Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Gaze of the Happy Pants

This legally blind Stanford math major probably isn’t a ‘bag on any level whatsoever (save the lip ring), and so you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Yo, DB1! Your site says ‘Hot Chicks with Douchebags,’ and last time I checked, Asian nerds were not douchebags!”

And you’d be correct.

But this uberhott Kirsten Dunst nymph demonstrates a crucial representation of gender tropes that we must embrace and celebrate.

The female gaze of pure carnal desire.

Note to all hotties reading this. Please gaze like this at me at all times. It is what Trappist Monks refer to as The Gaze of the Happy Pants. And they know what they speak of. Because hey, they’re Trappist Monks.

And ditch the math major, Kirsten Hott. Sure he’ll be making six figures at Google after graduating, but I have a half full bottle of Night Train. Which I’ll share with you. Just not too much.

Ask DB1

Confused in Cali writes in:

—–
Dear DB1:

Confused in Cali
—–

It is safe to say that cognitive functions among the higher level douchescrotes operate at only a base and primitive instinctual reaction state. Like a goldfish. A retarded goldfish. Named Lenny.

However there is always the potential for douche awakenings, like in that movie with DeNiro in the coma. Unfortunately it requires the participation of the Hottie in the recovery process. The twelve steps of de-douchification that a hottie/douchey couple can participate in will be detailed in my forthcoming book from Simon & Schuster in May. And yes, that’s another shameless plug.

I will now eat a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

The Lost Arquette

Scrotey Arquette has found love. Which is hard, what with coming from a famous showbiz family.

Good on you, Scrotey. I knew that David wasn’t the only one to forge a career and get a hot wife utilizing talent enough to fill the thimble piece in the Monopoly boardgame.

Do not pass go.

Her back is arched beyond human possibility. It is otherworldly. It bespeaks a cosmos of endless possibility, of strange planets with new life forms. You know. Amazon Women on The Moon. With curvy backs. And Scrotey Arquette.

On second thought, I’ll stay home.

Who me?

Are you a douche? I dunno. No real signs. Could just be an average dude from Ozone Park, Queens.

And yet… and yet… there it is.

The Mark of the ‘Bag.

Ever so faint. On the forehead. So I’m sorry dude, but I gotta call ‘bag. It’s not me. It’s the Mark. I gotta listen to the Last Angel of Scrotery, just as the great philosopher Walter Benjamin warned us about.

Green Energy powers my Prius.

Friday Haiku

Posed pic? Maybe so,
But yank that Jesus, Scarlett.
He died for those abs.

Magazine shot? Yes.
Does that bother me? No way.
Red skirt? Delicious.

— boatbutter

Ghetto doucheulous
Guyliner AND plat knuckles
Are those Jeans acidwashed?

— eric estradouche

Anorexia
Not pretty picture on most
Red fine lines it well

— huskerbag

And on the sixth day,
God made man, not knowing that
man evolves to Douche.

— bcs

Satan is puking
For he’s fully aware that
douchebags go to hell

— plinky

Red hot lace-y thing
I would kill Jesus again
Want to lick the curves

— daric fn awesome

Cash Gordon

New addendum to douchological classification, #81:

Anyone who writes in a smiley face on their “My Name Is” tag is immediately classified as auto-scrote.

Granted, Cash Gordon’s crinkly retro sci-fi outfit, his key bling and his kissy lips don’t really need any additional evidence of douche.

But the smiley face? Not cool, Chad.

But your older sis has the touch of everyday librarian hott that me likey long time.

The Charity Newspaper Smack

If I offered the chance to smack this wonderbread with a soggy newspaper dipped in iocane powder for $10 dollars a whack, how much could I raise for the Jimmy Fund?

I’m thinking thousands.

Bonus points if you hit the Calvins.

Epic Poem: Ramblin' Bag

O’er yonder in, ‘merica’s distant lands,
He rode, The Cowbag Douche,
No horse nor gun nor country boots by his bedpost,
His tribal tatt his only marker.
She slid beside his barstool and said “Hello stranger.”
But he was a loner Dottie, a rebel.
And The Cowbag Douche could only keep on amblin’,
Like an early Spielberg film.
O’er hills he did ride,
And by ride I mean taxi,
And by hills I mean clubs.
Hopin’ to find a place to lay his hat beside a hottie who bought his shtick and dug his tatt,
And every so often, pouty blondes would hitch up to that bedpost,
for a night or two.
And admire his masculine bracelet,
and constant need to point to his own hat to demonstrate that he was a Ramblin’ Bag.
In case you hadn’t noticed.
As sun broke o’er corn fields,
And water trickled over rocks,
On a train bound for nowhere,
The Cowbag Douches,
The Ramblin’ Bag rambles on.

The Princess and the Pud

There’s gotta be a fairytale somewhere in the Grimm archives where a Reservoir Dog meets two Prom Queen Princesses and then an evil witch turns a bunch of people into blue balloons.

Then everyone learns a moral lesson framed in post-modern irony with a hip-hop grunge tip, and Dreamworks options the rights.

The Slurper

I always enjoy a well captured ‘bag “action” shot. Note the simian move to scratch the chin pubes, combo-ing with spontaneous douche face kissy lips.

It’s rare to capture such organic, homegrown, non-pesticide scrote like this in such non-posed douchal spontaneity.

I can’t tell how cute Bright Eyes is, but hey, slurpie boobies.