Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Friday Haiku

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Don’t Look Now, Vinny,
But ants are climbing your chin.
Sister Hott too close.

Not-a-bag status
was one razor swipe away
clean that chin ass-wipe

— anonymous

Hunting for douche-prey:
young Werewolf Angelina.
Porsche-friend wears more blush.

— john edward(s)

Spikes grow, hair recedes
Cannot hide plucked unibrow
Hott’s eyes cry for help.

— Whitebread

Guido with Will Smith’s
College girlfriend from Fresh Prince
Oh, how she’s fallen.

— massengill

Persian Princess seeks
Douchebag with Chinstrap buttchin
Buckle up smiley

– husker douche

K-Mart Western shirt?
The Far East meets the Old West:
It’s BrokeBack Kharma.

– darksock

Da Boyz

Da Boyz are clearly back in town.

Buy why are they crushing Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle?

What? You’d prefer a reference to Maria de Medeiros in Henry and June?

As to our mystery “Name that ‘Bag” pic below, it is none other than Weekly winner Tighty Armani.

Fresh from Spring Break. And by fresh, I mean stanky. Congrats to readers burnsy, charles bagkowski, anonymous johnson, and the everpresent anonymous for getting it right.

King Douchuous the IV: Hall of Scrote

The votes have been counted. The arguments made. And while there were ample arguments on both sides, and by ample, I mean lots of boobies, The King is In. Long Mock the King.

In spite of his generally friendly demeanor, and a likely “pro-douche” status (club promoter, DJ, etc.), The King was not to be denied.

The everpresent anonymous makes the case:

kind of a cross between don king and the burger king. and that chin pube looks like some kind of scientific test, like try one conditioner on one side, something else on the other.

Nicely played, anon, Don King and the Burger King pretty much sums it up. But runaway douche makes the argument for amateur hott/douche combos to pack the true societal gut-punch:

I gotta give a thumbs down; the HoS should be, much like the olympics used to, for the purest of competitors: the amateur. Once a bag turns pro, the grace, majesty and pure competitive bag spirit withers under the harsh sun of sponsorship.

But dunkterdouche retorts:

Absolutely he should be in the Hall of Scrote. He is an absolute douchebag. Closely cropped and manicured chin pubes, studded belt, mandana. And every hott is smokin hott.

The hott factor must be included in any HCwDB pic, and what puts King D over the top is his quality of hott pull. Yes, he’s goofy and generally unthreatening. And I’d probably want to have a beer with him. But douche is douche. And it cannot be denied.

Prince Choadstool agrees:

This is very hard. I do hate him enough to get Medieval on his ass, yet he’s a pro… But, in the words of author Frank Herbert, “The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.” Just because we don’t understand the pro-douche we like to call King Douchuous IV, doesn’t mean we should count him out. After all, someone who chooses to do this for a living can be argued to be just as hateable and worthy of a good poo-flinging than someone who knows not what he does. Hall of Scrote for KDIV.

And Mahatma Gandouche quotes scripture in voting “yea”:

In the matter of HOS for the King I vote yes,and refer you to the following passage in the royal chronicles of his father Doucheous III written in 87 B.A.(before axe) by Pliney the Elder:” Behold a pale horse comes and upon him rides one who shall be known by his crown of grease and mandana and will be called King by some and Scrote by the rest”

For consistency of assclownery, the King of Douchetown, who wears his crown of hair gel proudly, has earned his place in the Hall.

I also bumped the Future Ex-Mrs. DB1, as my obsession with brunettes in librarian glasses need not take up space in the HoS.

Vegas Kurt

Proving that the spew of a sexy girl on the arm of an uberdouche is more rage inducing than the 28 Days Later virus, here’s Vegas Kurt.

He’s finally found a girl to appreciate his puka shells. And he wants the world to know.

Or, at least the guy working the 2am concession stand shift at the Glitter Gulch.

Where's Waldeeshe: Butts Edition

Somewhere in this lineup of mostly firm and luscious coed hindquarters (there’s always one saggy pear in the bunch), I’ve carefully hidden not one, not two, but five Jersey Douche.

Can you find all of them?

Name That 'Bag

This is a pic of a recent, highly regarded, scrotal infection posted to the site. And by highly regarded I mean caused a collective desire to stick our tongues into a lightsocket while singing the Nepalese national anthem.

Can you figure out which hott/douche couple this is?

The Pancake

The critical question our society must ask is not to be found in the grand philosophical treatises of history. It is not a question found in ancient Greece. Nor in the Romantic period. It is not found when ordering pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment in Vegas.

I do not know the exact wording of the critical question facing our culture as it slides into a global mish-mash of mass media spectacle, convergence and incoherence. The shouting bobbleheads. Ryan freaking Seacrest. The depressing nonsense of American Idol counterpointed with the premature cancelation of the genius that was Freaks and Geeks.

I know only that the question of our times involves two conflicting concepts. Really hott women. And their proximity to really, really freaking douchey black nailpolished uberscrotes.

Within counterpoint, within dialectic, the answers will come in glowing neon bursts of multicolored enlightenment. The message, the medium, the digital and the analog will compel us, silently, to mock the douche and lust after the hott.

Men, women, boys, girls, everyone. People from all over the world.

And we will.

Because douchebags are asswipes. And hotties are soft.

Dog

Dog appears to be a very large gang member, so I will simply remark that he is a scholar and an erudite intellectual with great acumen, and his facial hair configuration bespeaks a wise and jovial humanity.

His snake tatt is not douchey, and implies strength and boldness of vision. His tiny ambiguously Latina hott demonstrates modest, classic feminine dress and groin tatt that is not slutty at all.

Please do not break my spine in sixteen places like you’re flicking a bug off a maple leaf, Dog. I mean you no harm.

Instead, lets share a Red Bull and cigarette while we discuss Proust, Balzac, Kafka and the radness of Buckcherry.

Take Him to Your Leader

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Nothing Runs with the Goose Hotts quite like four alien antennae sticking off your douched up head.

I was going to make a Twilek reference, but thanks to George Lucas’s genius decision to unleash three steaming turds of overhyped, nonsensical toy ads on the American public over the past decade, Star Wars references have been demoted. They’re now ranked directly below allusions to post Funny Farm Chevy Chase movies, but still above anything involving Pokemon or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

It’s a complex pop-culture graph. Involves charting historical time, random evocation, general obscurity, mass culture resonance and subculture currency in intersecting matrices of overlap. Would take too long to explain.

So I’ll simply note that drunk strippers running with the Goose almost make up for Greedo firing first.

Wednesday Limerick

I’m pulling that last pic, and rebooting the Limerick. This one’s more fun:

Black Fingernails for Skier McCool,
Doesn’t hide the fact he’s a total tool,
But Sally’s can’t hear it,
A Sumerian Spirit,
Has taken over. It’s Gozer and Zoul.

Yup. The DB1’s hangover is killing the creative buzz. I need a coffee.