Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Food Court 'Bag Tag

spencer writes in:

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Not the greatest capture (Lacks full-frontal hott), but this food court was crowded and I was trying not to look like a total creeper.

Love the site.
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While the pic does lack verification on the hott, there’s a certain benign genius to this cohabitation of uberdouche and suburban mall.

To paraphrase Hannah Arendt, it has the banality of weevil.

Razor's Edge

Razor, your tri-vag facial pubes and silly hand gesture have the Lamar Latrell Popozaoed illogic of Alpha-Beta ennui.

Hmm. Something tells me that last sentence has been written before in literature. Perhaps it was Proust.

As to Pixie Hott, I haven’t seen thighs that firm yet gelatinous since the paddling scene in Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama.

And, no, that movie wasn’t even retro ironic good. But it did have paddling. So on its deathbed, it will achieve total consciousness.

Life Douches On

Give it up to the douchebag Corky. Not even fetal alcohol syndrome has held back his maturing double boob grabbing skillsets.

It’s a heartwarming tale of douchal triumph over limited means. Like Rain Man or Mask. Only with greasy tatts instead of genetic abnormality.

Let this be a lesson worthy of the Hallmark Channel by way of VH1’s Mystery. Anyone can achieve uberdouchosity with enough effort.

Windex

Monday’s selection of Hot Chicks with Douchebags is brought to you by Windex.

When your bathroom mirror fogs up from a mixture of Tag Bodyshots, sweat, spittle, hair gel, douched up wannabe rocker puds and unredeemable Bleethed out hotts, be sure to use Windex.

It’s also good for spraying in your eyes to remove the pain of cultural decay.

Windex.

For that de-douchificated shine.

HCwDB of the Week

Coming off a strong Weekly last week, we have another choice selection of hott/choad offered up like the Sunday buffet at HoJos. Last week, the vile Turd Flush rode the power of dual slutt-hott energy to a grown up fecal triumph. Over Dog, no less.

This week? Who knows which of these three couplings will rise to victory and book a spot in the HCwDB Monthly. That’s up to you.

Here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Johnny Pirate

Originally titled “Why There is No Hope for Mankind,” this Malthusian vision of a world where our food supplies have run out and godlessness reigns in the form of uberdouche paints a dark future for all of us.

But I needed to identify this Red Bull swilling choad, and so I knight thee “Johnny Pirate.”

And let us not forget innocent Neve Campbell sweetness. And no, I will not make the standard “Party of Five” masturbation joke. Because this is not 1999. This is not my beautiful car.

Ambiguously Asian Pixie displays her wonderful underarm shaving technique. That thing is smoother than a rabbit’s ass after being microwaved.

What, like you’ve never microwaved a live rabbit before.

Come on. 10th grade? What, you blocked it?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Miami Scammy

There’s such an incoherent miasmal stench to this pic, that I had to give it its shot in the Weekly.

Yes, “miasmal” is a word. Google it.

That smug, DeVry Technical Institute douchal expression. The double freaking belt, fer chrissakes.

As to the girl, I dispute with anyone that, underneath all that garishness, she isn’t a cutie. With arching back and sweet face, hers is a sexy young plaything buried in a mountain of brandname douchery.

And if we’re not here to find the essence of genetic hottness buried under a mountain of scrotal layering, then I don’t know what.

Because we are a shallow and petty people.

And the boobie does not lie. It just misleads, like a shifty numbers runner from the Bronx named Benny Blanco.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Pippy

Even though I got a takedown email from the brunette in that last Pippy pic, I refuse to admit defeat for this choad. While it is true that the ‘bag hunters in the comments thread felt Pippy may not feature enough adouchrements to qualify for finalist status, I’d argue otherwise.

I give you the douche-face.

And yes, my undying humpty hump for Sultry Ski Bunny of Perfection (SSBP) is a factor here. Large forehead? Perhaps. Uncanny resemblance to a young Drew Barrymore? Mayhap.

