Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Samovar

Here we’ve captured the rare Eastern European Douche in a natural state of repose. The wannabe Prussian Mobster who’s in the gym four days a week and drives a red Mazda Miata he refers to as “his bitch.”

The dude named “Arthur” or “Alex,” who talks with a nondescript Russian accent, and believes he could’ve been the next Jean Claude Van Damme if he didn’t pull that hammy after high school.

Yet here he is, The Samovar, pulling in two sophomore sorority chicks from the local Fashion Institute.

It’s as inexplicable as that smooth and clammy chest he’s revealing.

I would love Aqua’s ample bosoms like a malnourished Nepalese tiger. Named Joe. Who dances with Mowgli to Disney songs during Disney On Ice. And then licks Aqua Hott like a salt lick back in the green room. Because, uhm, I like big boobs. But you probably got that subtext already.

The Splitter

Like a douche fastball, the splitter deceives. He cuts towards the plate and then suddenly drops with dripping forehead and cheesy facial pubes.

Can rockerbags like The Splitter here be redeemed?

Or have they gone too far down the yellow brick road to the land of Munchchoadville to ever recover?

Not sure. I see a glimmer of hope somewhere beneath all that gel. Maybe I’m nuts, but The Splitter’s douchery seems more Gary Gygax than Richard Grieco.

Sadly, Cowboy Boobies is beyond hope. Caught in a deep centrifugal toilet flush of rank scrotological reject, she is Bleethed to the point of no return. But hey. Can Cans.

The Boobie Sun God

I believe there’s an Outkast inspired Andre 29.99 douchechoad somewhere in this pic. I know he’s a tool. But enough about him.

I’m distracted.

Distracted by heavenly pillows that dancing schnauzers in lederhosen chase over chocolate covered mountain tops shaped like 19 year old flesh tatines.

Firm, succulent mounds that rise like a glowing boobie sun, gazing down at the dappled hinterlands. Like that sun with that creepy Nazi Baby Himmler head on The Teletubbies.

A Sun Boobie that commands me, in a firm tenor voice: Grab me, DB1! Paw me like a blind man looking for his car keys in a jar full of marbles!

And I would.

Because I dare not disobey the Boobie Sun God.

White by Unpopular Happenstance

Dear Black People of America,

On behalf of this guy, I sincerely and humbly apologize.

You’ve endured the horrors of Slavery. The long and painful Civil Rights struggles.

Seperate but Equal. The busing crises. The cooption of your music and culture by white artists like Elvis.

A half a millenium of exploitation and degradation in this country.

Soul Plane. Flavor of Love.

And now this guy.

Please take him out back and beat him with garbage cans while talking over each other like you’re at a screening of Robocop. It’s the only proper response, and you’d be doing all of us a favor.

Sincerely,
DB1

Flip Side

We don’t usually consider the flip-side of the hottie/douchey coupling.

What happens when we invert the codes of douche affect?

When we reverse our meaning structrures surrounding the cultural desire to set a hair gel fauxhawk on fire and then hump his cutie’s leg like a windup chattering teeth?

When we consider the ramifications of a tatted up beach choad and his hott from an inverted, negative paradigm?

Or are they simply ass?

HCwDB of the Week: Cartoon Edition

After last week’s surreal abstract masterpiece combining modernism, expressionism and Seurat like douchilism, Douche or Dali, today’s three selections of choad/hott are a cartoon inspired sampling of superdouche and the cuties that love them.

Three comic book frat soda brain grenades of choad/hott.

A shmorgasboard of tasty breakfast cereals, bagels and lox, and three ass-kick worthy douchestains. I’m giddy like a paint sniffing rhesus monkey. Must be Monday.

Here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Leprechaun

When first appearing on the site, The Leprechaun was a deceptively annoying douche. At first he just struck us as standard 10 Degree Fred Durstbag.

But then his Limp Bizkit began to gain traction. Like an oil slick. Or really bad jock itch.

Or maybe it was his delicious hottie that made this couple Finals worthy. She has the look of carnal perfection that slays dragons and makes animated penguins tap dance like Savion Glover.

Or maybe it’s the Ikea porn set couch they’re sitting on. Could their location have any less ambiance? Because no lighting quite sets the sexy mood like shadowless, evenly lit, florescence.

