Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Holy Blue Triangle Returns

One of the first sexy bar hotts to capture the imagination of both male and female ‘bag hunters here on the site, seen here and here, The Holy Blue Triangle, wanted to stop by and wish all four contestant couples luck in the Monthly.

Sadly, her first appearance, in which she revealed just a hint of blue panty, was lost to douchal request.

No peek of Holy Blueness.

But a delightful smile as always. And also, tragically, a standard issue stage-2 douchescrote in tow.

HCwDB of the Month

While this may not have the epic smackdown feel of last month’s HCwDB of the Month (which produced three, count ’em three, Hall of Scrote members) there’s still much to be said for this Month’s battle.

However, I’m gonna mix it up.

I’ve decided to bump the standard rocker douche that was Kid Scrote. That coupling of Rocker Trash and Barbie Hott was a runner-up anyway, who stepped in when the genius Yo-Yo dropped out due to general pussitude.

Instead, I’m going with the Pancake. Yes, that’s right. Straight to the Monthly. Controversial decision? Maybe. Lets see what happens. Here’s your finalists for HCwDB of the Month:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Pancake

Yes, this coupling of innocent sweetness and rocker douche didn’t yet win a Weekly. But he would have.

This combo has that thoroughbred HCwDB combo quality. All the bases covered of that truly odious attractive female with heaping Dave Navarro douche-face wrongness.

Facial pubes? Check.

The Ubiquitous Black Fingernail polish of post-“Mystery” inspired clownshow spectacle?

Check.

An innocent doe that would curl up with me at 2am while I worried about who the last cylon is?

That, too. Her hint of cleavite is majestic.

But enough to win a Monthly without a Weekly win to pad their resumes? Hard to say.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Tighty Armani

Like dainty facial hair forming into a global chin strap that stretches from sideburn to sideburn, Tighty Armani grows on you.

Or perhaps like a fetid fungus. Growing on rotting wormwood.

At first you don’t think he’s so bad. Then you want to lay down a line of frogs on fire with your patented frog flamethrower.

Also this blonde continue to dazzle me with high cheekbones and sweet eyes of mannequin youth.

Toss in the punchable face on the right and the massive swarm of hand gesture, and Tighty Armani’s covers the spectrum of all that is douche.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Turtleman

Rarely do we get douche superheroes competing in a Monthly.

Turtleman first impressd with the single spot of blond locks, the popped pinkness, and the dirty rural kitchen that looks like Jeffrey Dahmer’s workspace.

His slightly confused girl-next-door brings an added punch to the mix.

Watch as Turtleman fights crime in Marvel Comics latest release:

Turtleman Meets the Scrote Fungus

It’s an action packed extravaganza.

Yeah, Turtleman probably doesn’t have much chance in the Monthly.

But dig those bleach stains on the pants.

They’re beyond cool. I’m talking George Michael cool. Which is to say not.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Small Package

Perhaps the highest on the “needs to have his ass kicked” scale among our four Monthly candidates (although Pancake puts up a good argument), The Small Package infuriates with annoying shirt, douche-face, and vacant Norwegian blonde on his arm.

There’s a surreal aesthetic to this framing, mise-en-scene and general grease face that evokes early Edward Steichen phographs.

Yes, art.

But by art, I mean dada poo.

Mmm… amazonian blondes in wifebeaters and choke collars.

So them’s your four.

Four enter. Only one can triumph.

I need to hear from you. Which of these four couples most deserves to win the HCwDB of the Month and have their shot at the coveted HCwDB of the Year at December’s Douchie Awards?

Remember to weigh both douche and hott. Hott and douche. In Yin-Yang polarity. In contrast. In dialogue.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Joey Porsche's Sunday

Sure, your Sunday might be enjoyable, relaxing and filled with red cups and boobs.

But is it on the Joey Porsche level of jogging tracksuit?

Methinks not.

Mo' Cheeks

Look at these two ass cheeks. And that girl has a fantastic butt as well.

Yup, went for the obvious joke.

She is shaped like a blossoming rose of feminine perfection, but is a bit too skinny to achieve it just yet. But add about eight pounds and I’d cut off a toe just to prevent Karl Hungus from micterating on her rug.

