Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Ice Man

Must you make the Douche-Face, working man’s Val Kilmer?

Ubiquitous Red Cup has taken over your shorts, and even though Jenny’s going wild on Spring Break and I can’t pin you as a super-douche, there’s still something about you that makes me itch like a post-coital Lohan.

Shades

I haven’t seen horizontal slot glasses that annoying since my last colonoscopy.

I don’t know what that means.

Don’t mind me. I’m a marshmallow in the S’more of uncaffeinated confusion. I go now.

The Bagnana Daiquiri II

Yup, January’s HCwDB of the Week Finalist (and eventual loser to Deathtongue)The Bagnana Daiquiri, is still swirling out there, showing off the groin fungus.

Thankfully this time, Disembodied Hott Arm (DHA) has appeared to offer a collective statement of response.

Speaking of the cultural violence of market system hierarchy, wasn’t there a 1960s book on the colonial subjugation of indigenous peoples, written by Frantz Fanon, called Black Underwear, White Belt?

Reader Mail: Aussie HCwDB — Peter Andre and Jordan

Pratt writes in to respond to last week’s post on Aussie hottie/douchey couplings:

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DB1-

“That ain’t a douche…THIS!…is a douche”
– Pratt
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She’s a little too celebu-trampy for true hott status, but you present a compelling case for Aussiebaggery, Pratt, and get extra props for the Croc Dundee reference.

To answer Cieran’s email yesterday from Ireland, maybe all the Eurobags went down to Australia to scrote up the hotts, where they joined rugby leagues, bought annoying bling, and shaved their chests.

Still, that dude could bench press my face with one hand while eating a Choco-Taco with the other.

The Boobie Epiphany

Lil’ Head’s Epiphany (a one-act):

Lil’ Head: Boobies!!

Big Head: Lil’ Head, we’ve talked about this repeatedly. Those large soft fleshmounds will only lead us into trouble.

Lil’ Head: How do you figure?

Big Head: First we have to convince her to ditch the cactus head. Then spend two hours at the cabana while she Woos with her six annoying Woo-Hott friends from Michigan State. Then she’ll borrow our credit card and disappear for four hours.

Lil’ Head: And your point is? I reiterate: boobies.

Big Head: Look lil’ head, it’s important that you learn context. Place the boobies into a larger framework.

Lil’ Head: By framework, you mean the butt cheeks and the holy hooha.

Big Head: The holy hooha is not what I’m talking about.

Lil’ Head: Well you should be. I’ll bet it’s where angels fear to tread, afraid to sully its perfection.

Big Head: No, but that’s very poetic, Lil’ Head.

Lil’ Head: Thank you. I’m feeling poetic today. And by poetic, I mean inspired by boobies!!

Big Head: Alls I want you to realize, Lil’ H, is that boobies alone are not enough to convince us to spend six hours on a fruitless quest, only to be left at the bar when another zebra-striped douchescrote walks by.

Lil’ Head: Hmm.

Big Head: Think of it this way, Lil’ Head. Pursuing the Bleeth Hott means boobies that are always out of reach. And boobies out of reach are not boobies at all.

Lil’ Head: So you’re saying if we chase the Boobies we cannot grab, then we lose the potential to locate another set of Boobies that we CAN grab.

Big Head: Exactly!

Lil’ Head: I will have to sleep on that. But first… Boobies!

Big Head: (sigh)

and… scene.

Quaker Scrote

PIC DELETED

It’s not the Tom Cruise in War of the Worlds jacket, nor even the pink shirt, although neither help.

It’s the swirly hair shave. The alien test pattern landing strip on Quaker Scrote’s temple. Look closely. Do you see it?

There is no aesthetic, not in any culture, that can allow this to pass without societal mock as response.

As to Blonde Chipmunk, I can’t tell which is more enjoyable, the ginormholyjebus liferafts, or the highly improbable Moses Bling she’s wearing between them.

I turn it over to the immortal Frank Zappa to sing us out of this one.

