Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Backstreet 'Bag

This is one of the Backstreet Boys. Jordan, I think. Or maybe Donnie.

Note the black fingernails, receding cactus hair and small army of picnic ants on his face.

In the immortal words of Paco the Tijuana Cab Driver: Eh, how you say, duche?

Then again, he’s rescued his drowning career by grabbing onto two large flotation devices. So he wants it that way.

It's Saturday, Bra!!

Bra!! It’s Saturday, broheim!!

And you know what Saturday means, bra. Time to strip down to silk shorts and wristdanas, brosky.

And say hello to the strippers, bra.

Bra!!

Friday Thoughts

As another Friday passes by, Ubiquitous Red Cup comes to me and asks me questions.

How is it that the ‘bags we examine each day can cover such a wide variety of shapes, forms and variations, yet they all converge into a single ball of societal douche?

Maybe we’re missing the key nexus point where contradiction converges: The spectacle of difference and the structure of sameness.

Maybe the spectacle of douchosity is not how we percieve it. Maybe it informs the erotic by virtue of its meaningless shell of exterior. The hott desires the glinty shell by virtue of its great irony — that within the visual spectacle of uniqueness, she will actually find the comfort of sameness.

Ours is a culture of cacophonous mutiplicity, mass marketed artifact. Yet, spread across the wasteland, from sea to shining sea, the baubles become devoid of content. Denatured of context. Form without meaning. Shells of Speed Racer mass produced masculinity, store bought Iron Man icons of rebellion reprocessed.

This is why the mohawk has been rendered ridiculous. It has become denatured of originary act, reprocessed as mass culture club going gimmick. Originality sold by the yard in the conceptual chain outlet of mass culture recoding.

Che Guevara club t-shirts. Dog-tags, once the requirement of a soldier’s potentially dead body, turned into brand-name trinkets sold at Armani outlets. A shiny metal object rendered as meaningless pseudo-masculine “bling.”

There is no meaning, so the spectacle becomes fragment. Strands of an originary cultural sameness.

Thousands of TVs reflect back to the Hott the bauble, the glint. The shifting brand names, the power chord rock song du jour, the follicle length of the month, Seacrest Approved.

These signifiers congeal into the singularity she calls “boyfriend” and validates her desire as cultural net worth. No words needed. Just icons.

We have become walking hyperlinks.

Bodies as intertextual echo of media super-spectacle.

Our physical presence no longer exists. We simply communicate the codes of market set value in the hopes of validating ourselves in the eyes of the collective other.

We trip the wiki fantastic and link across the wastelands, our belt buckles as hypertext, our A/X shirts as link exchanges. We charge our sense of selves on the collective power outlets of quick cut digital flash and the noise of the latest 31 Flavors.

The Hott intuits these values and pursues their market worth. But while the Hott may chase the Douche, she can never catch up to ephemera. It is a digital carrot on a pixelated stick — always out of reach at 29.97 FPS. A drop-frame simulacrum of structure designed never to resolve itself. Only to perpetuate the chase.

But once we shed the bling, drop the Goose and turn off the turntable, the image dissolves into actuality. The thumpa-thumpa noise fades, and the authentic body reemerges. Fixed. Present. Real.

In the end, they can’t buy and sell that online. Our bodies are still here. And the boobie is still firm and succulent.

So we got that going for us.

All That Scrote

I always knew we’d find evidence of the lost Bob Fosse musical, All That Scrote.

Rumors had abounded for years. Strange dance sequences involving stripper hotts and lanky Ryan Gossling types with chinstrap facial pubes.

The whole thing a dark commentary on America’s lost foray into nihilism in the go-go Wall Street Reagan years.

With snappy orchestral accompaniment. And Ben Vereen as Bill Cosby.

Orange Color Space

The color orange occurs between red and yellow in the visible spectrum at a wavelength of about 585 – 620, and has a hue of 30° in HSV color space.

Orange pigments are largely in the ochre or cadmium families, and absorb mostly blue light, as well as greasy hair gel.

Johnny Blaze and the Clubdom of the Crystal Skull

Douche archaeologist and noted professor of scrotology, Johnny Blaze, is back!! And this time, it’s personal.

And by personal, I mean gelly.

Watch Johnny Blaze swing through another wacky adventure involving two club hotts, a bottle of Grey Goose and sixteen Soviet footsoldiers falling off a truck.

Friday Braku

Bra!! Spring Break, Broheim!!
Seven hotts and diet coke!!
Bra, dig my package!!

Bra loves his soda
How can seven hotts compete
With carbonation?

— mr. white

Da bomb was Pepsi!
Coke is awesome too Bra ya!
Bra I have Hep C!

— vacuum cleaner bagg

Italian haiku:
leaning tower of slutness
my extra toppings

— douche mccallister

Braaaaaaa! Yo, Broseph! Braaaaa?
Grab another brewsky, braaaaa!
Sups, Brosephina?

— burnsy

Bitch drank my Pepsi!
Brand loyalty’s not my deal.
Leg-humping chicks is.

— anonymous

Why stand on crowd’s edge?
I would jump in that pile
Like a kid in leaves.

— wohlfat

Confusious does say
Girl in blue skirt need eat more
Thigh look like noodle

— dunkterdouche

Frankie and Annette
Never wanted stuff like this
Beach Blanket Douchebag

— alan hull

Thugs 4 Life (Or Until Monday 9am)

PIC DELETED

When not managing the shipping department at the local UPS branch outlet, where they’ll be happy to help you with your packing needs, Jake and Cecil are THUGS 4 EVA.

Patty, Kimmy and Suzie are begging me to talcum their butts with melted Peeps and then rub mustard on myself until we form ass-peep sandwiches.

Oh, like you’ve never had an ass-peep sandwich.

Prom Night at HCwDB

If you ever wondered what prom night would like like here at HCwDB, now you know.

A curvy girl-next-door type, an open box of Coors Light, a security guard in the distance, and a heaping uberdouche.

Then again, I don’t usually hold my proms in a quarry straight out of a 1970s Doctor Who invasion episode.

On an unrelated note, I have one more Bra!! pic that is so genius, I have to hold it for Friday. Think of it as something to look forward to. Your reward/punishment for a successful week of ‘bag mocking.

Ask DB1

Arthur writes in with an important question:

—-
DB1-
I love your site!

— Arthur
—-

This is an important question, Arthur, but the short answer is yes.

A female douchebag is referred to as a douchbaguette, or a Bleeth. The Bleething process, stages 1 through 4, measures how far gone a hottie boobie suckle thigh is, and whether or not they can still be saved, or are lost to douchery forever.

However you may experience what some refer to as the Douchal Paradox, in which you realize a girl is a huge douchebaguette, but you still desire to paw her upper thigh area like a lobotomized ferret.

This is normal. Do not be alarmed. Even the most experienced ‘bag hunter suffers from this contradiction.