Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

BREAKING: Marissa Miller Still Married to Douchepimple

Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover model and future bacon between my lettuce and tomato, Marissa Miller, is still married to a heaping douchepimple.

While this may not constitute “breaking news” like a tsunami or hurricane, it is still worth noting for posterity’s sake.

And by posterity, I mean her posterity. Which is round. And pink. And smells like flowers and petunias.

And by noting, I mean laughing hysterically at this clown’s Big Top, then yanking off his goofy white watch and throwing it in the Hudson.

HCwDB of the Week: Acey Douchey

In a tough three way battle between three worthy hottie/douchey couplings, the ubersquat nature of Acey Douchey, posed or not, was too much to overcome. The debate was furious, but the people have spoken:

marita: They’re all sooooo good. But Acey Douchey is the only one that made me drop my jaw in cortorted horror. FTW. Jesus Christ Bananas.

dj douche: Acey Douchey for owning one of those gay-ass CDJ-mixer combos, and taking it on a boat. You know he used it to mix (badly) Li’l Wayne and that stupid Kanye West Daft Punk song.

jw: The poor guy is clearly as empty as a human being can be, the sunlight is causing him to lift off like a balloon. The bleeths and vodka clearly aren’t enough ballast, so he brings a gun into play and tethers himself to a mixer/turntable set to keep him on his boat.

douchngton chodeskins: Great Oden’s Raven, Acey Douchey just stabbed my soul with a jagged scepter dripping with forehead oils more pungent than the vile slush endured by the gluttons in Dante’s Third Circle of Hell … he also sucks chode.

cock-a-doodle-douche: Acey Douchey. I’d have voted for somebody else if he had been wearing both gloves.

douchemaster flex: My vote goes for Acey douche. Cause even though it is staged, (dollar bills on the left have the 1 dollar folded over so you cant see them) our man here has replicated the essence of why this site was created. I mean this is true mugging. Choke hold on girl on the left. Holding girl on right at gunpoint. And extraction of money from where those hott’s keep it. This and the look of the hott on the right, the seductive cat like stare. Arched back. Yeah we have a winner.

nook ladouche: Acey ftw. Gun, Grey Goose, God-damn you. Those hotts could’ve stayed in school and become either that hot barista at Starbucks or my niece’s preschool teacher. Instead, they are mere damaged goods, compliments of the anal wart on two legs.

But the “fake” debate will rage on, and rightly so. Is performative douchosity still enough to inspire authentic rage? As the everpresent anonymous argues, yes:

Serious or not, Acey Douchey is the biggest douche here. My vote goes to him.

Indeed. Even fellow DJ’s revolted. adrian.w. explains:

As a DJ myself, and one who likes to: a) stay in the dark corner and let the music speak; b) let the people (especially the Hots) enjoy the music; c) try to avoid oozing douchery from every orifice onto nearby Hots; d) wear a shirt; I feel Acey is making a mockery of what many talented DJs have worked years to establish.

Yes. Yes he is. Between Acey and DJ Bello, this has been a dark week for the D.J. profession.

But both Kenner and Sideburn Harry were worthy finalists, and found their fervent supporters. king douchankhamun votes for the robotic toy with the perfect Barbie hott, Kenner:

Kenner ftw. I don’t know weather you’re real or a mannequin or if realdoll started making guys. Either way I cast upon you the Mummy Curse of King Douchankhamun.

Lets hope it makes a difference, King. And fabled ‘bag hunter darksock lays the smackdown on the toy action figures:

The Kenner has less chest hair than an octopus dipped in a vat of Nair; less chest hair than Michael Flatley after river-dancing through a swimming pool full of disposable Bic razors; less hair than Paris Hilton’s rhesus-monkey-lipped poon 5 minutes before leaving to go clubbing on a balmy L.A. Saturday night. His front is the yin to Robin William’s back. He has no pores, hence he must sweat through his urethra just as manatee do. His testes shine hairless and proud, like two peeled eggs, oiled and boiled and hanging low over our heads like twin Swords of Damocles, except they in this case would be custard-cudgels, about to mount an insurgency into the equally grassless savanna that is Jenny’s kielbasa garage.

Spew that justice. With a vote for the Kenner.

