Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The “Ironic” Kissy Lips: A Reminder

No. No “irony” or humor leniency in the age of Jersey Shore. None.

You remain completely and fully douchey upon demonstrative kissy lips. No exceptions. None shall pass.

Laker Girl Sue may not have been caught at the best angle, but her teeth are healthy, and so I will salt her kneecaps with sea salt and cry softly in a basin.

Signs of the Impending Apocalypse #43

Some say a thousand dead birds falling out of the sky is a sign of the impending apocalypse.

I say it’s eurobag crypo-gay chest shave revealing sparkly shirts being worn by pseudo-model asswipes in presence of drunk boozy hottie suckle thigh.

So sayeth in the immortal predictions by Nostradouchemas in his epic four part Book of the ‘Bag.

Tuesday Limerick

There once were two greaseclowns from Covina,
Who crushed a tiny ballerina named Nina,
A ‘bag sandwich they squeezed,
And poor Nina was seized,
As her florentina turned the color of orangina.

Where’s Captain Shnook?

Somewhere in this lineup of two party girls and a Dane Cookbag, I’ve carefully hidden a 19th Century literary figure of early proto-douchebaggery.

Can you find his greasy naval scurvyness?

No Shirty For Oldbag

“Out in them foothills, that’s where we find what a makeup a fellers got. And nature will tell us if that be a man, or a douche with the stupid tatts hittin on a bar wench.” — Sheriff Wayne Driscoll, Briscoe County, 1896.

Captain Shnook

Ah yes, from Senior Year, we all remember reading The Rhyme of the Ancient Marinated Chin Fung.

The Barbara Sisters rang in the New Year in style — with awkward and unwanted gropes in the kitchen by Captain Shnook’s harpoons.

Nip Tweakin’ in the New Year

Rocker Bobby is standard Sunset Strip flush. I mock his Jesus Bling with rote dedication, and move quickly on to Red Stripe Sarah.

Yes, I see you, you bouncy bartender wench giggle bobble. Sure you wear too much makeup and are way too excited to be there. But yours is a perky smile of sunrises and corona lights, that only smells vaguely like an ashtray mixed with melted Certs.

Incidentally, Rocker Bobby’s belly button fung vaguely resembles Sarlac’s Pit.

Baghwan Zenbeard Says…

Baghwan Zenbeard says:

This year will contain a multitude of hottie/douchey configurations you can not anticipate and can not prepare for. But you must mock. For the hottness requires lustful thoughts and demands on a society of culture fail that continues to permeate their boobages.

Well said, Baghwan Zenbeard.

You earn a hearty nottadouche and a goinpeace. Because the new year has made me feel generous.

As for the women, sell them to me. I will ravage the blonde uponst only the finest of stitched Iroquois sheets at break of dawn during the monsoon season, then call for tea and cale by moonlight, served by my servant man/boy, Urdu.

Snow Leopards and Shoescrape Tommy

bam.

What, you thought I’d go light on you cuz it’s a new year?

I don’t think so. No Weekly this week, but we’re rampin’ up a full slate of hottie/douchey mock.

Shoescrape Tommy is two inches of plain undies poke away from finally making the manager position at Arby’s.

Snow Leopard Lonnie digs his impressive expertise at Call of Duty: Black Ops.

“Listening To My Penis”

As we bask in the glow of a successfully completed 2010 Douchie Awards and Christmas is finally over, the great Jon Lajoie says all that needs to be said.