Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Mourning of Fathers

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Somewhere, in the distance, there is a mournful wail. And then another. They join in mutual pain.

The plaintive cries echoes over the dark streets of Mobile, Alabama. It sounds like two wounded dogs, howling together.

But it is not the noise of dogs.

It is the wail of both girl’s fathers. Joined in the mutual pain of having their daughers fondled by a greased up ur-scrote.

Each father thinks back and wonders to himself. “Where did I go wrong?”

It’s not your fault, fathers. The douche virus is too strong, even for the best of us.

However I will rescue your daughters. And treat them with the respect they deserve. While fondling their ankles and juggling hamsters.

Friday Haiku

“What went wrong?” she asked.
And I pointed her to this.
“Douche poo.” I replied.

bag light, allsack bright
first ‘bag that I’ve seen tonight
fun-bags, boobies…Sproing!

— ‘ol bagnanimous

Summer Solstice come
Baio-Dome contemplates tribe
Join, get tatt’, bag hott.

— baio-dome

Poppin Fresh Dough Girl
A Rebel Without A Clue
Please Oh Please Don’t Breed

— douchenozzle

Douche smell all around,
Yet stripper girlfriend smiles on.
The Bleething: complete.

— blair

tron glasses hottie
poses with travis barker
blink 180 poo

— bcs

Douche Super Heroes
Devastating POO Powers
Summons his Power AXE

— vacuum cleaner bagg

Droopy McScrote

Np amount of tatts, hand gestures, rings, low slung army pants, earrings or hipster glasses will hide the saggy fact of aging poorly as you hit 40, Droopy.

The kids don’t think you’re like that “cool uncle” they always wanted. They just think you’re gross.

And no, Surfer Kelly is not into you.

She’s just being polite.

The Wasteland and the Flower

A great philosopher, I think it may have been Archibald Leech, once observed that even in a barren concrete wasteland, a flower can grow.

In this case, that flower has a great tan, fantastic legs, a beautiful peroxide smile and a less attractive best friend. I want to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her while greased up with chicken-fat.

Conversely, the wasteland is trashy, smells like pledge, and has a creepy guy in the background who may or may not spend lots of money buying products from late night infomercials.

Gello

Ever thought to yourself, Gee, I wonder what would it look like if a cheesy metrosexual club scrote with giant gelled up hair who looks like Alan Cumming pawed a Germanic Fraulein in a psychedelic wind tunnel?

Well now you have an answer.

Ubiquitous Red Caveman

Congrats to my hometown Boston Celtics on their 17th Championship, and I’m pleased to see Ubiquitous Red Cup and Cavedouche merged into one singularity at the post-game celebration.

And while I’m doing an off-topic post, I want to take a moment to honor the late, great creature and effects artist Stan Winston, who died a few days ago at the age of 62. There was probably no one who greater impacted my childhood than the designer of the creatures in The Terminator, Predator and Aliens.

I had the pleasure of meeting Stan Winston at Comicon last year and he was a class act. Rest in Peace, Stan.

Thursday Morning Thoughts

I woke up feeling refreshed this morning.

Maybe it was the bizarre cocktail of Patron and Mr. Pibb I came up with at 2am last night that destroyed all bacteria in my lower intestine, but I felt strangely cleansed.

I got out of bed and stretched.

I fed last night’s leftovers to the British street urchins I keep locked up in the basement to amuse people at parties, and put out some granola on the porch for the Lemurs.

I watered down the petunias in my garden and gargled some windex to cleanse the palette. Then I went inside to the study.

Lighting up a stogie and pouring a shot of rum for Jobu, I contemplated the famous words of 16th Century astronomer Tyco Brahe, who stared up at the Prague skyline one night and casually remarked, “I have to pee.”

So I peed.

Then I contemplated Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of “Social capital.” How it informs the erotics of the douche/hott through the markers of name-brand validation (Armani/Exchange, etc.). How we flatter ourselves into thinking our sexuality is innate, when it’s actually guided by complex social forces that profit from ennabling cultural anxieties in the social sphere.

Then I stared at pictures of boobies. Boobies make lil’ head very happy.

I reached no grand conclusions, neither from Bourdieu, nor from boobies. But it’s Thursday morning and the sun is shining, and I’m still in New York. The book comes out in a few weeks. There’s a whole new crop of scrotes and hotts in my in-box this morning to go through and mock.

So there is still hope to save the boobie hotties from the wrongness of douchescrotery. And if we can drink along the journey, then all the better.

Castor Oil

It is rare when we name a douche after oil itself.

This is that time.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

At first I was going to give the Carmen Electra fan a nottadouche pass, a hearty handshake, then a kick out of the picture so I can stare at some inflated celebuboobs.

But then I noticed the dual ant-pattern facial pube config. Annoying. Stupid.

But enough to stamp “‘bag” on his forehead? That’s where I need you to weigh in.

‘Bag? Or Not a ‘Bag?

Ralph the Ferret

This is classic punch-in-the-gut “There is no God” Hottie/Douchey wrongness.

Three delightful suburban girls who want to get back at daddy, commingling with Suburban poseur-punk Opie Ron Howard Douche, all while two Ubiquitous Red Cups monitor the situation.

Middle Brunette wants me to tickle her pet ferret with a pigeon feather I fished out of the Hudson. Which I would. Because her pet ferret needs tickling.

And by pet ferret, I mean a literal pet ferret. His name is “Ralph.” What’d you think I meant? Perv.