Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Douchey Boomers

As douche modernity enters its 17th Year After Grieco (17AG), we are beginning to see the first signs of early scrotes developing the paunch of middle age. Still hanging onto their ‘baggy youth and refusing to admit they’re no longer macking with the power of pure Tag Bodyshot youthified pureness.

I speak, of course, of the generation known as The Douchey Boomers.

With narcissistic flair, these aging ‘bags refuse to make way for next-generation douchebaggery. They hold desperately to the shiny forehead, facial pubes and douche-face of their youth. A period now bathed in the nostalgic glow of forehead grease.

Now being repurposed in Chevy ads and T.D. Waterhouse campaigns. Repackaged retro-douchitude, the once ur-greasy idealisms of a bygone era they refuse to admit has passed them by. I speak, of course, about the late 1990s.

Hang up the t-shirts, shave the lip-brow and buy that Chevy Suburban, D.B. It’s ovah. Pump out some kids, join a softball league, and tell tales to your fellow Douchey Boomers about how “crazy” you were in your twenties while you nurse a Miller Lite and flex your fading pecs.

And ladies? Love the Pokey Boobie look. Ditch Boomer before he tells you about the rad Nine Inch Nails show he was at in 1994 that was, like, totally off the hook.

Where's Waldouche?

Somewhere, packed tightly into this boobie sarcophagi, I’ve carefully hidden a Sweatin’ To The Oldies ‘Bag.

Look carefully.

Can you find him?

Hijinks Ensue

This commingling doesn’t need my deconstruction. I need a pinch ‘bagger.

Like one of those poorly worded one-sentence movie summaries written by a low wage flunky that pop up on your cable menu when you’re scrolling around the channels.

You know the ones.

They reduce films to inarticulate little blobs of reductive summary. Trite, often plot point ruining blurbs of simplified word strings of near nonsensical overview. Offensive to any real understanding of the film in question.

Like when you flip the channel to Citizen Kane and the description on your DirectTV reads: Story about a newspaper magnate who misses his childhood. Or 2001 becomes: A ship finds a strange black object in the future.

Even worse is when they summarize some mediocre contemporary comedy, and actually, unfathomably, make it even worse. Along Come Polly summed up as: When a risk assessment recently married man (Ben Stiller) runs into a wacky woman (Jennifer Aniston), hijinks ensue.

Hijinks ensue. Don’t they always?

I think we should hire those flunkies to summarize all of our lives in short bursts of inarticulate prose. I look forward to being Angry guy who hates douches but loves boobies.

Which, come to think of it, pretty much does sum it up. If I saw that on my DirectTV, I’d be like, yeah, that actually captures the essence right there.

You're my boy, Blue!!

And by boy, I mean a spectral echo of pure loser.

The Limey

Wednesday Limerick Guy says, I may be a douchechoad without a shirt, but I can be just as ‘baggy with one on.

Yes you can, Limey.

Yes you can.

'N Stink

After seeing the ‘Bagstreet Boys, and now staring at the lost member of ‘N Sync curling up with sultry Brit Hott, is like:

A) Getting your head stomped on by jack booted skinheads followed by Savion Glover tap dancing the lyrics to R.E.M.’s It’s The End of the World As We Know It in morse code on your groin.

B) Huffing rancid paint thinner then attempting to draw out the mathematical formula for the Lorenz Contraction in chalk on the sidewalk. With your feet.

C) Sitting through six straight episodes of 7th Heaven. Commercial free. Post Biel.

D) Realizing that Fish Slap is real. And heterosexual.

E) All of the above.

The 'Bagstreet Boys

Tell me why?

Either these two young ‘bagling goofs are the lost members of The ‘Bagstreet Boys or the alternate douche universe cast of the John Hughes classic, Weird Science.

Wyatt, your kitchen is blue.

Exotic ambiguously Hispanic chicka, you may well be underage. So I will simply ask your older sister to give me a call, so I can take her out for hot wings at KFC, where she’ll complain that I’m a cheap ass and text under the table the entire time with a big dude named Lars who works as a bouncer at Hooters.

Wednesday Limerick

In Vegas, there’s a D.J. named Dave.
Who pounds down six Red Bulls and raves.
While talented, he’s not,
He scores with the hott,
By showing off neck muscles and crotch shave.

HCwDB of the Week: Jack Scrotington

It was a landslide for the skeezy cornrowed ambiguously D.J. animated Tim Burton skeleton douche.

As supreme ‘bag hunter darksock sums up the case for the scary white boy with paid hotts:

Most definately Jack Scrotington. Look at this fecal goiter. Unlike the other two goobs, this guy makes the urge to commit homicide rise like the Pillsbury Doughboy trapped in a microwave. I want to jap slap him repeatedly with a fish net filled with treble hooks and then fingercuff him with a dremel and a concrete slab core sampler.

I don’t even understand that fantasy torture sequence, which means it must be good. Or, as eradicatoor puts it:

Scrotington for sure. His hotties are paid for, but his baggery is the real deal. The only reason you could get away with not voting for him is the possibility that he’s Peter Stormare.

The legend that is Stormare will never be mocked as ‘bag on this site. He is pure nihilist genius.

That being said, the boobies of the Boobie Sun God found their worshippers. And by worshippers I mean boobie lovers. As jessemoya puts it:

BOOBIES SUN GOD FTW.

This isn’t even a competition this week. Bleethed from the neck down, burnt onto my retinas from the neck up. She’s… dare I say perfect?

I agree, Jesse. And poor Species Killer came in a distant third as rampant suspicions of Halloween ‘baggery undercut the purity of his ur-douche. This is Jack’s day to scrote. As rev. douche sings the hymns:

I vote Jack. Of all three he looks the most sinister and filthy in his douchebaggery. The Hotts may be Notts but he inspires more vitriol than Unassuming Scrote (Sun God looks too fake and pressurized for me) and the possibly-faking-it Killer, whose Boob-wielder looks as trough-style as his sloppy pink shirt.

Jack Scrotington it is. Raise his skeletal frame as this week’s winner, and punch his 12 frames per second Hanna-Barbera head a ticket in the finals.

Purg Hottie Still Loves Me

Oh Purg Hottie. You’re still there for me. You always are.

You’ve upgraded from your succuban ability to pull choad to that of a middle aged cop who looks exactly like Bud Abbott. You’ve even brought along a lovely blondie in matching lei.

Thank you for being you.

Your delightful smile and lunchable lower stomach area will always carry me through.