Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Cliff's Edge

Here’s the thing. If our culture is barreling towards a cliff at 90 mph and we’re all slip sliding over the edge in a giant cloudy vortex of hair gel and chest shaving, there’s one thing to console us.

Tanned perkage of breastalicious boobology.

It’s like the twelve essential spirits that Zoroastrian monks queried in their monastic meditative silence. The great mystical questions of meditation that come in bursts of hallucinogenic inspiration in the grand collective mythos of society.

Only instead of that, it’s boobies.

Friday Thoughts

As I gaze at Marissa Miller, Sports Illustrated model and wife of a cactus douche, party with a Hippie Scrote, I reflect on the week.

The hott. The choads. The collective Jungian unconscious that shrieks in primal horror at tight Armani-Exchanges of our souls.

I gaze out my window at the hazy airplanes cutting through the Los Angeles smog in the distance. I find my slightly befuddled thoughts drifting back. High school. Yael.

Dark hair, exotic, tiny, with perky boobies and glasses. She was the female Clark Kent of sexy bouncy boobie hott. Nerdy by day. Sex kitten superhero by night.

In a red cape, boots and lace garters with superpowers. Or at least that’s how I imagined it, sitting behind her in math class.

Then on Senior Skip Day, I finally approached her at my friend Kevin’s beer party. She flirted back. We made small talk. I stared at her boobs while she was refilling the ubiquitous red cup at the keg.

And then she left with Sean. Greased up fifth year senior Sean, who was suspended for hitting another kid in the head with a hockey stick. Uberdouche Sean, who spit when he talked, and smelled like onions.

This PBR is for you, Sean.

Somewhere out there, you’re still a douche. And someday I’ll find your picture. And mock you in pixelated form on this site.

But until then, I’ll dream of Yael. And stare at Marissa Miller’s boobs.

The Hills

The hills are aliveeee…. with the sound of douchebag….

Ask DB1

Jaymi writes in:

—-

The Book of Vinny 12:18

And the Lord said, ‘Let there be Scrote!’ And there was scrote. And the lord looked down upon it. And knew that it was poo.

And the Lord said onto Vinny, “Nice hair, beyoch.”

Friday Haiku

Sweet Young Janet dates
Phillipe “Two Tone” Lopez,
Gets back at daddy.

Older George Lopez
Gives chin-pubed douche smirk, hairless
Hott has good posture

— justice antonin scrotelia

Her earrings catch dreams
He dreams of his own shaved chest
Janet’s dreams will die

— mr. white

miguel tejada
slummin with the local girls
when is contract up?

— johnny scrotten

Confused brunette hott
Hangin’ with greazy forehead
Chin stain makes me cringe

— maximus douchemus meridius

Spanish fly works.
Get me a fly swatter now.
I see greasey tool.

— vacuum cleaner bagg

God's Sneeze

God: Ah…. Ah… ACHOO!!

DB1: You bless you.

God: Thanks. Oh crap, I got hott/douche all over you. Sorry about that.

DB1: It’s okay. You’re God.

God: That’s true. I am God. Hope you don’t have too big a cleanup ahead of you.

DB1: Nah. I’ll just mock the scrote from a safe distance while drooling on the boobies.

God: It’s what I would do.

DB1: While I have you, God, explain to me the significance of the Ubiquitous Red Cup. Is it a clue to the higher mysteries of the universe? The key to unlocking the wrongness of hott/choad cohabitation?

God: It is everything. And it is nothing. And tribal tatts smell like poo.

DB1: Exactly. Thank you, God.

God: No problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have sixteen DJs hanging from my nose and need to go get a douchewipe.

DB1: Of course. I understand. Later, God.

And… scene.

Six Boobs

In pondering the shifting pop-culture winds, there are always two reliable barometers of douchery in celebriland.

Firstly, the Ryan Seacrest Follicle Above Forehead (FAF) factor. Has it moved higher? Lower? Frosted? Lightly sculpted with moose oils? The Seacrest FAF is the atomic clock of douchebaggery. It tells douche to the exact microfiber.

Secondly, there’s the John Mayer Ironic-Cool Desperate Physical Change of the Month. In this month’s example, Mayerbag makes a sad attempt to look like Styles from Teen Wolf.

Mayberbag remains the plastic toy in the Happy Meal of Scrote.

Like tracking any outbreak or pandemic, there is much mutation. Tracking douche on the macro “celeb” level gives insight into the constant ability for the douche to dodge on the micro level.

Be sure to swat at it repeatedly with conceptual flexibility. For in that moment of schism, of break from the mutation into revelation of scrotalogical evidence, you liberate a hott and a boobie gets its wings.

DNA Dan Has A Thought

Fire… bad.

Grand Scrote Auto IV

Say what you will about the latest videogame graphics, but those legs on the right could pixelate my first person shooter.

Those legs on the right could power up my wireless console.

Those legs on the right could, uhm, sexually arouse me using euphemisms from gaming terminology.