But what takes the cake is The Leprechaun’s sneering look of possession. His feral growl touched with the faintest hint of fear and terror that he’s going to lose her to someone else.

Yes you are, Leprechaun. Were that that person you lose her to be me.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Snake Pisskin

To Escape From Douche York, this perfectly sweet co-ed hottie needs to gut Pisskin like a fish, then dive through a nearby dorm window like an old west gunman.

Speaking of the old west, anyone ever see Westworld with Yul Brenner? The sci-fi western where the robot gunmen go crazy and start killing the rich people?

Good times. Tell me Snake Pissken here couldn’t be a robot cowboy from the future.

As to Rachel Hottowitz, I would light sabbath candles and tie red string around my wrist just for the chance to daven to her perfection. She is delightful.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Batbag

POW!!!

THWACK!!

DOUCHE!!

Not much more to be said about greased up Batbag and his sidekick Robyn.

The only drawback is the MILF cutie isn’t quite up to the standards of The Leprechaun and Snake Pisskin.

But then again, Batbag. Douche Wayne. Those glasses and that highly thwackable douche-face are enough to make any week’s finals.

So them’s your three.

Remember folks, first Zen yourselves. Gaze upon each pic with new eyes. See as if for the first time. Allow each pic to summon invective from deep within your psyche. Bile from deep within your upper G.I. tract.

Which combo of delicious Key Lime Hottie pie and douche choad make you want to punch a homeless Maori child named Umbutu?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Red Sox!!

Growing up in Boston, I had the twin-fecta of achievements in Fenway Park. I caught a pop foul (on the fly) off the bat of the immortal Mike Benjamin in 1998.

And I was busted for scalping tickets outside Fenway.

The fat guy who scalped about a thousand tickets a day every day outside of the Kenmore Square T station had the cops (who clearly were on the take) hassle me for selling two tickets I’d gotten for free from a friend. Jackass.

But other than the scalping thing, Fenway and the Red Sox hold a key place in my heart. So it is with great joy that I offer congrats to my hometown team for winning the big one. Second time in four years. World Series Champeens.

And congrats to the city Boston itself. After all those years of futility, we deserve this.

Like that perky boobied Cambridge Rindge and Latin hottie I met at the Ratt in the mid 90s, I would take the T to Harvard Square and celebrate loudly over a Sam Adams in the hopes of a late night sloppy makeout near that creepy cemetery with the graves from the 17th Century.

Tip your cup of ‘Train to the Sox, people. To the Sox.

Good night, you princes of Maine. You Kings of New England.

Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Greasia

Shirtsies?

We don’t need no steenking shirties.

Holy Shirts and Pants

Shirtlessness?

The new popped collar.

Underwear peak?

The new douche-face.

Tiny Dancer who knows not what she climbs on?

Just plain wrong.

Saturday Musings

It’s early morning on a Saturday, and your half awake narrator on all things Brain Grenade/Bone Zone, is contemplating the morphing douchological plague.

After a doozer of sober busters I had an epiphany last night.

I’ve been overly cruel to New Jersey. I owe the Garden State a bit of a mea culpa for overstating its role within douche hierarchy.

This is not to say Jersey isn’t one of the central fronts in the War on Douchebaggery. It is. Only that compared to areas of Long Island and Staten Island, Jersey really isn’t producing grease choads at quite the rate one would assume.

Jersey’s in the mix. There’s no doubt of it’s douche influence. But there are other cities and areas far higher on the pie-chart of hottie/scrotey violation.

I’m looking at you, Chicago and Dallas. Douche clone factories. Dystopian nexus points of aesthetic violations. Of fist pumping blight. Even cities you wouldn’t assume would pump out the pumped up douchescrotes. Atlanta. Memphis. Even Vancouver.

Even my City of Angels. Actorbags and unemployed stubblebags working out their “Game” moves on the latest crop of 18-24 year olds fresh of the boat from Sheboygan. But alas, as the fires recede from the hills of Malibu, I tip my Red Cup of the ‘Train. Because, no matter how Bleethed they may be, the young hottie boobies are still bouncing.

Special thanks to reader Pfah for the kickass new banner for the site. He is a supreme ‘bag hunter, and I honor his rapier wit and ability to lust after the boob while mocking the choad with erudite aplomb. Good to have you on board brotha.