cashier was terrifying. That steaming putrid pile of oozing, possibly conscious, rancid ostridge ass smelled like a Tijuana footlocker. The soggy pale bread, cheese, meat and plastic wrapper had merged electrons, protons and douchetrons into one lukewarm ball of tri-processed lung phlegm.

I took it outside and regarded it in the sunlight.

That 99 cent oozing puddle of yak spew formed one pancake flat circular orb of inedible rat puke. It was an inedible monstrosity that mocked the entire concept of consumption. The entre notion of cash exchange for sustenance in a market based economy. All within one microwave processed plastic semi-organic living art testament to a culture of McRot.

Why bring up my soggy-ass and depressing double cheeseburger from yesterday?

Because Skinny McDoucheburger here reminds me of that cheeseburger. Only 99 cents and I want my money back.