Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Blowfish

Who knew that blowfish can move on dry land, dress up as douchenozzles, and take self portraits with digital cameras?

What’s next? Elephants painting?

Velveeta 'Bag in the Hall of Scrote

We held a vote a few weeks back for adding Velveeta ‘Bag to the Hall of Scrote, and while it was not unanimous, the Melted Cheese of American Cultural Blight has just barely made it in.

Most went back and forth on whether to admit entrance, as pro-douche status is usually a disqualifier for the elite hottie/douchey combos that make it to the top. But Velveeta has three very important factors.

1. He is very very ridiculously douchey
2. He hangs out with the cream of the hott
3. He’s a Sleestak.

So, pro or not, he’s in.

The votes were about 60%/40% in favor. As Rage Against the Douchine put it:

Big. Time. D. Bag. Must. Enshrine.

Agreeing was Scrotebob Douchepants:

My first consideration for the Hall is always multiple HCwDB appearances. With one showing, any ‘bag could prove to be a huge choad, but we can’t be sure he can sustain it. After numerous sightings, where the ‘baggery continues to out-do itself, then HoS must be considered.

Just say Yes – to the Hall of Scrote.

But there were objections, as this one from Mr White:

The perception of douche is surely subjective, with each of us applying our own metrics to judge how offended/appalled/disgusted we are by a given specimen. I think I look for undeserved cockiness, which is personified by the Peaches Point, the Gator Scowl, or the HJBBAD verbal diarrhea. And for me, Velveeta just isn’t giving off that vibe. A blank stare and some very, very questionable wardrobe choices, for sure, but no latent douche hostility.

But as all your douche are belong to us so succinctly puts it:

all his douche are belong to HoS

While the objections were strong, I think we’ll all come around to realize that this guy deserves his cheesic cheesitude immortalized.

Tomorrow, another nomination. There’s been a call to consider King Douchuous the IV, and so we’ll put it to a vote.

2001: A Space Douche

It’s like astronaut David Bowman from 2001: A Space Odyssey mated with a lime green Adolph Hitler.

I don’t know whether to mock his tatts and wristwatch or worry that he’s going to invade Poland as part of a master plan for a Thousand Year Douche. While searching for a large black monolith. A monolith with boobies.

Tooth Hurty

This pic reminds me of an old joke. No, not the one about herpes.

What time is it when you have to go see the dentist?

Tooth hurty.

Hello?… Is this thing on?

In Soviet Union, library checks you out… what a country.

The Velveteen Cold Sore

The Velveteen Cold Sore is a lesser known children’s folktale from 1890s northern Germany. Like other children’s tales of the period, The Young Girl Who Expressed Emotion and Was Butchered on a Slab and The Princess and The Sixteen Wolves who Took Sexual Advantage, times were definitely different in terms of imparting moral lessons to youth through parable. Those wacky late 19th century Germans.

As to the two suburban princesses, I would fly to the Comoros Islands and banter in Swahili to buy an ancient doll with magical powers that would conjure up a wacky series of impossible random events leading to my getting buried in a pit of quicksand with only their discarded mascara and a small Ukranian goat for comfort, just for the chance to sniff their discarded mascara.

But then I’d have to figure out what to do with that small Ukranian goat. I think I’ll name him Tim.

Reader Mail: Finland

In the ever increasing list of countries suffering from the global douche plague comes this email and pic, all the way from Finland:

—-
Dear DB1,

Finnbag
—-

Something tells me if this guy had a million dollars, he’d do two chicks at the same time.

Surely You're Joking, Mr. Fratbag

I believe the great physicist Robert Oppenheimer once calculated the correlation between greased up forehead, Miller Lite and the douche-face.

A(x/e) + (LA/Looks) / f(r-at) = d/ouche+f(ac)e.

Sorority girls, please exit the premises immediately. Robert Oppenheimer’s about to lay the smack down.

The Frog Flamethrower

I’ve always had this dream to build and patent a flamethrower that shoots tiny flaming frogs out of it. Little frogs on fire. Bullfrogs, maybe. Or tree frogs. Either way. They’d work like organic napalm, little splats of frog fire that smush into the douche-face like a mixture of spittle, fire and amphibious feet.

Okay, so maybe no one understands my lifelong dream to build a frog flamethrower.

Maybe the patent office kicked me out when I applied for my Frog Flamethrower Patent. And maybe they asked me to take my twelve inch pianist with me.

But if the Flowbee can be patent pending, why not a Frog Flamethrower? That way I could take out this nasty bleethed pair of wrong by laying down a crossing pattern of flaming frog fire.

Yup, The DB1 is drunk on the Mad Dog 20/20. And it ain’t even noon.

Where's Waldouche: Armpit Edition

Other than Skywalkerbag in the front, mugging a delicious Key Lime Pie, I’ve carefully hidden a giant heaping serving of shirtless uberdouche somewhere in this pic.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Wednesday Limerick

Kimmy and Kelly like to read Edith Wharton.
So they went and got a steak dinner at Morton,
Then headed for the bar,
to smoke a cigar,
Where they got fondled by Douchey Bob Thornton.