Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Night of the Creeper

HCwDB of the Month winner and legendary alien slug zombie from the 1980s, The Creeper, decided to bring along his absolutely rancid tongue and a delightfully full bosomed (if terribly Bleethed) hottie, to say hi on a Saturday.

Hi, Creeper! Hi! Good to see you.

You are still beyond mere douchebaggery. An extra serving of festering blister pus. I will mock you from the safe confines of my apartment floor. Because you are with a terribly sexy minx you do not deserve.

But that rainbow shirt makes me wonder if you weren’t a clown this entire time. Fooling us into thinking you were ‘bag. A clown dressed as a douchescrote. A sad douche clown.

Sexy Dumpling Fan Mail

Reader Sexy Dumpling writes in:

——–
Hi,

~ Sexy Dumpling
——–

Yikes.

Stay away from the Gwai-Lo douchebaggery, Sexy Dumpling. Then again, it’s these choads that are the digital pixelated fuel that feeds my fire.

So I can’t complain, I s’pose.

Nah, sure I can. Nice arm tat, Camobag.

As to the Garlic Chicken Hottie, I would dip those soup dumplings in soy sauce until my beef were broccoli’d.

Hmmm. That sex/food metaphor may have read just a little too visually.

Friday Night in the Naked City

Los Angeles. City of ‘bags. City of hott.

It was the breast of times. It was the douche of times.

Choadbags flexing like twitching insects in the crackling dry desert underbrush.

Hottes rolling through downtown like mystical apparitions of boobosity, possessed spirits like Native American tribal elders. Cursed to wander between the axes of all that is soft, lickable and juicy assed, and all that is chest shaving scrotemunch.

The z4 Roadsters, like chariots, awaiting the spiritual afterlife journey of the douche/boob soul, torn asunder betwixt chaotic contradiction.

I sip my cup of Night Train and I regard the hott and the douche. Grappling and clutching as if trapped in amber. Frozen in perpetuity. An existential crisis of iconic sweet and douchewank. Of cleavite and scrotundae.

I see boobies. I see mandanas.

I see contradiction. I see paradox. I see desire and choad, mixing like a foul cocktail with a hint of sweetness. A hint of hope.

And it is Woo.

Lake Winnepedouchey

One of the dangers of waterskiing on Lake Winnipedouchey is the Grease Shark.

Known for its tribal-tat fin structure and scrotal eye protection, the Grease Shark attacks stealthily and with minimal distruption of Miller Lite or Energy Drink.

When its victim is distracted by camera flash, the Grease Shark will jump out of the water and attack with a gutteral cry that sounds vaguely like, “Whatsup, yo?”

Close the beach, Mayor.

He’s coming back for his noon feeding.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

Is douchey spiked exploding hair that looks like Frame #27 of the Zapruder Film enough to qualify for ‘Bag?

Is the douche-face hurdling over the bar of what constitutes a stage-1 douchuous cherry pit in the fruit bowl of life?

And why are they posing in front of abstract green-screen paintings by Magritte?

The Wifebeaterbag

I was going to do an extended deconstruction of the wifebeaterbag, but staring at this pic makes me want to dip my face in hydrochloric acid. It is soul sucking, nads kicking, hyper-meta douchey/hottie ultra wrongness.

It is cruel and unusual douchebaggery for a Friday.

So instead of parsing the lexicon for new terms to mock Wifebeaterbag with, I’ll…

I’ll…

call him a douche.

Yer a douche!

(sigh)

Somehow it didn’t help that much.

A little bit. But not that much.

Boing!

I’m convinced this isn’t actual real world hair.

It’s a cartoon expression of surprise. You know, like when Linus was shocked by Lucy and his hair went flying in every direction.

Or when Mister Magoo finally realized he was walking on a pylon six hundred feet in the air. That wacky Mister Magoo. Because blind people are funny.

Boing! Gadzooks! Zoiks!

Pack it in, cartoon boy. I’d erase your face with an eraser, then draw in a Garfield.

Kelly from Arizona State makes me want to yell “GO HOME TEAM MASCOT!!” in the hopes she’ll get stupid drunk with me at the tailgate party. At which point I would slobber on her shoes like a quadriplegic on Benzidrine.

Friday Haiku: Fu Man Choad

Fu Man Choad pimps out,
Gwai-Lo Zen whacks on, whacks off.
Blonde Curves, happy pants.

Two pube waterfalls
Four pastoral, fertile mounds
Call Enola Gay

— bmt

Cartoon babes are hot.
But as sure as the world turns,
With time, their heat cools.

— boatbutter

Pinkhawked smirkdouche needs
to shave ZZ Man Chu with
chainsaw. Blindfolded.

— lemon tart

Girl made of plastic
But girl on the right? I will
chew through your boob straps.

— reservoir douche

Hong Kong Douchey needs
Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart
Save us Black Mambas!

— Duck Duck Douche

Mr. Big

Trust me, you’re a douche.

'Bag Hunting

A reader snaps a Footbag in a parking lot, with the following story:

——
Friend had his wife run up to this guy in a parking lot……Douchie got scarred & asked why they wanted pic……said from out of state & he looked like the “california kid”……haha
——

Nicely done, anon. That’s a serious douche in the wild right there.

And while we’re giving shout-outs, a happy Rosh Hashanah to my Jewish readers. L’shanah Tovah! May you be inscribed in the book of non-douchebaggery.