Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Abe Fromans

These two Abe Fromans are definitely sausage kings of Chicago.

And by sausage kings, I mean ridiculous ‘baglings who need to be leech tortured by 12th Century Vikings.

I’m not sure how well Bikini Sloane’s holding up what with four, count ’em four, “shockers” present. Ironic or no, that’s some serious douchitude on display.

To quote the maitre d’ at Chez Luis, “I weep for the future.”

Sunny D

It’s not Orange, it’s Sunny D.

As to the hotties, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,with a bottle of anything and a glazed donut. To go.

But please sir, for the love of all that is boobie, hold the Sunny D.

In a vice. By the head. Casino style.

HCwDB of the Week

Yes kids, it’s time for the hottie/douchey Weekly. A time when we sit in collective judgment of the hotness of female boobalicious hottitude and the rank foul choad salads they cohabitate with.

Yes this is the moment when you, the reader, get to weigh in on which category of hott/douche most makes you want to slam your little toe in a walnut cracker and question whether God is just or a mean S.O.B.

So sure, I could ramble on about my drunken musings in the city of Angels. But you don’t want to hear my stories of HoHos and Night Train consumption. You want the finalists.

And here they is:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Qwerty aka The Kitchen Kittens

This pic is like a retrograde 1950s patriarchal sex fantasy by way of a Mad Max beyond Thunderdome rewrite.

A Rooster choad trash ‘bag fondling the nethers of a perky faced female of firm assitude and healthy viable womb. While a second hottie does his dishes.

They sure are kooky in Omaha.

Four cheeks of health. One ‘fro of douche.

And some lovely faux-wood cabinets. On sale at The Home Depot on I-5 next to the Cracker Barrel.

Megods I would go diving for seashells like a Jamacian spice merchant beheath the flesh-coves off the Cape of Good Ass.

Then I would drink a bottle of Orange Gatorade.

And look to see if anyone drop their chicken and Grey Goose on the floor.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Gator

Here’s a classic case where the hottie isn’t overwhelmingly cute, but the sheer douche-force of the ‘bag is so powerful that it can carry the pic to the finals on its back like Jordan in 96.

The Gator is supreme grade-A douchebaggery. He leaks oil on the douche interstate like a broken down Chevy Douchibu.

When selecting an HCwDB of the Week, it’s important to also consider whether the pic fundamentally alters the way we create meaning in the simulacrum.

Clearly her oil fingerprints left on his surreal gaping “O-Neck” shirt qualify.

Heck, leather Wrath-of-Khan chest alone qualifies Gator for Finalist status.

The Gator also made a second appearance on the site and was subsequently featured as a “caption this” thread on DListed.com, which actually gave me a credit this time (although “HCWD” instead of “HCWDB” but hey, it’s an improvement).

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Douche Gossage

The only thing holding back Douche Gossage from throwing 95 mph douche-heat is the vaguely porny run-way category of the location of the pic.

But in terms of sheer adouchrements, D.G. is a runaway homerun hitting tour de force of douchebaggery.

Dig that 11 Degree Cap Tilt with simu Z-Axis shift. It’s like the hat’s on a BMW precision motor control 735i douche.

Then there’s the bling, the sunglasses, the douche-face, and the tremendous tri-vag facial pubes.

Hottie has fantastic shoulder blades that I’d serve on a bed of rice and with a small dab of mint jelly. And her eyes say, “I want you to suckle my toe-jam and talcum my bottom with baking soda, DB1.”

And hey, who am I to say no to talcuming a delicious bottom with baking soda?

So them’s your three and three becomes one.

So all you lurkers out there, time to get off the sidelines and cast a vote. Is it Qwerty? The Gossage? Or the Gator?

Which of these three pics most reviles the stomach with its noxious combo of hotness and utter choad? Which deserves Weekly victory and a ticket in next month’s Monthly?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday Douche-Face

What better to compliment a lazy Sunday then a sampling of large succulent nectarines in the presence of the douche-face?

