Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Cowpoke

Yeee harrr!!!

Nothing beats the Cowpoke + Dog Tags look. Because when not taking out the cattle for a run over the plains of Utah, Cowboy Joe likes to serve in the Marines.

Yet he’s roped a fine filly there. Get ‘er dun!

The Google

Keywords: “douchey bling,” “stupid-ass trucker hat,” “sexy blonde Patsy Kensit” and “zebra couch sucks.”

HCwDB of the Week

After every Monthly vote, the Weekly has to account for two weeks of pics instead of one. Mainly because I’m too lazy to run a Weekly and a Monthly in the same week. That usually means an extra special serving of hott/scrote for your perusal and judgment, and this week’s finalists don’t disappoint. Each offer their own pungent smell of wrong.

So, without further apoo, here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Prince of Pud

This is a classic anger-inducing combo. Sure, the Prince of Pud isn’t as cartoonishly spectacle as some of the more extreme ‘bags. But he’s got all the factors of wrong in one greased up package of what I term “reality douche.” He’s real. And that’s what hurts.

And then there’s blonde Susan Winterbottom, descendant of the Mayflower, daughter of the revolution, getting back at her waspy parents and aristocratic life by partying with Tony Florencio here.

The brunette kissing Pud looks to be delectable. And there’s a red cup and Prince Caspian in the background. All taking place in what appears to be a neo-Nazi bunker. Yikes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dog

Dog is one of those unbalanced hottie/douchey pics where the douchery is so intense but the hott isn’t up to snuff, so that the question becomes if it’s enough to carry the pic through to victory based on imbalance.

As we know, a truly superior HCwDB pic has a zen totality to it. A wrongness and a rightness that cancel each other out and offer the contradiction of life that brings us truth.

But can the imbalance that is Dog carry a Weekly?

All I know is that Dog is a scholar and a man of peace.

He is polite and of classy breed.

He really shouldn’t hunt me down and beat me like a goiter infested 13th century mule in Scotland.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Turd Flush

Turd Flush also ranks high on the rage factor.

Rare is the douche who actually features his sunglasses on top of his mandana.

Toss in the beads and the two bar slut hotts, and the fact it’s all taking place on the deck of the Titanic means a sinking ship of wrong.

Alls I know is I need to scrub my eyes out with bleach.

So them’s your three. Three pics enter. Only one can reign douchepreme. Which one? That, my friends, is up to you.

Cast your vote, as ever, in the comments thread.

Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Quentin Tarantino

Quentin Tarantino is a douche.

I can’t deny it any longer.

I looked the other way for years. I made excuses when he launched his Broadway “acting” career. I chalked up his self-reflexive babbling and guest directing gigs on E.R. to the indulgence of creative eccentricity.

But then he showed up as a guest judge on American Idol.

Verdict: Douche.

When you choose to be that close to The Seacrest, your essence is transformed into mass culture backwash.

Yes, Dogs was a seminal movement. A rupture event of self referencing filmic pastiche, Hong Kong coolness writ large. But that was long ago. Today, douchedom surrounds the Q.T. like a glowing ball of rectal itch.

So we need to face facts. Q.T., ass kicking filmic revolutionary of the 1990s, is now tool. Lets not get a taco.

It’s like trying to convince yourself that that girl you had a crush on in high school didn’t gain sixty pounds, pop out some kids, and is sitting in a trailer somewhere, reading In-Style while watching TMZ and living off disability checks. Sometimes all you’re clinging to is the faded memory of former glory. The perfect ripe cleavage of long ago. Boobies that exist only in recollection. In nostalgic hues long past.

But the past is the past. It has to be said. Quentin Tarantino is an inglorious douchetard.

And Fergie, I know the masses mock you as not that hott, but to me, you’re still a juicy little boob eyed pea.

Redneck Armani

I can’t even begin to comprehend this one.

T.A.’s morphed into Jed from the Beverly Hillbillies, his mandana has somehow migrated down to his thigh, and Brunette J-Lo Hott on the right is saying “peekaboo!” with the most fantastic bumper this side of pre-bloat Kardashian.

So Tighty A, put down them barbells and get to work on those spindly-ass legs. I’ll take J-Kard out for unlimited Miller Lites at Flanagan’s, just across from the Freshman dorm.

Pimp Daddy

Not much overt douchery on Pimp Daddy, but he is still the Pimp Daddy.

No seriously.

I think he’s one of their dads.

Bridge and Tunnel Saturday

This is way too greasy a lineup for a Saturday morning.

I can’t tell whether this is a group of Jerseyboys trying to look “arty” for their night out in lower Manhattan, or if a giant blender attacked the sale rack down at The Limited.

Poor, sweet Nicole in the middle. Catholic Girls start much too late.

And I see you too, sweet little overbite Winona Ryder Veronica hott. Come to papa.

Tighty Armani Friday

It’s almost Friday evening, and you know what that means.

Somewhere, in a moldy smelling suburban Long Island basement, Tighty Armani’s ready to throw some doucheballs at “the ladiezzz”.

He might even snap their necks through the sheer scrotal pull of his hat tilt.

What are you gonna do about it? Just sit there?

Well, yeah. Probably.

But there’s lots else you can do. Get out there. If you’re a guy, offer to buy blondie a neck-brace and a beer. If you’re a girl, trip up T.A. by sticking out your foot when he heads to the bathroom to make sure his hairspike is still perky.

And so I ruminate on cute girls with neck problems. I contemplate another smoggy afternoon in smoggy-ass Los Angeles. I sip my cheap bum wine and I ponder our collective presentational displays of name-brand merit. Armani’s social construction embedded within our notions of “self.” Cultural capital in our market-based competitive mating pools of urban wanderlust.

And I realize the douchescrotes still haven’t learned. Collars still pop. And hotts are still confused.

But then there’s the flip. The reassurance whispered in my ear, tinged by alcohol and sugar rush. This too shall pass.

Or, at least, the power of cheap wine and boobie staring to soothe another week’s sand grains slipping past.

Ken

I like sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette. She’s got the arching back posture of a 19th Century aristocratic British housewife by way of trampy Jazz Age 1920s bootlegger parties.

And then there’s Ken. Currently performing nightly as “Dancer #2” and “The Tiki Love God” in the Don Ho Dinner Theater Tribute Extravaganza at the Ribs n’ Dibs Buffet off Kokoa Avenue.

Where's Waldouche?

Somewhere in this pic of a sno-cone cupcake candy corn melted twix bar of almond joy, I’ve carefully hidden a…

Oh who cares about that Waldouche.

I love you, blonde eros of blank stare and vague sense of confusion. I would tie crickets to a paper airplane and toss it over Macho Grande just for the chance to jump after it without a parachute and plummet to my likely death while pausing in mid-air to breathe a whiff of your perfume drifting on the breeze.

I would compose sonnets of free verse in Farsi if it meant I could Salman your Rushdies for a fortnight while fighting off Fezzik by sword, left-handed, near the pit of despair.

You are my snowflake, no one could ever stain. Come to me. Nuzzle me. Then yell at me when I inquire, innocently, if your best friend Shelly might just happen to be bi.