Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB of the Week

I spent last night lounging around in my bathrobe, scratching myself in inappropriate places, and watching the Sox go down, followed by no Peyton List on Mad Men. It was a rough evening. But a bottle of Thunderbird, parsed out in a small red cup, helped me sail on until dawn.

Here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Last Dragon

Who’s the Scrotegun?

This guy!

Who’s the Scrotegun?

This guy!

Lost in the 80s movie nostalgia when this pic first appeared is Gerta’s stern, yet firm, yet of so soft, spanky discipline hottness.

She would rap my knuckles with a ruler for staring at her boobs and send me to my room without supper.

And I would like it.

Because they are perky and supple. Even as the Dragon’s nose-tentacles try to envelop them like a sleeping Donald Sutherland in San Francisco.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Crawdaddy

The smug pout on Crawdaddy now strangely reminds me of Michael Bolton in Office Space.

Not sure why.

Alls I know is I celebrate the man’s entire catalog.

And the giggly K-Girls make me happy and warm in my warm and happy place, and they love to watch Kung Fu.

Even you, Rae Dawn Chong. I loved you in Commando.

As to the covert middle finger, that has to be award worthy for simple basic douche move #101.

They fact Crawdaddy’s at least ten years older than the age he emulates with hair and dress makes his finals appearance well deserved.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Iggy Plop

This pic annoys me more and more the more I stare at it.

And yes, I just used the word “more” three times in that sentence.

Partially it’s Rubber Bunny, who makes me want to shout “yay” for the curvey boobie bouncy trampoline hottness of the rural American heartland.

If they weren’t raised on Springer and Cheetos, there’d be less visible boobage in this world.

And Iggy is definitely douchey enough to task our collective spirits. His wannabe “punk” half filled tatt and low riding pants are enough to make Majorcian Nuns castigate themselves with straw.

For pure hott/douche countermingling, these two have it in spades.

But three may enter, only one may rise to the top (bottom) and be called “HCwDB of the Week.”

Which of these three has the gut punch of wrong that strikes you as most toxic?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

"Richie Bottles" and The Wall Street Assclowns

At least there’s one silver lining from the meltdown on Wall Street. The possibility that these cocknuts will never, ever, be able to order a “Belvedere” in a club again.

Or at least, one can hope.

Saturday Rantings

I’m pissed.

Pissed we live in a world where greased up assclowns transform into ambulatory brand-name billboards while sweet boobie honey toesies with ringsies trip the blight fantastic.

Curvey nectarine hotts who taste like talcum and smell like roses and seek out pulsing noise machines and fog clouds of poo obscuring the crashing global spectacle around them.

Dancing in the dark with doucheclowns, when all I want to do is enlighten them by reading them Heidegger, and then suckling on their ankles like a famished madagascarian tree frog. Named Fred.

And yes, maybe it’s because I just ate half a box of tasty Drake’s Ring Dings.

Maybe it’s because the vague chemical aftertaste of a Ring Ding is colliding with my Trader Joes Blood Orange Soda in all sorts of “Coke and Pop Rocks” wrongness.

But the swirling shoulder tatt of meaningless emulation betray a bankruptcy of soul. A rot of spirit.

Clear pools where DJ Nero fiddles with the bass while Jim Rome burns.

Shouting politicians on the teevee and the cast of the The Hills wanting a raise. Some untalented suburbanite named Katy picking up the mantle of rock and rendering it a self-conscious in-joke.

Someone needs a serious ass kicking, and it’s not just Joey Porsche and The Gator.

I have no answers on this Saturday in the city of Angels. I see only sunlight and avacado. And homeless alley cats chasing bees on Larchmont.

Iggy Plop

Squeezing one out in the presence of Gwen Stefani fem doll inflatable hott is just not classy, Iggy.

God damn I’d smack a bus full of autistic penguins just for the chance to play Parcheesi with her Armenian grandparents outside the Chuck-e-Cheese on route nine.

That’s it.

I’m gettin’ a coffee.

Friday Thoughts and Links

As I reconsider Cornell’s admissions policy, these links should keep your head spinning well into Friday afternoon and ready for cocktails by 4:30:

HCwDB Hall of Scrote legend Yellowtail returns, this time ditching the hotts for, bizarrely, Jason Giambi. Yes, that’s Yellowtail with Jason Giambi.

Bra!!!!!!

Mad Men’s Peyton List makes me want to gnaw my arm into a Cronenbergian bloody stump.

Hot Chicks with Kangaroos

A bunch of fratchoads at Rutgers get ready for a night on the town. Later that night, they score. Must’ve been the bodyspray.

At Neptune’s, The ‘Bags Dance Sideways (warning: minimal hott counterbalance)

Ed Hardy Smells Like Poo

Someone needs to say it. So I’m saying it.

Ed Hardy? Whomever you really are. Kiss my rosy red shiny rudolphian butt cheeks.

Kelly, I know you had a rough childhood, but I will forgive you. By pretending to listen as you tell me about your dreams for finally completing your dental assistant’s degree at Cal State Northridge. And then I will awkward rub your thighs with chicken fat.

The HCwDB Book Will Get You Lucky

But don’t take my word for it:

—-
Hey, DB1-

Keep up the good work,
-Poppa’s Got a Brand New Bag
—-

Not only that, my book can cure rickets, de-virginize Catholic Girls (who start much too late), and solve conflicts in the Middle East. And by Middle East, I mean your pants, and by solve, I mean make happy.

Buy a copy, dammit. My living room rug smells funny.

Friday Haiku

The Flame Twins… upset.
Middle Finger Bleeth, also.
How now, Samurai?

bandannas galore
used to be reserved for gangs
now a douche wristwatch

— bcs

Ned Grimley’s spastic –
He is always flashing signs:
ASL for “‘tard.”

— don’t wheeze the douche!

Dragon Ball Z scrotes.
Goku rolled over in grave.
Manga surely dead.

— holbrooks douchestershire sauce

Mary contrary
Oh, how does your garden grow?
gels and cockle shells

— thuferhawat

The Ballad of Billy the Choad

(sung to the tune of Rawhide):

Keep Greasin’, Greasin’, Greasin’,
Though I look like Jackie Gleason,
Keep them hotties greasin’, rawhide!
Don’t try to understand ’em,
Just rope and throw and grab ’em,
Soon we’ll be living high and dry.
Boy my heart’s calculatin’
My chest shave will be waitin’, waitin’ at the end of my ride.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
Though my nips are swollen
Keep them boobies rollin’, Rawhide!
Clubs and Goose and leather
Hell-bent for Sarah and Heather,
Wishin’ my bling was by my side.
All the things I’m missin’,
Good hairgel, and Snake Plisskin’,
Are waiting at the end of my ride …

Yeah yeah, I know the one on the left isn’t hott but I’m hung over so go with it.

Night of the 'Bag Hunter

I’m just not sure about this remake of Night of the Hunter, what with the Robert Mitchum character being played by a whacked out tool.

What, too obscure? Hey, it’s not my fault no one knows what Night of the Hunter was anymore. Was I supposed to make a Radio Raheem reference?

That’s it. I’m gettin’ a coffee. Stupid PBRs.