This extra from Francis Ford Coppolla’s “Rumble Douche” sneers it up in classic Jersey/Miami ‘bag style.

And whatever was once pure and holy and ivory snow within the Cutie is long gone in a haze of ‘bag hand gestures and cartoon print bodices.

But that’s what happens when you hang with shaved chests and oily cheekbones, Cutie. Heed not the warning of the Bleeth, and pay the toll.

That’s it. I’m gettin’ a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

Champagne Superdouchebag V

Ah, old friend Champagne Superdouchebag. How I missed your choady Trustfundian ways.

Your consistency of stubble is belied only by that snazzy white belt buckle and douched up NASCAR jacket.

Your ability to shuffle the hotties like a deck of boobie cards invokes the closeup trickery of the great Ricky Jay.

I would dress as a surgeon and rub Tantric African tribal oils on your bright eyed hottie’s upper elbow area until she hit me in the head with a candlestick.

Suckling at the Douche Teat

It’s bad enough I’ve got a hangover the size of a Buick.

But to roll out of bed and regard two juicy juice bouncing balls of hot playing bling hockey in front of a giant wall of checkerboard douchitude, is definitely not helping.

Even worse, this Abtastic Clown is none other than The Kitchen ‘Bag, demonstrating an Ab Lobster and Peaches level of douche-move revelatory consistency.

The rage factor is high with this one. Not even Blondie’s cool arching back can quench that fire.

Bottle 'Bag

You know what they say about smirking guys with large bottles of Grey Goose, right honey?

That they’re total and complete douchebags.

Friday Night 'Baggin'

Ah yes, the Doggie ‘Bag.

Sweeping the nation like Hula Hoops. Like Cabbage Patch Kids. Like Tamagochis. Like The Lohan’s fire crotch.

Even Hottie seems revulsed that she’s forced to participate in such a ridiculous ritual. Carlos in the background is tucking his shirt in out of pure disgust.

But the ‘bag? He loves it like a giant shoulder tatt.

Yup, it’s Friday Night.

Your stubbly narrator in all things 10 Degree, the DB1, has said hello to Mr. Johnny Walker. Because I’m upgrading from the usual ‘Train tonight.

It’s celebratin’ time. The book is almost done. The ridiculous L.A. heatwave has passed. And my feet no longer smell like gouda.

Site hottie Black Betty Bamalam has agreed to go ‘bag hunting with me to take pics for the site in the near future. She will become our covert agent. And I will post the evidence of the ‘baggery we catch.

So get out there, people. If you’re a hottie, avoid the ‘bag like crotch rash. If you’re a ‘bag hunter, smack a ‘bag and have a drink.

It’s Friday, baybees. Life is good.

Not in a Gang Sign #01

Whitey McSuburban, note to self: You are not in a gang. If you go to South Central and ask to join a gang, they will laugh in your whitebread suburban hip-hop face.

Please stop disgracing all of us with your obnoxious pseudo-tough “gang” signs and hijacking of the tropes of hip-hop culture. Didn’t Elvis steal enough?

Your misappropriation of racial discourse offends cultural theorists the world over. Your tilted cap and pouty lipped douche-face do not speak of a guy who’s “bad.” They merely speak of a douche who smells like poo.

I would cut off and sautee my lips in garlic and vinegar and serve to a hungry pit bull if I could nibble with my remaining mouth on perky Meadow Soprano hottie’s satin thingamabob zig-zaggy thing.

Poppy and Clara

Poppy doesn’t have to do much to inspire visions of dipping him in mustard and serving him to one of Maurice Sendak’s Wild Things. Just the collar pop, unbuttoned shirt and douche-face.

That’s enough. More than enough.

Something about this cutie has that 1920s silent film star look.

Like the long forgotten Hollywood sex symbol of the early 1920s, Clara Bow. Who once said, “The more I see of men, the more I like dogs.”

Looks like Clara Bow Hottie likes dogs too.