Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Ass is Always Greener

While the Hipsterbag is just annoying.

Dimitri the Lover Tries to Cash In

Using the “ironic,” or self-aware strategy employed by such narcissistic doucheclowns as Kadebag and Stackhouse, last year’s legendary douchemail leaver, Dimitri, attempts to cash in on his webfame.

This is why ironic-douchery remains authentic taint. It’s simply a new stratagem by the ‘bags to get around the mock.

Fishlips McSack

Sure, by day, Fishlips is a semi-employed salesman of used Saturns, Hyundais and Kias down off the interstate at that sketch dealership next to the Carl’s Jr.

But by night, be becomes… Fishlips McSack.

Skull tatt uponst chest shave. Powerhouse medieval magic necklace he won at the Renaissance Fair throwing the axe at the wood.

And the Long Island hotties like Tracy will never know in which direction Fishlips is really looking.

Because of the sunglasses.

Guido the Killer Pimp

And I’ve got a trig midterm tomorrow.

We see you pulling up Gayle’s shirt for the camera with that sneaky right hand. And nice watch. Pud.

Gayle has the tiniest hands this side of that creepy Burger King ad. And she may be wearing a tablecloth.

But I’d still water her plants while she’s in Tuscany on a boat owned by a Saudi Prince who’s obsessed with midget Bukkake. And if that last sentence doesn’t win a Pulitzer for poetic postmodern riff, then my name isn’t Orville Reddenbacher.

HCwDB of the Week: David Crapperfield and Rachel Hottenstein

In a light, holiday impacted vote, The belly tumor magic of David Crapperfield and Rachel Hottenstein came out solid winners (losers) in the Weekly. The voters speak:

Mr. Biggs: Crapperfield all the way. No ironic stance, no origins from some race of douchebags and that’s just what he does – Crapperfield is serious, motivated, and dedicated to being a douchebag.

Horace Dangleballs: Crapperfield and Rachel for the weekly even though background voodoo mama in her floral housefrock is giving me a serious case of bad juju. Then again, her voodoo may explain his top hat a la Baron Samedi. Let us hope she put that freakish zombie back into his pit and taught the lovely Rachel some of the dark arts.

Evil Otto: David Crapperfield. What the hell is wrong with that man’s torso? Is an alien seconds away from bursting through his left side? Is part of his colon about to explode, showering everyone around him with blood and poo? He must win, because he might only have seconds left to live and I don’t want him to die unhappy.

Fatness: David Crapperfield, because just looking at him has made my hangover 10 times worse. Maybe Charo will comfort me.

Bob: David Crapperfield and Rachel are the essence of HCwDB winners. The garish clothing, shaved chest (not even fresh shaved), shirtlessness, overdeveloped abs, dumb tatts, and GSR are all classic bag traits. Rachel is all that is lustworthy and sticks-in-your-mind-for-days that a winning hott should be. But mostly, it’s the alien gestating in his gut, ready to burst out. Crappy’s so self-absorbed, he doesn’t even notice.

Mr. Choad’s Wild Ride: This is like all those couples who pose together in front of the Statue of David only to have a smaller-than-average dong in their picture. However, instead of a renaissance masterpiece we are treated to a forelorn looking rhino.

creature: DC gets my vote for having the worlds largest kidney stone, rachel cuz I wanna play tom-tom on her tummy & the broad in the bg who stopped in the “Animal House” grocery store for “nothing today” cuz I want to whale on that gut with a canoe paddle!

Douche shower and shave: This turd smuggler is neither a magician or a charector from a Dickins story. He is though a large pile of guano festering and rotting in a unwashed dumpster somewhere in Detroit.

scrotecles: I’ll go Crapperfield FTW…I can smell him through my laptop. His whole look reeks of smeg and HotPockets.

Anonne Huntress: David Crapperfield ftw. Because men shouldn’t be dressed up as trollops.

Fat, Drunk and Douchey: sweet Meadow Soprano hott calls to me. Her dead behind the eyes stare has me longing for an afternoon of feverish lovemaking and hours upon hours of apologizing.

Eh Tu Douche?: Crapperfield and Rachel for the win as they epitomize all that is HCwDB. I’m still baffled as to what is protruding from his body under the angel tattoo.

doucheywallnuts: Crapperfield, as manscara always trumps other forms of douchery, both subtle and otherwise. Plus his bleeth is on a par with Charo and far better than the 3-headed pig fest accompanying Crapachino.

Chris in ‘Baghdad: David Crapperfield takes the cake on this one. The only magic this choad has going is Douchebag magic.

Erin: Crapperfield, he’s more dead behind the eyes than a Kardashian. Is this a douchey interpretation of Steampunk?

douche equis: The Crapper. #2 looks dress-up-douche, and Chinholio, while offensive, doesn’t rise to the level required to beat the Crapper. Guyliner puts you way ahead in any level-of-douche competition of which I’m a judge.

The all “poo” theme’d Weekly resulted in Tony Crappachino and Marco Chinholio coming in a distant second and third, respectively.

Abdouchah the Butcher: Tony Crapachino gets my vote for his kissy-face and his carefully pulled open shirt w/ sideways peace sign. TC FTW.