As to The Gator pic that I had up this morning and pulled because people felt it was too disturbing for the site, judge for yourself here.

Attack of the Drone

Ah, Natalie. My Natalie.

My beautiful, wholesome Semitic American Princess. My tiny ball of kosher for Passover jelly rings of hott.

How could you do this? How could you (allegedly) be dating a smelly yeti of emo-douche?

After all we’ve virtually been through. You have shattered my world. Rendered my entire paradigm off kilter.

Natalie, you are my little ball of Hollywood perfection. My future ex-wife of many fights and passionate makeups. Yes, you’d make me sign a pre-nup. And yes, I’d get nothing when you eventually left me for Dave Grohl in 2010.

But I would sign that pre-nup. After only briefly checking with my lawyer. Because you are my vision. My cherubic dreamgirl of endless fantasy, only occasionally involving kitchenware and rubber.

We would read Gershom Scholem and Moses Maimonides by Israeli candlelight. Then I would rub Crisco on your toes while humming the theme to Silver Spoons.

We would dance on my rooftop sipping Chablais, then you would yell at me for getting freaky with your bathrobe while you were at the gym. And I’d apologize.

Ah, Portman, my Portman. Drop the cycle of endless Hollydouche and join me for chianti by the pool, you in a sexy red bikini, and me scratching myself and wondering if I smelled like onions.

Make my fantasies come true, Natalie my Natalie. Put on librarian glasses and spank me with a pool cue. Make me smell your glove and yell at me for misinterpreting the Talmud. Because I’ve been so very, very naughty.

(Pic, and shout-out back to Egotastic.)

Saturday Morning Pancake

You know what, waitress?

I’ll have the eggs and bacon instead, a coffee, and some kerosene to burn out my eyes.

Please take away the pancake and hazmat it in the back.

But definitely leave the brunette cinebon. She is sugary.

Hawk Friday

Here’s a classic case of what happens when cuties commingle in the presence of faux-punk suburban wanks.

First come the hand gestures. Then the giant sunglasses.

Then they’re greased up with one boob hanging out as they stumble around at 2am clutching a bottle of Goose like a phallus substitute.

That’s the path of Bleeth.

And it’s up to you to stop it.

So I sit, dazed and bemused, I sip my PBR and enjoy a tasty Hostess apple pie, and I bask in the sun. The douches grow, but so does societal consciousness about the plague of scrotal wrong. So there’s that.

Turd Flush

Once, when I was seven or eight years old, I crapped a turd that had a face on it.

No, seriously.

I looked down into the bowl, and my turd had a weird little face on it, staring up at me.

In the lunch room the next day, I told everyone about the turd face I’d seen the previous evening. But the other kids just laughed. They didn’t believe me that I’d crapped out a turd with a face on it.

But now I have proof. My childhood turd grew up to be a club going slut-hott fondling log of fecal matter formed into Golem-like human corporeal form.

I’m still figuring out how it survived the flushing process, though. Maybe it’s like that old b-movie Alligator. Flush it away, only to have it return to haunt us all.

Sorry, world. I had no idea it would survive the flush.

The Gator's Dad

Who knew The Gator’s Dad was into the whole S&M thing?

It’s one thing when young douches sport the sunglasses at night Corey Hart wrongness. But when the old ‘bags start sporting their late 1970s heyday aviator shades, it’s time to call in the Ghost of Burt Reynolds to Cannonball Run this monstrosity once and for all.

And yes, little pouty bikini hott, I see you too, you naughty little daddy hating girl.

Your winsome smile suggests that of a 19th century Charles Dickens Liverpudlian bar wench. Fetch me some mead-wine before I call in the bobbies.

Friday Haiku II

(for those who need more to work with)

Red Riding Hood, no!
The Big Bad Douche Wolf , danger!
What big hair he has.

I miss basement shows
So many reasons to fight
God bless punk rock girls

— clementine of cappadoucha

Matching hair patches
New strain of Greico Virus
Immunize: pointless

— don choadle

Racing stripes look fast,
Aerodynamics are key,
To catch fleeing hott.

the alpha douche

This hott is sporting
A rack to cool grandma pies.
Nicely framed in grey.

— “old ‘bag eyes” frank scrotnatra