Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Gangsta Blue

There’s the Crips. The Bloods. The T-Birds. The Lost Boys.

And then there’s Gangsta Blue. Straight up douchin’, yo. With his mind on his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap, and his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap on his mind. Slippin’ on gin and Goose.

I would pull those drawstrings until your aqua blue parka closed on your face like an iris in bright sunlight. Like a puckering butthole on a ferret in the presence of an alligator.

And then there’s Sally, you Chicken McHottget with five different dipping sauces. You fast food french fry of dee-light. Your groove is in my heart.

You are paid to pose with Gangsta Blue, and yet the pain of a thousand sunsets lost to the ether courses through my psyche like an arthritic synapse.

So It Goes

No irony here. No halloween dress-up. People really dress like this.

I tell myself that. Then I deny it. No, it can’t be.

It isn’t possible anyone would think to themselves, “You know, my spikey hair and muscle-t look would go so much better with a rolled up bandana tube right through the middle of my forehead.”

But it explains it all. Just like Buckaroo Banzai says: wherever you go, there you are. It is a tautological truism.

Or, at least, it explains why I drink. And why smiles on army blondes keep me going.

Selena and the Zombie

Something about this pic just strikes me as unsanitary.

Not annoying. Not infurating. Not confusing. Not even cannibal zombie musical inspiring.

Just unsanitary.

I want to lysol my eyeballs. I want to scrub my corneas with bleach until all conceptual bacteria is washed from spiritual summon. I want to detoxify the visual codes of existential plague embedded in the meaning structures of the semiotic significations of, well, douche.

In short, gross.

Ask DB1: Kissy Lips

stevex writes in:

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Dear DB1:

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Being a ‘bag is hard, stevex. So much pressure to gel up the chest hair. Turn yourself orange. Appear “Gangsta” tough at all times.

Sometimes the ‘bag just wants to display affection. Love. Sincerity.

Since impressing the hott gives him little opportunity for such outward displays of affection (outside of the arm-lock and dual hand gestures maneuver), the Kissy Lips become one way the douche can say, “Hey, I might be wearing a mandana and muscle-t shirt displaying my ginormous tribal tatt. But I love you.” And I mean that in the abstract, not about 60s Swingerbag and his generibuddy, pictured here sandwiching a Malaysian Paprika.

So the Kissy Lips is that moment when a scroteface can let his guard down. When they’re telling you they love you. Is that so wrong?

Why yes. I suppose it is.

Wednesday Limerick

There once was a nanny, Bridgitte.
So Swedish, with boobies petite.
But douche-face soon pounced,
With hand gestures pronounced,
And Bridgitte soon smelled like lunch meat.

HCwDB of the Week: Douche or Dali

This week’s Weekly came down to an erudite and gentlemanly duel between Queen Bee and the Power Chord and the team behind Douche or Dali.

Polite, class system based slaps with a white glove. Aristocratic high culture conflict of interest. And a hella lot of grease and surgery.

Pulling out the win in a blaze of shirtless grease, surgical boobies and the sliced eyeball in Un Chien Andalou was the sheer scrotal power of the Douche or Dali posse. Notadouche sums up the appeal of this surreal masterpiece. And by masterpiece, I mean monstrosity:

It’s hands down douche or dali. These two pukewads make me want to gouge out my eyes with a rusty pair of nail clippers. At the same time hottie’s magnificent rack of the future (with tiniest hint of nipple) forces all of the air out of my lungs in one manic blast, cartoon style.

Or as squatch puts in:

Douche or Dali hands down. Any pictuar that can bring out the Aqua Douche Hunger Force into the comments section in full screaming Mimi mode gets my vote.

This was an interesting win in that the sheer scrotal force of The Dali Douche-Melt overpowered the transformative hottness of both Queen Bee and Tony With the Car Dealership’s Princess. And Tony and Power Chord were no slouches in the skeeze department either.

