Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB of the Week

This was a tough week to cull down into three finalists, and I’m sure some won’t agree with the choices. But this ain’t based on alchemy, it’s based on alchy. Yes, that was a horrible joke. I’m now going to do penance by eating another bowl of Frosted Flakes.

But I have an excuse for lame puns. I’m sitting on my floor, scratching myself, hungover after karaoke and PBRs last night. So, without further ado, here’s your finalists for the last Weekly winner before next week’s Monthly:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Yak

Gorgeous blonde ball of hott. Ass pimple.

As with every great hottie/douchey pic, it is the Yin/Yang polarity between scrotal assface and lusty boobage that creates aesthetic revelation and intellectual revolution. And tasty fruit roll-ups.

On the basis of these counts, The Yak has a very delicate and nuanced balance.

For those who argue that The Yak’s doucheyness isn’t matched by the hottness, I give you one factor:

Spiked hair + sideburns.

Very, very lame.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Tighty Armani

Tighty Armani, which would’ve had a cleverer name if I wasn’t already tipsy last Friday, matches The Yak for perfect wrongness of uberhott and uberdouche.

That’s two hot blondes in a row, and I’m more of a brunette fan. But they are both delicious.

T.A. brings a punchable friend, on the right, and a girl who appears to be making the dual upside down middle finger hand gesture, or what I like to call, The “Can you hear this? Maybe I should turn it up?” Breakfast Club maneuver.

And then there’s the chinstrap.

All chinstrap facial configurations should be shaved with a rusty shank spoon found in the dirt outside Shawshank.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: 2001: A Space Douche

I struggled with whether to give this space/time traveling astronaut of ass and his two uberhotts a shot, as the “pro” nature of the pic makes me wary.

Yet Lime Green Astronaut Hitler makes me want to punch a ferret in the lower intestine. Plus, as perfect counterweight, the model hotts are milkshakes of straw sucking delight.

So I had to give it a shot, “pro douche” or not.

That watch. How am I supposed to live in a world where assfaces wear giant wristwatches on their arm making the sideways peace sign, and mandana on the other?

Club promoter? More like DOUCHE promoter.

Heh. I’m clever today.

Honorable mention to the Exxon Valdouche oil spill and The Blowfish, who both missed the cut by thismuch.

Yes, it was a tough week. And these finalists are all quite worthy.

But which one will it be?

That’s up to you, the ‘bag hunters. Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Soylent Green is Douchebags!!

It’s made out of douchebags!!

RIP, Charlton Heston. From Touch of Evil to Moses, yours was a great career. I dedicate this greased up scrote in your honor.

Which doesn’t really make sense in any tributorial way, but since I write about douchebags, it’s all I can offer.

Sunday Boobies and Zombies

I… uhm… yeah.

Finntercourse

And since I can’t take The Weasel at the top of the page for that long, here’s another pic of Finland douche/hott taken by reader Finnbag.

Eric the Viking needs to have his Greenlands Icelanded, while I take Nordinary Hott for a ride on my Helsinkis.

But in their honor, I will drink only Amstel Light tonight. Which isn’t from Finland, but I’m American, so I can’t tell the diff.

This Week in Classic Scrote: Pauly Shore

It’s bad enough the world had to suffer through Pauly Shore’s brief comedic ascendancy in that post Dice Clay pre Chris Rock window of “opportunity.” The period of the early 1990s, or what I like to call “When Comedy Died Like a Cute Drowned Puppy Tied to a Rock.”

But I should cut The Weasel some slack. It’s gotta be tough peaking in your early 20s through a lack of any prepared material, a slowed down cadence of delivery, and then to be comedically outclassed by Stephen Baldwin in Biodome.

Still, I’m pleased to see Pauly Shore is keeping busy with the strippers. Gotta do something until the VH1 “I love March 16th-23rd of 1993” special finally airs.

Moles and Trolls

As we drift off into the orange hues of the fake-tanned sunsets on this Friday eve, I can’t help but think of the words of Val Kilmer in Real Genius: “Moles and trolls, moles and trolls, work, work, work, work, work.”

Indeed, Chris Knight. We work, work, work. But do we stop and smell the boobies? Do we stop and mock the Orange Armani Monsters of our collective Jungian nightmares?

That’s the question.

Excellent emails and submissions this week, some of the best we’ve had in awhile, so a special shout-out to all the ‘bag hunters emailing me every day. You people are doing Vishnu’s Work. It should be a great final Weekly vote on Monday before the next Monthly contest.

I was going to put King D up for the Hall of Scrote but we’ll do that on Monday.

Instead, I sip my red plastic cup of ‘Train, and meditate on the Boobie Hotties, while chanting my Sanscrit mantra, “Challabackgirl” with ritualized rhythmic cadence.

It’s another Friday. Another week of ‘bag mocking and hott lusting successfully completed.

As Antonio Gramsci once remarked, “The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.”

We must live without illusions in the blinding waves of white-noise douched up media spectacle we call mass culture. But the boobies can save us from disillusionment. Suckable hottie thighs. They can save us from ourselves.

On that note, I tip my ‘Train to all of you, and head off to pound PBRs at a local watering hole, where I will dream of tiny dancing Purg Hotties in hula skirts and with flowers in their hair. And I will not think of Those Who Just Bang Bitches and Drink. At least not until tomorrow.

Tighty Armani

Here’s the Official “Dear Sweet Jebus, It’s Time to Start Drinking on Friday” pic.

Although I do enjoy four free-floating disembodied hand gestures, flailing around doe eyed blond hott as she’s mugged by Mani. It looks vaguely like a gallon of sea monkeys, floating in a basement in Bismarck, North Dakota.

Lucky

Somewhere, from the ashes of late 1970s wood paneling, hot tubs and disco, emerged the seeds that would become Lucky.

The child of formica kitchens and horrible sofa patterns.

The douched up aimless wanderings of Dazed and Confused: The Next Generation.

All while snagging a Marion in Raiders hott.

How’d you do it, Lucky? What’s the secret to your pale, hairless, disco chest?

American Booty

Mildly famous curvy butted Hollywood actress Mena Suvari is apparently now dating what people in the industry generally refer to as “shoe shmeg.”

This is the problem right here.

If celeb hotts can’t tell the difference between a human being and an underwear poking, smirked up, smack worthy uberdouche who looks like he should be asking for change outside the Gas n’ Go, then trickle down theory states that the rest of the InStyle consuming anonyhotts will follow lockstep.

Shame on you, Mena. You could be at my house. I have tasty Frosted Flakes. And Night Train. Unlimited Night Train.

h/t WWTDD.com

Friday Haiku

Soup dumplings so soft,
Railroad Head makes Buddha weep,
Pray for Kung Fu Monks.

When I said ‘roofie’
I didn’t mean make me look
Like I have shingles

— i drink your doucheshake

Nice parallel lines
Proving Euclid on your head
With pointy compass

— mr. white

lychee nut slurper
wants to ascend mount fuji
bo staff to chin stripes

— ‘bag lanta

you know it’s bad when
you take your fashion cues from
home depot paint swatch

— johnny scrotten

Yao comes to study
Shaves self, scores Hotts, becomes choad
Dad’s pissed: no more cash

— scrotebob douchepants