Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Ebony and Ivory (are bags)

(With sincere apologies to Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney)

Ebony and Ivory,
Together in douchey harmony,
Side by side they are two scrotes,
Someone tell the Leopard Print Hottie…

Night of the Living BedHead

He looks human. He’s ambulatory like a human.

And yet I’m convinced these two fawns are being pawed by a mutant zombie from the lost 1970s horror classic, Night of the Bedhead.

Where’s DeForrest Kelly to chew some scenery when you need him?

70s Love Child Blondie, I love you in spite of the faintest hint of a gut that may or may not expand in your latter years. I would tickle your inner thighs with shreaded doilies and read you Green Latern comics by candle light.

And you can bring your hip bearing raven hottie as well.

Just trash Rosarie Bedhead on your way out.

The Capper

Anyone see where I left my cheesy douched up designer baseball cap? It’s the size of a baby rhinoceros?

I know I left it around here somewhere…

Wednesday Limerick

PIC DELETED

The Sopranos’ tard cousins went to a garage,
To see if they could find a massage,
Their belts she did grab,
while their hair spiked like a crab,
Lets pray this whole scene’s a mirage.

HCwDB of the Month: The 'Bag Islander

This was one of the first Monthlys in awhile in which all four contestant combos literally had us stumped. All four were deserving winners. And by winners, I mean poobags.

But then one emerged triumphant. A total devastation. A landslide off the Island of Long.

I feel like a proud papa. When The ‘Bag Island first appeared on the site, he was just another Fratchoad. But then we all took another look. Slowly that smug expression of entitlement began to gnaw away at us. The perfect form of Nymph Hott casually ignored behind him began to set off bells of alarm.

Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. And so the ‘Bag Islander’s rage factor began to grow and spread like a thin white headband and a “Bra!! Livin’ the Dream!!” finger point. And by the time we reached Monthly, it was a blowout.

There’s first time voter Waiting for Godouche, who writes:

This is truly what HCwDB is all about. It often seems that the douchebags we find, while hilarious/infuriating, are too polished, too self-aware, too in debt to the choads who have come before for their style and attitude.

“No ‘bag is an island,” says John Douche, but this may be as close as we’re ever going to get.

Very well said, Godouche. Or as the ever present anonyous succinctly sums it up:

Bag Island all the way!! That’s the kind of guy I’d love to kick in the face.

Indeed, Mortimer. Indeed. Literary Alchemist offers up another solution to this pic’s inchoate rage: The ‘Bag Island needs to be tried for war crimes.

Bag Island FTW.

That sack lick is in such violation of the Geneva Convention that Simon Wiesenthal should rise from the grave and try this pud lick in Nurembourg.

Maybe the Hague can get in on this action.

But lets not forget the others. Coming in a solid second place with fervert supporters, was the noxious combo of Velvet Jones and The Strawberry Cheesecake, which schwagle makes the case for:

Velvet takes the crown. He is the epitome of choad: it’s obvious he realizes he’s a douche, and yet doesn’t fight it, but rather embraces it. It’s like his entire persona just screams “I’m ‘bag and I’m proud”, no words that should ever be uttered by anyone’s mouth, even in jest. He is like Lando Calrissian, but with every meter of cool cranked up to “douche” instead.

Alas, Velvet’s run towards the finals came up a ‘stache short. The Olive Loaf also found support, but simply not enough. As waramp puts it:

I gotta give my vote to olive loaf. The sheer grease of that photo is enough to fry my eggs without them sticking to the pan. And that side-boob just puts olive loaf over the edge.

Sadly, Stewie Head came in a distant fourth. So he’s taking his head and going home.

It’s the Island of Choad that takes this month’s hottie/douchey prize. As the last comment in the voting thread, here’s Ace:

If this were any other month, it would be velvet jones for sure. But, bag island transcends their sheer lameness and personifies the mission of hot chicks with douchebags.

Give it up to the Everyday boating Islander of ‘Bag and the perfect black bikini hottie behind him. They are deserving of a well earned Monthly victory.

We’ll see these tools at the Doucheys in December. Right, bra?

Fwippy

Is that ski-slope fwippy fauxhawk even possible given the constraints of the known laws of physics? It completely defies gravity.

Is he ‘bag? Perhaps not. Gaybag? If so, he’s disqualified, as gaybags operate outside of heteronormative definitions of douchebaggery. They have their own rules, which I know not how to categorize.

But either way, the fwip on Fwippy makes me fwip.

I want to shave it with a rusty shank-spoon, then dive between her perfect Downy fresh snow pillows and repose with a mug of hot chocolate and a copy of Rolling Stone. Where I’ll read about the demise of MTV while snuggling giant boobies.

Brillo Pad Head

Apparently, a new trend in douchology is the Brillo Pad Head.

Sculpt one’s fauxhawk into the shape of a bathroom cleaning utensil, and inverted ‘bag sandwich formation will commence.

I especially love Nadia, Russian Mail Order Hottie on the left. Oh, Nadia. Tell me about the homeland whilst we do shots of potato vodka together by the samovar.

Dempsey Tongue

The Creeper’s influence spreads like a mutated influenza virus among crated egg laying chickens in rural Guang Tzao.

This pic just scars my soul. The more I stare at it, the more I expect Donald Sutherland and Brooke Adams to run by, while Leonard Nimoy goes, “Arrreoeooooooo!!!”

Now that was a good flick. Not that Nicole Kidman PG-13 nonsense a few months ago. I’m talking axes through the head of your alien spore produced pod double.

And genetically spliced dog-human creatures. Running around to banjo music.

Which, strangely enough, brings us back to this pic.

Alien tongues and douchebaggery. And a genetically spliced dog-human. That looks like Patrick Dempsey.

Six of One, a Total Douchebag of the Other

Living proof that you can look like a douched up mutant Brundlefly genetic splicing of Lou Diamond Phillips, Abe Vigoda and a ferret with lupus and still line up six bikini hotties at your table.

And how thoughtful. He brought them all a half dead rose.

The plethora of boobies riverdance like hallucinogenic 99 luftballoons in my peripheral vision. A Ralph Bakshi animated orgy by way of R. Crumb.

I would offer to Windex blushing blonde on the far left’s guest house with a beaten up Swiffer if it meant I could sniff her Grandmother’s oven minutes in regular fifteen minute intervals.

Vince Vaughnbag

Ah, Vince Vaughnbag.

You’re so douchey and you don’t even know it.

Note to all aspiring ‘baglings. Stop it with the muscle ts. No seriously. Put them down.

You want to work out in one? It’s still a stage-1 aesthetic violation, but it’s a gym, so I’ll let it go.

But out on the town with a pouty Spanish Conquistador hottie?

No excuse. Put on a shirt. Any shirt. Even one with tiny Elvises on it. That would be kind of cool.

But when your boobs are bigger than your girl? It’s just wrong, Vaughnbag. Now go help Favreau lose some weight.