A genius smackdown by D.S. But lets not forget the trouble with Harry. don’t bring me dowwwwwn, douche! (great song ref, btw), reminds us of the innovative sidekick move:

Sideburn Harry. Many reasons, but the clincher is the “I gotta take this very important call while I have a total hottie right in front of me.” Oh, and I MUST snap a pic of it.

Gotta find a 2008 Douchie Nom for Most Innovative New Douche Maneuver for S.H. creature rightly points out the quality of S.H’s hott:

Sideburn Harry is the rockabilly bag I would love to play ball-peen hammer pinball with & Maria is the promise of an endless stream of sweaty summer nights

Indeed. So would I, C. But douche springsteen explains why, fake or not, Acey Douchey deserves the win:

Some have decried him for being a faker, a charladouche if you will. My question to you is, does a suplex off the top ropes feel fake even though the wrestling match is staged? I have never been suplexed off the top rope, but I bet it still hurts. So does Acey Douchey, friends. He is essentially the nadir of humanity that this website strives to point out. If you notice he is standing in front of a mixer, which means he is probably a techno DJ, the douchiest of all music forms. And just look at those coppertoned hotts. It makes one weep.

As I sit here alone in my terrible studio apartment, an English degree being used as a coaster for a lukewarm tall boy of Mickey’s malt liquor, I shake my fist to the heavens in protest, for somewhere Acey Douchey is doing shots of Belvedere off of a honey colored bosom.

And there it is. Performative douchosity is still rendered real by the underlying signification of hegemony gone scrote.

Book a ticket in the Monthly for Acey Douchey and his dual bony bikini hotts. They’ve earned it.

Summoning Cthulhu

Brothabags Karl and Darren have gone well past making simple ‘bag hand gestures.

They have just managed to summon Cthulhu using only hand formations and mystical hat rotation.

Vanessa and Beverly, are you aware the power of summoning Cthulhu with ‘bag hand gesture?

It means they will be far too busy to remember to buy you that appletini you asked for twenty minutes ago.

I Say, Old Chap

Funny morn for a stroll, eh, guvnah? That time machine round old the Wells house is not to be trifled with.

Next thing ye know, yer wandering daft while searching for a drum n’ bang to shake off the ole’ hatties, in’t that right? Next thing ya got ta use yer loaf to better cover that Niagara Falls ya got fobbed onto yer nutmeg, eh?

Little Carmacita Smells Poo

There’s hope for you yet, little caramel carmacita. You sense the toolshed manifest of this wonky uberchoad.

You smell the odor of a chinstrap drawn thinner than the subtext of a storyline on Entourage.

The proper response to this invasion of your personal space, Carmacita? Do not ask Rockabilly Pout why he’s making The Shocker while pouting like a retarded seal.

Simply kick him in the nads.

Then come cuddle with me under my blankie while we watch Touristas on cable. In hi-def. With cheetos and a bottle of Mad Dog. Because I’m classy like that.

Where's Twin 'Bag?

Somewhere, buried deep in this toxic canker-swirl of nastiness and boobies, I’ve carefully hidden one half of our classic 2007 Weekly Winners, The Twin ‘Bags.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

(hint: click on the pic for closer examination)

Bonus points if you can also find Chandlerbag and The Bumper.

Caption This Pic

Izzy Finkelstein’s midlife crisis reached epic proportions when he met Inga and went on a three day bender at a Provincetown clambake.

"Four Points" writes in

The dude in Four Points takes time off from mountain climbing to write in (without a takedown request):

—–
DB1 –

PS: The answer to the $64,000 question? Yes, they’re real.
—-

Double Point, you hearby earn a lifetime nottadouche pass. Good work and go in peace.

And by peace, I mean love-hills.

L.A. Confidouchal

The night turned into dawn like two flashing red lights at the corner of Hollywood and Vine… the street walkers crawled down Sunset like a parade of newly hatched slugs after a long rain…

Must’ve been the booze but when I saw her getting mugged by an oily tatted up douchewank, I knew it was time to make the move to Red Cupsville… she let him cup her moneymakers, he in the wifebeater that spoke of the uberdouche from West Hollywood… he was a scrote, that I knew… but what kind of scrote? And who was he playing?… I had to think…

The Ubersquat

Many times a ‘bag hunter in training will ask me, Db1? What is an Ubersquat?

Oho!, I answer with deep introspection. Fear not, for the Ubersquat will manifest with oily kissy face and orange finger.

Note the Bleething taking place on Amanda. She is still redeemable. But fading fast.