Name That 'Bag

Mobybag? Chainsawbag? Redneckbag? ElvisCostellobag? Weird Twilight Zone Masktatt ‘Bag?

I’m at a loss.

Help me out in the comments thread.

HCwDB of the Week: A. D. Artificial Douchetelligence

It was a close vote this week, all three finalists getting their due. But the crimson robot from the future was just too orange to ignore. baggle n lox makes the case:

It’s gotta be A.D.

Some dedicated work went into creating A.D., and we must recognize its genius. All hail A.D.’s futuristic, alien creators. He is robo-scrote; he is androidouche. He is HCwDB of the week.

Damn fine job summing up the win, BnL. daverobfreeman agrees:

Kudos to DB1 for the agony of choice. A.D. FTW based upon the apparent douchal contamination of the two Bleeths. Short Skirt the Librarian seems to be ignoring the filth that is PPK. Vin’s seeming enchantment of the Blonde Saline Balloonist is troubling, yet A.D.’d doucheccouterments, off center navel, and the total nausea of his orange-tinted face blows away Vin’s standard equipment. A.D.FTW!

Nausea being a key word, DRF, well said. But the everpresent anonymous argues for the Ping Pong Beerness of Kong:

Gotta be Ping Pong Kong because of the oblivion factor. How could one be in the presence of such a comely librarian and not be intensely conversing over the romantic poets: “You like Keats? Yeah, me too, but Tennyson really makes my johnson rise. Wanna see?”

Heh. And choadrunnah brings the argument for Vin, the Personal Trainer ™:

Vin. The winner for me because he’s old enough to know better. Unlike Mini Hawk, Vin is far too old to be indulging his inner-douche like this. And by indulging, I mean Axe body spray in glove compartment.

Plus, there can be no question that the Dairy Queen is the hottest chick in the history of the World. She even looks like she might not be that bright. Awesome. I’d switch to the cyrillic alphabet if it meant that she’d have more b’s and e’s to adorn her majestic tetons.

Nothing beats cyrillic alphabet references before breakfast. But phi slamma douchey brings it home for A.D.:

It must be A.D. FTW. The fire is stoked the embers burning and the poker sits ready. I enjoyed looking at the hottest of hotts and colors other than orange but the magnitude of scrotal monstrosity that is A.D. takes it. He’s got the beater, the jebus bling, the boxers, showing of the 7 minute abs’s, ripped jeans and orange. It’s been a good run eyes but you’ve got to go. Did I mention orange.

And batou concurs:

I seriously can’t tell if he’s real or made out of a mixture of wax and forehead grease. He looks like he was plucked from a future museum, where wax sculptures dressed up like douchebags to educate children about how primitive and distasteful 21st century mating rituals were (but in fact only causes them nightmares for weeks).

Anyway, this guy is beyond poo, he is in fact a metaphoric river of sewage. And for that, he deserves the weekly.

Orange takes the cake for A.D. proving the power of scrotal monstrosity can overcome second rate Bleeths.

Book A.D. a slot in the Monthly in a couple of weeks, where he’ll go up against some formidable competition, including Lawnmower Man and Droopy, as well as whomever wins this week.

It’s a well deserved win. And slutty barely legal “American Beauty” blonde is starting to grow on me.

Reader Mail: Mickey's Hot Chicks with Douchebags Review

Mickey writes in:

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Hey I just got finished reading the Hot Chicks with Douchebags book. I’m going to share its wisdom with everyone I can. I was in tears from laughter for most of it. The bit about punching the dwarf and then asking for change (CroBagnon page) had my ribs actually hurting!

Later!
–Mickey
—-

I feel giddier than a schoolgirl in a nitrous factory when I get emails like this. And yes, I’ll be pimping my book on this site until you buy it.

Yeah you.

I’m looking at you right now. I can see you through the screen.

Been reading my site for a year, but keep putting off actually ponying up the dough to buy a copy off Amazon? Listen to Mickey. Buy my book.

Caption This Pic

“Maybe the open call for dancers for the Long Island touring production of Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz wasn’t the best idea,” thought the casting director glumly.