Melvil_Duchi: Marco Chinholio and Charo. I think his “soul patch” is beginning to lose its glue or is it just magic marker? Charo is Cuchi-Cuchi and by that I mean cuchi

Dicy: Tony Crapachino and the Three Hotties FTW. Because sometimes the professional pictures in clubs just don’t do it for me. But the real life taint that super sweet girls like Elle Sue and Jen have to deal with is what this site is all about. And this is why we mock.

Spiny Norman: I throw my support to Chinholio. First, I like the fake doggie poo references. Second, although douchiness can be about trying to hard, trying too hard to be a douche is too damn much. The Brothers Crap, Tony and David, are both trying to look like yutzes (yes, they succeed, but let’s not reward them.) Chinholio is what he is. Third, he is what I’d expect Bizarro World Apollo Ohno to look like. Finally, he needs some TP for his bunghole. Heh-heh. Heh-heh.

Douchesquire: Which brings us to Tony, who exudes crap form every pore, who thinks he is the man when surrounded by a bevy of chunky-Nott’s, rockin the kissy face and 13 hairs on his scrawny chest. I want to eviscerate him with a garden trowel and laugh as stray dogs play tug of war with the entrails. and yes, flame thrower him. Tony Crapachino FTW.

Snoop Douchey Bagg: Chinholio because (amongst many other douche attributes) appears to be wearing a leftover Members Only jacket.

But lets let Troy Tempest take us home:

David Crapperfield FTW, because a million poodles drag their pudenda on the carpet from the itch of a billion fleas from a thousand bedouin camels who abandoned their desert posts on dromedary rumps. And it’s all because of Crapperfield’s magic poo

And one more, Paul Muad’douche, the Kwisatz Scroterach, to explain DC and RH:

I just spent $410 on a brand new Callaway FT-9 Driver. I would gladly sacrifice it for the opportunity to smash David Crapperfield with it in the chiclets seven or eight times. The gold-plated chain, especially, fires my ire, although the tophat-shirtlessness-guyliner combination is quite risible as well. I would shave with a deli slicer to have Rachel blow my shofar.

Abracadouchebra!! Book ’em in the Monthly. And the DB1 for coffee.

Grapeman

I do believe this is repeat choad. Yes, Grapeman’s been on the site before.

First person to tag him wins a hearty handshake and a napkin.

While you’re looking, I’ll fondle Erika’s thighs using only a rubber duckie, a vat of Crisco, and a German assistant named Gruber to supply me with towels.

Sean’s Almost a Nottadouche

You almost got the notta for scoring Rebecca, the cutest girl in math class, Sean.

But Ed Hardy + Bling cannot pass.

It bums me out. I wanted to let you off with a warning, Sean. But we gotta have standards around here. Much as I kinda like you and your weirdly misshapen ears, I gotta make a decision.

And you know how I have to rule here.

‘Bag.

Sean's Almost a Nottadouche

You almost got the notta for scoring Rebecca, the cutest girl in math class, Sean.

But Ed Hardy + Bling cannot pass.

It bums me out. I wanted to let you off with a warning, Sean. But we gotta have standards around here. Much as I kinda like you and your weirdly misshapen ears, I gotta make a decision.

And you know how I have to rule here.

‘Bag.

Ask DB1: Why?….

—-
DB1,

Regards,
Big Billy Bag
—-

This excellent question is expounded upon in far greater detail in my book, BBB, but the short answer is the simplest one. Our sexuality is not innate. We flatter ourselves into thinking we determine the course of our attractions, but these impulses are tribally guided.

Douche culture, by definition, requires endless repetition of spectacle as the eternally profitable product of nostalgia as newness. A copy of a copy of a copy of an echo. A brand name spokes-wheel of a reflection of recycled and reappropriated nostalgic pop poopie diaper. Quality? Irrelevant. Famous for being famous is all that matters. Fifteen minutes of greased up hair follicle entwined in the endless maze of two mirrors reflecting endlessly the vacuity of the soul.

Originality, be it in thought or expression, threatens the framework. Thus repetitive recycling offers safety, comfort and spectacle without the radical danger of risking the golden financial rainbow at the end of the megacorp product line. To use what’s come before as the razzle dazzle of what is new again offers the well worn path of instant success through Pop Idol framework set by Coca-Cola advertising shift.

In our media saturated age, we turn bodies into billboard. We brand ourselves with tattoos, piercings and designer clothing to enter the endless ADHD competition to hold an attention suffering from eternal distraction.

The douche is simply one who self-brands through the corporate culture of logo. The hott cannot rise out of the framework to regain control of her buying impulses. For she has already been indoctrinated through a lifetime of advertisement-triggered purchasing instincts. And thus, she seeks the peen attached to the product she’s told she wants every day through the cacophonous corporate shock doctrine.

The “I was Dressing Up for a Jersey Shore Party” Excuse

Note to “ironic” Situations, Snookis and J-Woww’s the world over:

Dressing up as a douche for a Jersey Shore party is not an excuse.

You’re still a douche.

EDIT: A number of ‘bag hunters are raising legitimate counterpoints in the thread, suggesting dress-up may still be a potent form of visual mock. Although I question the “irony” in many of these cases, the counter-points are well argued. I will meditate on this. And on boobies.