Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Pimpit

Many people still struggle to understand the concept of the Douchebaguette — the Female Douche aka The Bleeth.

The Bleethed Hott remains in possession of the sexy boobie suckle thigh, but has become so polluted from proximity to “Pimpit” types, that you just know she’s a huge pain in the ass.

This does not mean one still wouldn’t desire to lick her upper arm area like an unmedicated Michael J. Fox on Taurine. Only that redemption for the hott is no longer possible. And we must lament the dark destructive force of douchescrotery on her once fair and pure bosoms.

Or something like that. I need a coffee.

Where's Waldouche? Frat Tard Edition

Somewhere in this lineup of Arizona State Pre-Med Major Future Nurses of America, I’ve carefully hidden a Fratdouche clown. And his bored best friend, Arnie.

Look closely.

Can you spot him?

For degree of difficulty, I’ve replaced Ubiquitous Red Cup with Rare-Ass Blue Cup.

Reader Mail: b4-4 and Ireland

(warning: This b4-4 music video not safe for children, small woodland creatures, and humans with even rudimentary levels of self awareness)

cieran writes in all the way from Ireland:

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db1-

ciaran
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Well observed, Ciaran, and on behalf of the douchal plague unleashed on the world by American mass media spectacle and name brand culture, I apologize. But since b4-4 is from Canada, they must share in the North American shame of scrotological fungus we have unleashed.

But Ciaran raises a good point — Colin Farrell. Huge fungus of cultural decay.

You need to take at least a little responsibility for global scrotology, Ireland. You used to be the land of James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and The Pogues. Colin Farrell has rendered your glorious history of poetry, literature, music and art moot.

Do something. Mock him until he goes away.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag: Maverick

I know what you’re wondering. What makes Maverick a douche? He’s not really doing much of anything. No hand gestures. No facial sneer. No stupid tri-tip facial shave.

Only a vaguely annoying fwip hair thing. And the aviator glasses from Top Gun suggesting he plays loud Kenny Loggins power chords while chest shaving each morning.

But enough to call Maverick ‘Bag? I leave that up to you.

And while you’re deciding, take a moment or three to chant Gregorian hymns in praise of Perfect Carla’s body of girl-next-door sin. She is Holy Sweet Jebus Crisp on a Saltine dipped in sweet foamy love hott.

Camoflage Ken

Camobag doesn’t really have the more spectacular giveaways we associate with scrotological poopy poo.

But then you look into those eyes. And you realize the doucheyness that lurks beneath the surface. It’s what makes Camo into the stealth douchescrote that he is.

But oh sweet Sarah.

How your eyes taunt me with that perfect sweet and sour delight. A wholesome grad student on the outside during the day. Willing to dress up like an Armenian weightlifter and tickle my underarms with a vibrating kumquat at night.

Like the great, unheralded classic teen sex comedy from the mid 1980s, Malibu Bikini Shop, I would make your army bikinis out of water dissolving stitches, then enroll you in the beach race just to watch hilarity ensue right before the closing credits.

Reader Mail: 'Bag Safaris?

Amy writes in:

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Dear DB1,

Amy
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Great idea, Amy, I love it. I can see the ad campaign with Richard Attenborough: Welcome…. to Doucherassic Park!

Any intrepid travel agent readers want to partner on HCwDB Vacation Safari Getaways? I’m thinking Scottsdale, Miami Beach, the Inland Empire, Chicago, Jerz, Dallas and Cabo as part of the extended tour.

Predatorbag

Get to the choppah!!

HCwDB of the Week

Bam!! Pow!! Your humble narrator is jacked on ‘Train and Frosted Flakes, and it’s only Monday Morning. The hopper is full of pics for the week, and I’m rarin’ to go. It’s smoggy and hot in smoggy-ass Los Angeles, and I sit on my floor and stare at the haze over the skyline, and think of how far we’ve come. And how far we still have to go.

But lest I ruminate for so long that I trip over a semi-colon and tangent into a run-on sentence, I’ll shut my yap and turn it over to you. Here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Ping Pong Kong

There’s something tremendous about this pic. Maybe it’s the plethora of Ubiquitous Red Cup in the cheesy, creepy dorm rec room with the two sad balloons on the wall.

Maybe the hilarious Pongster scrote with the silly hair and ‘beater tee.

Or maybe it’s my unhealthy obsession with hot girls in librarian glasses that I’ve had ever since I had my first sexual awakening to Jan Smithers as Bailey Quarters on WKRP in Cincinnati reruns in the early 1980s.

Oh Baily Quarters. We all knew you were the real hott, and Loni Anderson was just a Bleethed out piece of plastic.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: A.D: Artificial Douchetelligence

So named because this orange simulation of a real human being is the douchal equivalent of Gigolo Joe in A.I.

The only thing holding back the genius of this pic from achieving immortality is the lack of hott. The girls are just a bit too trashy to create the dialectic of Yin-Yang polarity that renders the truly superior HCwDB a Rorshach test of cultural violation and sexual desire.

But still.

He’s pretty god damn hilarious. About as ridiculous as we’ve ever seen. But enough to carry the weekly? That remains to be seen.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Vin The Personal Trainer ™

Since we haven’t had any Personal Trainer types win an HCwDB of the Week in awhile, I thought I’d give Vin his shot.

Not to mention he’s got two pics, so is starting to build up an oeuvre of scrotological impact.

And she is a delectable ice cream sundae of All-American Dairy Queen Soft Serve Delight.

It was either Vin or Raggedy Andy, so it was kind of a toss-up. Raggedy Andy is also pretty hilarious/awful. I also considered giving Penis Pants a shot in the Weekly, but tough decisions had to be made, and that foot is me. And Tim probably offered up one of the hottest hotts we’ve had in awhile, but was just too happy to really be in consideration.

So them’s your three. Which of these three couplings most makes you want to hot-poker your eyes out?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sunday Musings

Thanks to all who showed up for last night’s book signing at Book Soup. I hope your humble narrator did you proud.

Reading your own work in public is always nerve wracking, even more so when it involves frequent references to what you would do to the boobie hottie suckle thighs, but the crowd was supportive, and no scrotelobsters showed up to kick my ass, which is always good.

Ubiquitous Red Cup was in the house, as were my HoHos and ‘Train.

Speaking of literature writ visceral, a number of readers have been inquiring if the Hellboy/Selma Blair coupling constitutes a hott/douche situation, given that Hellboy is rocking the burnt orange skin, displaying his abs, and has a tuft of chin pubes straight out of the O.C. I’m inclined to give Hellboy a pass, what with being a mutant and all, but figured I’d open it up for debate.

I would trade in a post-Yeti Natalie Portman at the Macy’s exchange window just to purchase a Flowbee to give Selma Blair’s cat a more even summer haircut.

Douche Mating Ritual II

It gets worse.