Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Don

I do not judge Don for the ginormous mellon head, nor the silk yellow boxers, nor even the mugging of two delightfully curvy nutrasweet pixie sticks of melted twizzler sunshine enchantment.

I judge Don for the four scrotey-ass necklaces.

I can accept one necklace. I can accept two. I can even accept the reprocessing of ordinary objects as jewelry, as with the Sid Vicious lock.

But four? Is, how you say, douchey.

And that little patch of chin fur needs to be shaved with a dull pottery fragment recovered from the Albila of the Decapolus archeological dig of 1983.

Because the Byzentine Empire made some rad pottery.

Vitaly Crotchko

Life’s been rough since losing the belt in the Light Doucherweight division, eh, Vitaly?

Blondie is a little too Dress-Up/Alien for my tastes, but underneath all that swag, there’s a sweet innocent coed that just wants me to lightly spank her toesie wowsies with a Hawaiian Mai-Tai umbrella after dusting them with confectioner’s sugar.

Where's Waldouche? Simulacrum Edition

Somewhere in this lineup of thirteen tasty California fountain-drink hotts, I’ve carefully hidden a Waldouche or two.

Extra degree of difficulty: In tribute to John Lennon’s I am the Waldouche, this pic presents troubling notions of subjectivity and spectatorship in the digital simulacrum.

Who is the Waldouche? Is it I? Is it he? Is it we? Have we indicted ourselves? Or ourselves as “Other”?

Look closely.

Can you find him/us/them/we?

Appendix Albert

I think it’s sweet of these two girls to attempt to remove Albert’s swollen appendix with their tongues.

And by sweet, I mean douchey.

Uber Fish Slap

The Slap laughs at the newbie attempts of Fung to take his crown.

The Slap muscles up. And shaves a streak in his hair. And mugs three Milfs at a party.

Better keep on your toes, Slap. There’s new competition in town.

HCwDB of the Week: Fung

In spite of a healthy debate over proximity of hott within the hottie/douchey dialectic, it was an utter landslide.

The sheer overpowering stench of Fung carried a distant and ambiguous hott side to a slam dunk win and an early favorite for the next Monthly vote.

HRH King Friday XIII: FUNG. How can you not? He’s approaching the theoretical limits of douchebaggery.

Anonymous: Neither of the two can even touch Fung, he is the true T-1000 of douchebags. If anyone uses Fungs name in vain they will spontaneously combust.

Baby got ‘Bag: This isn’t even a contest. Fung wins hands down. That blonde in the background is just trying to even up the competition by looking normal and not particularly sexy, but she’s a healthy girl next-door type with a nice…well, I can’t really see much, but you get my point.

Willy: I vote F.U.N.G. F@#king Ugly Newjersey Guido. If a picture says a thousand words, the first 999 words for Fung are pejorative adjectives and the last word is douchebag.

Fish Slap: I looked at satan and I looked at Fung. They are one in the same. His eyes have burned my retinas. His fungi has made my skin melt. His orange glow has made me write bad checks. It is because of Fung that my credit is bad. God, please kill this man now. He is what is wrong with our country.

Desertdouche: Oy vey! This was a tough one. Even though Fung doesn’t have a hott in the foreground, I am giving him the win. Mencken and Old Chap I just want to laugh at. But Fung I want to inflict serious pain upon.

anonydouche: fung – so douchey he won’t even allow himself to be pictured with someone else

KierNotKier: I must vote for Fung. For Fung is all that is douchebag. If one was to lookup Douchebag on Google, Wikipedia or an old fashioned Encyclopedia Britannica you would discover two photos. One of an actual Masengill container and one of Fung. He is Dante’s 9th Circle of Doucheitude. He evokes douche in all the standard ways: Gotti Hair, trimmed eyebrows, tight Armani Exchange style shirt, bling, chinstrap beard, huge diamond earrings, posturing for the camera and last but not least a shade of orange that the people at Crayola have now upgraded their 64 crayon set to 65 by adding their latest color – Fung. .

Syradouche Orangeman: No question this week. Fung FTW! He fills me with rage, but it is a rage I have to hide as I believe him to actually be an android douche from a future that we will fail to prevent, despite the holy work of this website. Perhaps he has come back to our time to make sure the evil plan of the Master Douche goes through.

Well argued, people. But a significant and vocal minority voted for the balanced Hottie/Douchey toxicity of I Say, Old Chap. Billy Pilgrim makes the case:

Old Chap. I dock points from Fung because the hott is hidden behind him (is she really hott?), and is in fact so far from him that you could reasonably argue that they’re not together. And if the hot chick is not with the douchebag, the pic doesn’t cry out for Justice.

Old Chap, on the other hand, isn’t worthy to feel the breeze of librarian hott as she drives past in her sensible four-door.

I agree, B.P. That librarian hott was delectable and those sideburns were rot. Anonymous agrees, citing the mission statement of the site for avoiding Fung:

old chap…this is ‘hot chicks with douchebags’. if it was just ‘douchebags’, there would be an army of fungs in the weekly every single time.

Well, there are bends for certain uberdouche (like the Prompas and DJ Bello). So while points should be deducted for not invoking rage through hott mugging, Fung was still able to create douchitude by himself, while maintaining just enough cute young female to qualify. It’s like 16 pieces of flair. It’s the bare minimum. But it qualifies.

And Cameron notes the sadly neglected uberdouche move of Mencken:

Mencken for the win. Mainly because I’m impressed. Did he pick up the bottom of his shirt with his mouth? Did one of his ‘bagettes hand it to him to put in his mouth? Quite the quandry.

In a normal week, Mencken would dominate. But this is a Fungal landslide. The Everpresent Anonymous sums it up:

FUNG. He looks like how my mouth feels when I forget to brush my teeth in the morning.

Indeed he does.

Book Fung and his backseat ambiguous cutie a ticket in the Monthly.

Douche Zak

You almost earned a nottadouche wee man, but then you had to go and get all giant Jesus Bling with Earring Combo on me.

Blonde is statuesque Dutch Windmill perfection. She makes butter while raising nine children and dancing in klogs around a Maypole. I would Rotter her dams, and then Amster her Fluffenwagen, while Van Gogh and Rembrandt kicked back with a Heineken.

The Sad Clown

Who weeps for the sad clown?

After the cotton candy is spun. After the Big Top has been packed up and sent off to the next location.

Who weeps for the sad clown?

Who mugs a Blonde Bottleneck Hott with soft, fluffy Cleavite and Listerine Whitened teeth.

Who weeps for the sad clown?

Not I, said the cat. Not I.

But I would kick him in the nads.

Crip or Blood?

I need an expert on urban gang signs to translate this for me.

Judging by the hand gestures, is this aspiring gang member in the presence of a lovely and extremely healthy hott:

A) A Crip
B) A Blood
C) A Latin King
D) A Future Sizzler’s Washroom Attendant

Ask DB1: Jet Poo

—-
DB1, I have a serious problem.

Help me DB1, you’re my only hope.
– Douche Springsteen
—-

Yikes, a Stage-2 Grieco Virus Infection, clearly contacted by close proximity to Vinny’s luggage.

Shower at once, D.S. Then put on some classical music and relax. Then get me a set of thirty weight ball bearings, some three-in-one oil and some gauze pads. And I’m gonna need ten quarts of anti-freeze, preferably, Prestone. No, make that Quaker State.