But I would still juggle koala bears in Rhodesia just for the chance to meet the Shaman who once removed the evil spirits of a Tiki hut occupied by her great aunt.

And I refuse to back down on Pippy. He is choad.

But choad enough to win HCwDB of the Week?

That, my friends, is not up to me. It is up to you. Honorable mention to Cowpoke, who just misssed the cut.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Vegas, Baby

There’s gonna be a party in Vegas.

Oh yes. There will be party: Saturday, July 19th.

Why, you ask? To celebrate the release of my book, coincidentally titled Hot Chicks with Douchebags and scheduled to officially be released on July 8th from Simon & Schuster.

If you’ve enjoyed the site as either an occasional or longtime ‘bag hunter, now’s your time to pony on up and buy a book. And if you’re the truly intrepid HCwDB fan, fly your ass to Vegas and celebrate with The DB1 in person. Buy me a cheap drink and I’ll sign your book.

Yeah, you. Join me. To celebrate, we will party.

There will be hotts. There will be douches to mock. There will be a one legged firespitter named Ned. Yes, your humble narrator in all things boobie/scrotey will be there, drunk off my ass and drooling on the cocktail waitress’s boobs while I pretend to care as she tells me about how much she hates her daddy.

Details of the day of celebration, libation and scatological procreation are still being worked out, but if you’re interested in joining me to celebrate, drop me an email to get more information.

And if you live in Vegas and know how to promote a party (and I know you guys are readers), drop me a line ASAP and help me figure out how to make this circus happen. Only two rules: No annoying pedestaled DJs. And no Goose Running.

Appendectomy

An appendectomy is surgery to remove the appendix. See also: Appendicitis

If the appendix ruptured or a pocket of infection (abscess) formed, your abdomen will be thoroughly washed out during surgery. A small tube may be left in the belly area to help drain out fluids, pus or general douchebaggery.

The Spiky Koala

When you’re more concerned with getting a picture of yourself attempting to bite into a pretty girl you’ve backed into a shrubbery than in the girl herself, you are a cactus douche.

You can see Koala’s thought process: Wait’ll I get this on Facebook! Da boyz’ll know who’s king!

Run away, Sherilyn Fenn cute. He’s not just one of the guys.

This Guy

Who has a finger pointing at the camera and is a huge pile of excredouche?

This guy!!

Heh. I always wanted to do that joke.

It’s Saturday morning. My bowl of Lucky Charms isn’t doing much to help the Night Train that decided to slap me upside the head at 2am. But not like I’d slap Baby Brunette’s butt check bottoms on the left. The one with the power thighs that could crush walnuts flung at 80mph off a racetrack in Daytona.

Come to me, my thunder thighed petunia. And bring your three friends.

"Whither the Douchebag?"

I was heading into my local Trader Joes to stock up on Peanut Butter Joe-Joe’s cookies when he stopped me. A young boy, maybe five or six years old. He was playing with a tennis ball and waiting for his mom by the entrance.

“Whither the douchebag?” he asked me, his eyes confused.

Unsure if he meant “wither” or “whither” in the old English sense of “to what purpose,” I asked him to repeat what he’d just said.

“Whither the douchebag?” he asked again.

I realized he meant to inquire as to douchebaggery’s origins. It was a surprising question from a kid so young. Perhaps he’d glimpsed the tatted up uberdouche visage of Xenu somewhere. Somehow the land of Armani-Exchanged tools had invaded and overwhelmed his young senses.

A question so complex deserved a proper answer.

“Kid,” I replied. “The collar pops not from without, but from within. As you grow older, you must fight it. Do not fear the douche. Confront it. Overwhelm it. And enlightenment will be yours.”

He nodded.

“Thanks.” he said quietly.

I wasn’t sure if he fully understood. But as I went inside I’d hoped I’d set his young mind on the right path of de-douchification and enlightenment. The path of self inscription.

I felt I’d made a difference. At least a little bit.

Later, at the checkout line, I hit on his mom.