Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Name that Scrote

This is a new game here at HCwDB, Name that Scrote. In five words or less, can you identify the following douche-object pictured here?

Take your best guess in the comments thread.

Then click here to reveal what it is.

HCwDB of the Week

It was the best of times. It was the scrotiest of times. Your humble narrator, The DB1 spent much of the weekend chasing an L.A. hottie who swore off ‘bags after her last clubster douche cheated on her with the reservations girl at Koi.

Two turn tables and a microphone later, and she’s back with his sorry tattooed and gelled up ass. Because “deep down, he’s really sweet.”

So the DB1 is fired up. His coffee is brewed. His Cocoa Puffs are still crunchy and a part of his complete nutritious breakfast. And his rash is subsiding.

Will the hotties ever learn? I put it to you, Greg. Help pick me a Hottie/Douchey couple of the week and let the mocking, and I mean serious-ass mocking, begin:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: N’ Stynk

There’s something extra annoying about this pud, and it’s not just the exploding hair.

It’s that Mark Hamill in Corvette Summer youth thing.

But the comments and reaction to this pic the first time around makes me think I might be alone on this. And yes the girl has the vague aura of jailbait. But that leopard print dress and perfect perky wonder twins, not to mention the middle aged paunchbag in the back of the pic, are enough for me to assume they’re old enough to allow the mocking/lust to compete in earnest.

And by earnest, I mean the importance of being. And goes to camp.

I’d love her knees like the Sun God Ra was loved by the Egyptian proletariat.

Which means I would shake papayrus leaves in ritual patterns as an ode to my desire to, uhm, do her. Do her long time.

Damn. That metaphor broke down like a certified pre-owned Yugo.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Limey

First appearing as shirtless limerick. Pure poetry of mock.

Now transcending the narrow confines of short-verse Irish working class bar humor, The Limey jumps to finalist status.

It could be the chin strip.

It could be the brunette’s trashy yet alluring womanhoods.

But, most importantly, it’s the combination of both. The toxic swirl of hott and douche.

And yes, hotts can be douche as well (douchebaguettes). But that is not what we vote on. We vote only on the swirl. The counterpoint.

And a wristwatch that weighs the same as a small Bangladeshi boy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Jackhammer

I’m tossing the Jackhammer into the mix not simply on the strength of the uber-choad (although he reeks of all that is this site’s modus operandi) , but because we need to get some fun yet realistic older hotts into the mix.

The real-world mid 30s party girls who won’t annoy you with stupid questions and might even buy you a beer.

Lets hear it for 30s hotties. Old enough to hang with, yet young enough to still feature firm buttocks of quarter bouncing inspection passing quality.

Oh, and the choad. Yes, the choad. He needs to be dipped in candle wax and sold in Brazil for his healing powers.

So them’s your three.

With only a month or so to The Douchies, our annual end-of-year awards list, we only have a few weekly and only one Monthly left. So make it a good one.

Vote, as always my friends, in the comments thread.

Sunday Musings

As I sit on my floor and scratch myself, I contemplate the collective hangover. The alcoholic fueled stomach churn that defines Sunday in ways the Puritans would weep over.

As I ruminate, one image returns to my musings.

The douche-face.

The punch-worthy ode to a culture gone wrong. The mask of courage displayed with false macho bravura while hiding the greasy underbelly. The performative smirk covering the insecurities that accompany any temporary possession of the hott.

But isn’t the douche-face also a metaphor for the universal struggle? The desire for a guy to rise above the herd and conquer the boobie prize by acting like a tool? Perhaps.

Because the douche-face embodies the eternal struggle within male-female pursuit. It speaks to the chaos that has fueled all of the great art, literature, and Skinemax soft-glo porn of historical record. Competitive, aggressive and insecure horny young wanks desperately grabbing at suckle worthy thighs. Confused hotties struggling to make sense of the entire world coming at them in a burst of collective mount.

Sure the cultural dress-up may change the forms and variations of expression. But every culture has their hott prizes, and annoying douches flip flopping like grease fires trying to catch those prizes. Like Napoleon. Total douchebag. Or Caesar. What a punk.

And yet today’s douche/hott combos are also unique. We face a plague unprecedented in their smack worthy grease faces.

So what does all of this mean?

I find no conclusions at the bottom of my bowl of Lucky Charms this morning. Only pink milk.

Choking the Goose

Let’s see. Vodka as phallus.

I know I’ve read about this somewhere before. Let me consult my “Freud for Dummies” book for where exactly to locate this pathological douche condition.

Oh yes. According to Freud, this young man was traumatized at an early age by too many Full House reruns. He subsequently attempts to replicate the “Jesse” look by way of 2006 white boy guido douche culture. Once “Douche Jesse” has been achieved, his fractured psyche then seeks out Olsen Twin types as part of the perpetual cycle of traumatic recreation.

Or he’s just a heaping toad.

The tri-hott sandwich with three chew-worthy shoulders merits a second look. And by look, I mean coitus.

Not that Goose Phallus would notice. He’s too busy adding his own two olives to that douche martini.

Where's Waldouche: Utah Edition

Somewhere in this gaggle of Mormon tabernacles, I’ve carefully hidden a steaming pile of wigga choad.

Look carefully.

Can you smell him?

Don't be a Gator Hater

With crimson pecs and Mark of the ‘Bag schlong-n-balls once again upon his forehead, do not hate the Gator. For he is what he is.

And he can only be that which he is when he is what he must be because it is what he is.

Which is a heaping uberdouche.

Now I’m off to buy some kidney pie and a pint for the Brit bar wenches, while talking in a bad Cockney accent and complaining about the rainy weather and the dole.

Mmm… Brit Chicks. Shakespearean Hotts. So repressed. So awkward. So Delectable.

The Prize

Yayyy!! Hottie wins the prize!!

She gets to take home the fraternity dude. Yes, that guy.

There’s always one.

The dude that some school like the University of Wisconsin just secreted onto that old guy’s lawn at 2am out the back of a van. With his head half shaved, and a desperate gutteral cry of “Woo!” escaping from his beer stained stubble.

That guy. The Fratdouche. Enjoy the prize, sweetie.

The Jackhammer

Behold the rarest of rare ‘bag hand gestures, the Double Blumpkin (‘Bag Hand Gesture #288).

It is the Madame Butterfly of operatic douche moves. James Joyceian prose rendered in abstract non-linguistic scrotal hand gesture.

Note the swirling soccer moms, caught up in a fascinated undertow by the uberdouchosity on display with that one single hand move. Impressive.

Jackhammer would’ve qualified for the site even if he had non-ambulatory tiny vestigal arms hanging by his sides. The mandana the size of Omaha. The douche everything.

But once we add in the Double Blumpkin, it’s a kick right to God’s groin.

Friday Haiku

Hair like frozen poo,
Douche-Face in need of bitch slap,
Hott lost forever.

Did Tom Robbins write
even douchebags get the blues?
Or was it still life?

— d. baggins

he’s in Special Ops.
he has paratrooper hair.
she’s a Navy Seal.

— pfah

Her hand holds the pin
Douche grenade is set to blow
A Suicide Pact

— clementine of cappadoucha

judge reinhold works hard
all-american burger
left hat on too long

— bcs

Both have hair issues
His oddity, her rats’ nest
Go to Supercuts

— ed

The Gator: Never Forget

The Gator.

Never Forget. 9-4-07.