LiteraryAlchemist makes the strong case for the sheer wrongness of All American beauty Queen Bee, and 1980s Power Chordbag:

Queen Bee and Power Chord have it all. From her disarmingly charming smile, lovely eye(s) and Veronica Lake effect, to his bagtastic 1980’s pr0n-star-frollet.

Power Chord FTW. And please. PLEASE. Someone slap that choad smoking grin off his face with a chainsaw.

Very nicely put, L.A. I may add Queen Bee to the list of future ex-Mrs. DB1s at some point. She is everything I desire in a counterpart who I will spend lots of money on while she gradually grows to have contempt for me.

But Tony With the Car Dealership’s sleaze also found support. As Charles Nelson Douchely puts it:

But, Tony. Cripes. For all I know, this could have been the next night at the same bar as Power Chord. Stumbling drunkly over to the hottie, giving a slurred “whats your sign” to her and an offer to let her massage his chest hair. She finally agrees to let Tony take a picture with her in return for him not kidnapping her cat.

But Mr. Potassiumhead makes the case for the cartoonish spectacle of Douche or Dali to rise to a state of privileged meaning structure in our Derrida inspired simulacrum:

Douche or Dali! The piercing blue eyes with nothing behind them, the shaved chests, bling that is noticeable yet doesn’t-overshadow-pectoral-development, and the lips, the pursed lips.

Combined with their facial expressions, you can hear the “mmm” emanating from the depths of their shallow souls, probably only overpowered by the Axe that is no doubt also emanating from their shaved chests. The man pubes are a added bonus.

And iutodd agrees, summing up the vote thusly:

It’s hard not to pick Queen Bee… everyone knows of a girl as hot as she is. And everyone hates whoever she is with. Usually they look like Power Chord… visions like that cause men to break down and cry in public. But I have to pick Douche or Dali. It’s classic hcwdb. Pictures that don’t seem real are the hallmark of this site. And pics like that should never, ever, ever happen.

No. No they shouldn’t.

So raise the Dali Twins shirtless skin jerseys to the rafters, and let Jessika’s inflated boobs distract from any questions about her potential to “surprise” you down there. They are this week’s Winner. And we’ll see their painted brushstrokes with melting clocks and ants coming out of hands in the Monthly.

Willy Wonka and the Orange Factory

I only violate the hottie/douchey combo requirement for a pic on this site on rare and special occasions.

This is one of those occasions.

We celebrate the Prompas because we care. And by care, I mean orange.

And by orange, I mean orange.

Orange.

Rat Chin

PIC DELETED

What’s with the rat chin on Vanilla Mice here? It’s been cropping up all across the douchological spectrum of late. Like a mutant virus. Or early 90s Porn Star crotch. Or chin herps.

10 Degree Hat Tilt (with sticker) features ‘bag hand gesture with requisite finger bling on the left, and, oh yeah, the douche-face.

And please, dear god no, is that a Scarface t-shirt? Where’s Crazy Eyes with the LCD screen on the ceiling when you need him?

Racing Car Hott makes me happy to be in Georgia. Just so long as I don’t venture outside of Atlanta, I should be okay.

Old Red

So your humble narrator in all things boobie/bone-zone sits here on a Tuesday and scratches himself. For I face a conundrum.

Do I run a new Prompa prom pic I just received, which sadly features no hotties and therefore ventures outside the M.O. of the site? Or a tasteful new pic of the late, great Pumpy, or is that in bad taste?

Decisions, decisions.

A special thanks to anyone and everyone who has been sending me pics for the site. If I don’t respond, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I drink too much and my feet smell like a Peruvian hooker named “Chiquita.”

If you have a brilliant photo of a pretty young thing with a heaping serving of scrote, cuddling or otherwise commingling in a sickeningly wrong way, send it along at a reasonably small file size (but reasonably large pic size) to douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com. Or if just want to say “‘Bags suck, but hotties are pounce worthy,” drop me a line.

And in the meantime, enjoy Old Red. Yeah I know he’s not old, but the name just seemed to fit.

Batbag

Na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na, BATBAG!!