Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Post Firecracker Exploded Ants Brown Mushy Paste

When I was about nine of ten, my friend Andy and I lit off a firecracker next to a small tree that was covered with ants. It was a big firecracker we’d bought on the 5th grade black market. Bigger than we’d ever lit before. We lit the fuse, then ran for cover.

After the firecracker exploded, we ran back to see what happened. The tree was fine, but the ants had all been blown into a brown mushy paste.

We laughed.

The end.

So maybe that story from my childhood wasn’t bathed in nostalgic Neil Simon glow. But it does sum up this pic.

Post firecracker exploded ants brown mushy paste.

Also the name of my favorite punk band from 1993.

Mr. Rebokto

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My eyebrows just spontaneously combusted into two small flames of hellfire.

The wrongness of Mr. Rebokto’s android mug being embraced by young Jenny McCarthy Hott sets palm trees aflame with societal injustice.

Yes, it’s likely a promo event. And yes, she’s likely PTP (paid to pose).

But I would suckle those rib fruits like a three month old Lemur infant starving due to Madagascar summer drought.

I would nurse my Lemur self back to health, and then crawl between her perfect pink hind-loaves and dream of sugarplums while gnawing on her upper thigh.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

Fruffy drink in one hand, uberhott in the other. Gelled up quisinart head is pretty rank, but no overly douchey hand gestures or kissy lips.

I need a ruling.

Is James Spader Ice a ‘bag? Or not a ‘bag?

The Fingernator

Peace signs.

From social protest to douched up “gang sign” made by glassy eyed Joe DiMaggio club trolls in hats three sizes too large for their heads.

How far we’ve come.

Skinny Brown Hott has that cute chimpmunk overbite that always makes my happy pants do the turtle dance. Yes, she’s flipping me off, but if I put on my alchy goggles, I can translate that as either “I want you,” or “Is it safe?”

Pokeymon

Ladies, when you feel something rubbing up behind you in a club, you should:

A. Giggle and blush
B. Call security
C. Politely ask the popped collar turd to remove his genitalia from your buttocks area
D. Swing your elbow into his face and call him a douche.

Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Adnan Ghalib

Adnan Ghalib, man-whore to broken down former pop stars, technically doesn’t qualify for this site since he doesn’t actually cohabitate with hottness.

But looking at this pic of scrotal antimatter in action, there was no way I could ignore him any longer.

For prancing about town with every signifier of cutting edge 2008 Douchery — from the landing strip chin pudes to the multiple rosary bead Jesus Bling — Adnan gets a well deserved 2008 Honorary Douchebag of the Month.

While it’s true he’s not penning pseudo-emo articles defending his douchery and making false claims to a deeper complexity, (::hack hack: ::John Mayer:: ::cough hack::), Adnan’s spectacle deserves note.

If we analogize The Lohan, The Simpson and The Spears as former supernovas of hott now burned out into husks of red dwarf detritus floating in the celebu-sky, then turds like Adnan Ghalib are the douche moons in orbit within their dying, decaying universes. Former solar systems of spectacular gravitational pull, now reduced to pop culture entropic burnout. Previously white hott burning streaks of light now pulsing in spectral fade like priasmic color swirl. Dimly flickering fadeouts in a distant corner of a rapidly realigning constellation tabloid sky shift.

As one of the many satellites of douchery orbiting the broken down psychological trainwrecks of early 2000s former celebuhotts like Britney Spears, Adnan Ghalib deserves the Federline Award.

Even Stephen Hawking would type out “douchebag” in a staccato electronic voice synthesizer to explain the physics at work in this abomination of humanity.

Suck it, Adnan. Have an Honorary HCwDB of the Month, and enjoy the last few moments of refracted glory within the dim, flickering flameout reentries of the 2003 Class of Hott. The landing will be hard, cold, and in a forest somewhere in the midwest.

Where's Waldouche: Giraffe Neck Edition

And while you’re mulling your vote in the Weekly, I’ve carefully hidden a Giraffe Necked Waldouche somewhere within this uneven lineup of hotts.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Hint for difficulty: He’s wearing a white collar and had chin graft surgery.

HCwDB of the Week

I’m feeling giddy today. Not sure why.

Yes, the ‘bags are still out there, performing tricks for fish like trained dancing bling seals preening on the diving board swimming pool aquarium show of life. And if that’s a crappy metaphor, I blame the frosted flakes.

Stupid frosted flakes. Influencing my run-on sentences with their tasty sugar high.

But I feel giddy. Because within the ‘bag/hott dialectic, we find truth. Beauty. Honesty. And poo. But before I ramble any more, lets get to the goods. Here’s your Weekly finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Zero
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Grin it up, Zero.

You are a popped collar of pud.

The truly potent and effective HCwDB pic must involve serious hottie pollution taking place. The Zero has every bit of post-collegiate fratbag entitlement assitude within that smug grin, and the pollution factor is high enough to put this pic in the Weekly.

She is a drink of purity. A holy meditative burst of utopian ideal.

She argues for a better tomorrow. She is the negation of Thomas Hobbes dystopia simply with the power of perky boobies and a nice smile. And when you can contradict depressing English philosophers simply with a smile, you gots some power.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Wally Playah

Yo.

I’se shirtless and that’s what makes the ladiez faint, yo.

It’s hard to argue with the sort of monosyllabic logic that a guy like Wally would likely produce in his defense.

But it’s the white sneaks that render this pic a Weekly finalist.

White sneaks.

No shirt.

Total douche.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Rehab 101

The 101, in addition to being one of my favorite coffee shops in Los Angeles, is also a reminder that no matter how cliche the Rehab hott/douche has become, it’s still extremely potent.

101 ‘Bag has the wonderful synergy of fauxhawk and chin stain.

The hotts are glorous, tatt free, and want me. How do I know they want me? I can tell. Because they’re looking at me with that look that either says, “Ravish me, DB1, with a bottle of ketchup and a midget named Tony,” or it says, “Did I leave the iron on?” I can never tell which.

So like the time traveling paradoxes in the movie Primer, does the weeble produce fungus?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Skippy the Fauxhawk

That Snow White/Rob Lowe clip was just too random to leave up on the site, so I blew it away. That’s what happens when the DB1 posts after drinking too much Mad Dog 20/20.

So instead I’ll post this pic of a Skippy The Fauxhawk, tackling an amply endowed cutie with the fervor of suburban white boy horny awkwardness.

Because it’s Sunday. And giant leather boots are gonna walk all over me.

The Quartasian

To make up for the pain of that last clip, here’s some Phoebe Cates. Phoebe Cates cures all.

Many in the comments threads have been commenting on how being 1/4 Asian elevates an already luscious package of boobies to another plane of uber-hott. No truer words have been spoken, other than perhaps “douchebags smell like poo.”

So we celebrate the quarter-Asian hott, or what I’d like to term, the “Quartasian.” The most famous Quartasian has to be the luscious Phoebe Cates.

So we coin the term and enjoy the hott on a Saturday afternoon by basking in the perfection.

Savor this respite, for it will not last. The ‘bags are marching as we speak.