Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Bagnana Daquiri

Ingredients:

Mock and laugh at repeatedly until cured.

Air Flingus

TH writes in with the following airport capture pic:

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I saw this at the airport last Friday.

– TH
—-

Nicely captured TH, although the story of the capture could’ve been told with a bit more flare. Instead of Brechtian simplicity, perhaps could’ve used a bit more, how you say, adjectives.

But Summer Hamptons Toad is a worthy stage-2 capture. And Trina the Danish Au Pair appears to have a nice dash of Euro-Hott, although perhaps a few too many danishes down below. So good on you for the ‘bag tag, TH.

Good work.

The Sad Shirtmaker

Somewhere, deep in the heart of Romania, the shirtmaker weeps.

For he, like his father and grandfather before him, is a maker of shirts. A master craftsman. A skilled tailor, an artist with needle and thread.

Alas, the douche plague has taken his spirit and cast his soul into the nethers of a swirling blight of Tag Bodyshots and cheezed out tribal tatts.

For the shirtmaker knows that his artistry, his skill, all his family talent, will be lost forever.

Because shirtless tools in cargo shorts with metallic arm bracelets and Marisa Tomei Hotts on their arms no longer feel the need for his product.

And so the lonely shirtmaker in rural Romania weeps. He stares dispirited at his threads, his collars, his materials. Not even a fake “Armani/Exchange” logo can save his trade from ruin.

So he reads his Tolstoy by candlelight, sips his port wine, and cries out for the lost shirts of a shirtless culture. And then he mocks their freedom trails.

Bug Eyes

There’s a number of questions that jump to mind when gazing at yet another shirtless bug rubbing up on a dominatrix hott.

Why, shirtless in the livingroom? Can anyone explain it?

Is shirtlessness the 2008 pink popped collar of go-to douche maneuvers? And if so, can somebody knock me in the head with a checkered Vans sneaker?

But most importantly, who is that porcelain figure holding hands with Micky Mouse on the fireplace? Mark Twain? Jeff Goldblum? Kurt Loder?

I’m so confused. And it’s only Tuesday.

Mini Maguire

I’m inclined to give pre-Spiderman Mini Tobey Maguire a nottadouche pass.

Sure he’s got the 10 Degree Hat Tilt and stoned, quizzical “duude” thing going on. Sure he’s fondling that Southern Comfort with the sexually repressed rage/confusion of a Christian Coalition preacher.

But he’s managed to finagle Ali Landry Hott into hanging in his dirty kitchen with the faux brick patterns despite being a shrunken version of Spiderman. And she brought Michella, her blonde friend from the temp agency.

So mini Maguire, you’re okay by me.

Logan's Hair

Sharona, you’ve chosen poorly.

Now get the hell out of that retro-future 1970s sci-fi nightmare set and get to Sanctuary before Logan Five finds out you’re dating a Sandman.

The Dreadlocks

Dreadlock #1: Yo man, I gots a fine busty Coors Light Blondie next to me who I thinks is naked!

Dreadlock #2: That’s nothin’ bro! I gots a fine brunette half-Indian hottie on my side!

Dreadlock #1: Yeah homes, she’s pretty sweet. But mine is sweeter, yo.

Dreadlock #2: Get outta town! Yours might gots the bigger boobs, homes. But mine’s got sexy Comanche hips!

Dreadlock #1: True dat. But yo, neither of us get to go home with ’em.

Dreadlock #2: Why’s that?

Dreadlock #1: Look at what we’re attached to. #81’s got no game. And besides, these girls are P.T.P. Paid to Pose.

Dreadlock #2: Not only that, but we’re weedy strings of hair that smell like patchouli.

Dreadlock #1: No kidding. I wish Enrico would wash us one of these days.

Dreadlock #2: You said it, bro.

Shirtless Moby Dick

I believe it was the great American novelist Herman Melville who first described the link between the basic primal hunt for oil that drives human conquest of nature, and the destruction it causes:

Not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of man’s blood was spilled for it.

Human douche grease functions much in the same way.

It is produced not simply by the scrote fish that patrol the deepest recesses of clubland. It is not simply the byproduct of plankton, seawater and Axe Bodyspray. Douche oil emerges from the skin of Flipper McChoad as part of a complex economic exchange system in a larger ecosystem.

The lace hotts gather to the grease flame like 19th century whale fishermen. Dazzled by the economic and culture impact it signifies.

Now if only we had a harpoon gun, I could end this strained metaphor.

The Duke

Is it me, or is this guy the white Bill Duke? You know, the guy from Commando that Schwarzenegger impales on a chair leg.

Purple Hott’s got the squat, powerful thighs of a frontier’s woman. The kind that can rock your world all night, then get up and build a yurt before breakfast.

HCwDB of the Week

This week’s selections of hott/choad wrongness taste like flat Mr. Pibb filtered through a lace stocking and transformed into a Hott Toddy.

Part boobcoholic. Part turdscendant. Yep. The DB1 is off his meds and referring to himself in the third person. So shoot me. I spent the weekend chasing Hollywood Hotts through Jackie Treehorn’s party until a cop arrested me and told me to stay out of Malibu. At least I think that was me.

But, lest I continue grunting and blinking like a paralyzed French editor of Elle Magazine, here’s your finalists:

PIC DELETED

There’s been much discussion of whether to discount the PTP (Paid to Pose) Hotts when considering the merits of a hottie/douchey pic’s worth.

I haven’t made an official ruling. I’m inclined to agree that PTPers downgrade the wrongness factor a full two f-stops. Which loses crucial details on a slow speed Kodak grease moment.

Then again, when a choad’s robotic jaw, shiny head and hair that resembles dystopian hellfire from a late enlightenment oil painting congregate next to two gazumbas of mellonic juicyfruit perfection, there’s trouble in them there tribbles.

Megods, that last sentence just made English teachers across the nation do a Jerry Lewis spit take.

I blame my public school education.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Boobermensch

Wednesday’s Haiku offers us a boob of superior philosophical perfection.

What Nietzsche describes as the “Boobermensch.”

The perfect post-moral state of boobal perfection.

Then there’s MTV Trip Hop Tree Hugga ‘Bag.

He’s not the worst we’ve ever featured. Almost one of the cool stoner dudes from the quad you’d hang with during 11th grade lunch. But the tri-vag chin pubes just punched an Asian orphan named Wong Fei-Hung in the ballsack.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Frosted Flake

With a Hott Toddy of boobcoholic hott, and a run-of-the-mill choad, The Frosted Flake actually offers a pic that’s more than the sum of it’s parts.

Something about this couple just cries out for intervention.

And, at its core, that’s what every great HCwDB pic offers.

The desire for all of us to collectively separate them for the good of humanity.

But really, what it comes down to is boobies. Boobies I’d suckle, grope and fondle like a panda jacked on Red Bull. Boobies I’d take plaster of paris impressions of, and then make bagel and creamcheese paperweights.

So which of the three is our weekly winner? That’s up to you.

To celebrate the official entry of quartasian into the Urban Dictionary (next stop, Websters), cast your vote for one of these three HCwDB couples.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.