Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Colonel Slanders – Bag or NottaBag?

Behold. When confronted with a full court (boobie) press by Darla and Mindy, this young man had a choice. He could have:

1.) bellowed “YARRR”, grabbed these ultra-hotts like pirate’s wenches, and burst through the bar’s greasy storefront window, flailing hornily into the foggy night, or

2.) He could have rocked an involuntary Clint Eastwood squint and prematurely besmirched his zipper area, which his cocker spaniel would later sniff as the trousers lay crumpled on the living room floor, discarded on his futile trip to make beer yodels into the mouth of the porcelain dragon…but nope.

He picked 3.) Rework his silly ass white tie into a Colonel Slanders string bowtie and serve up a bucket of original recipe Stage 1 baggery.

I would have, of course, picked option 2.

What say you all? Does the Colonel stand in judgment of proto-baggery, or is he just like one of us: a hapless victim of Thursday 2-for-1 beer specials and a miserable Friday work hangover? It’s a slippery slope. Firm slopes…supple…erm, be right back…I seem to have besmirched my zipper.  Which took some mad yogurt slinging skillz, since my pants are across the room.

Say Hello To My Little Fran

Yeah, yeah; I know. The Boss ran this pic already for a Saturday “Comment o’ the Week”.  Well, I shall not presume to put myself in a position to select the best of last week from my peers (and by “peers” I mean those with whom I pee), so I figured this would be a good chance to circle back and hose some mock upon the photo that accompanied DB1’s award, since the choad in the pic was largely ignored as we heaped accolades upon the best of that week’s mock.

Nope; this guy, whom I tag as Tony UnTanna, ain’t gettin’ off with his pale hide intact. Not that easily.

Because I pine for Fran.

All Tony UnTanna has in this world (besides SPF 90) is his balls and his word.   And he don’t shave them for no one.   But she still does not want to see his “Little Friend”.

And, with apologies to Levon Helms, I would gladly take a Choad off Franny, and put a load right on her.

Both Ends Baldy: A very special Saturday “Caption This Pic”, sponsored by the Baron Von Goolo Foundation for the National association for the advancement of Cthulhu

And now, a word from our sponsor:

“Luckily, the Make-A-Wish Foundation keeps some quality tail in their Rolodex for just such an occasion”.

Midnight Snack: Double Pear

This just in: site regular Mr. Reeve shares this image of yet another case of rude-ass females photo-bombing another perfectly good mural photograph…Dammit, girls; MOVE!

Mr. Reeve sends the following missive along with his care pear package:

“Oh Double Pear. You make all the douche exposure all of us ‘bag hunters have to endure on HCwDB that much sweeter.

Oh Double Pear. You have no idea how HARD it gets  trying to find pictures of douchebags with hotties for the Boss to use on HCwDB.

Oh Double Pear. You, are our reward. You, are our saving grace. YOU, ARE…..OUR…..ASS…..PEAR.   And for that, we worship thee.

In Jebus name….AMEN.”

Mr. Reeve, do you get the feeling that no one’s paying attention to the words we’re sticking next to these pear photos?

Mr. Reeve?

Hello?

Friday Thoughts and Links with your guest host DarkSock

It is Friday here along the Gulf Coast, where we wait for the storm surge in reverse that shall soon be pulsing out of the urethral tip that crowns the turgid prong of the thick  fat Mississippi River, spewing it’s engorged payload into the sodden grotto that is the soft yielding Mississippi Sound.

The Magnolia State has, in just a half decade, endured monster hurricanes, tornado bludgeoning, Limey oil spills, 100-year river floods, fire ants and Trent Lott’s perfect helmet of hair.  And we, as a hard-working (albeit fairly obese) people, raise our hairy fists to the sky like fleshy anntenae and wail:  “O Lord…why hast Thou not visited these plagues uponst New Hampshire?  What be-eth up with that?“

And yet my thoughts wander aimlessly to the fate of DB1; yea, my musing wanders much like Douchebag1 himself. He has become a Flying DoucheMan, doomed to wander the alpaca-strewn misty Peruvian Peaks, with a bow-legged sherpa named Jorge who wipes his nethers with a sweet potato-shaped pet rock named Juan Antonio Pezet; a rough twisty stone who speaks to his bent and psychotic master in an abusive guttural voice as it barks to way of that invisible yet shining path that our wandering menstrual DoucheBag1 seeks. A higher spiritual plane of atonement and Bleethe bonement, where hilarity rodhams the clinton of baggery; a journey deep into the mists of self-discovery and enlightenment.

DB1, I do not know if you are in a place where you can read this, but if you are, let me give you this message of love and support. From Big Al Pacas, the dude with the belly tatt in the “Los Homely Boys” photo above:

“Yeah, you can tell that sumbitch DB1 that he’s still into me for 5k worth of alpaca goods, and if I don’t get paid pronto then my cousin Fat Tony’s gonna be into him; namely his kneecaps. Wit’ our friend Mista Claw Hammer. Love, Big Al Pacas (sole proprietor of Organic Alpaca Nutrition – Your one-stop online store for all your llama and alpaca butchering/lubricant supplies)”.

Go deeper into the mist, Boss…wayyy deeper…

But enough about DB1’s account receivables issues; here’s your Friday links:

Your HCwDB video pick of the week, based on these two magic words – “Drill Bra”.

Your HCwDB recommended reading of the week:  Go The F*ck To Sleep.

As ruthlessly efficient as Seal Team 6 was in dispatching Eternal Douche Osama Bin Laden, they were sadly too late to save the tiny one-eyed infidel living in Bin Laden’s shorts from severe and repeated lotion-boarding sessions.

Alert Reader Mr. Scrotato Head passes along news of a Solo plastic cup plant’s closing. Could the death of the Ubiquitous Red Cup be an indicator of the tide turning in our War on DoucheBaggery?  Or is it the canary in the coal mine warning us of a downturn on partying of all kinds, fist-pumping or not?  We will track this carefully…

To Hell with pouty self-absorbed silicone-bulging bleethes who waste their fleeting youth trying to sulk like the magazine models and skeeze free drinks in clubs. I dig silly chicks.

A plea for help from long time MIA baghunter supreme BCS; namely, to help him loop his toe around the trigger of the shotgun in his mouth so he can Cobainically escape his own personal Courtney Love.  Warning:  It. Never. Ends.

Speaking of BCS, who was one of the funniest regs ever to visit the legendary comments section of this site, here’s one of his better links he shared with us. And one of the few that didn’t make you want to twist out your eyes with bleach-marinated forks.

So you’ve been invited to Baron Von Goolo’s (stolen) baby shower, but what to give the little tyke?  Why, Pikachu/Cthulhu, that soft and plushy eater of souls, of course!

Ah, Hell…as if you fugs actually read the blather above instead of scrolling straight to your just desserts; namely, Ass Pear. Hell, I’ll even save you the trouble of having to click a link. Since I can’t figure out how to do a link.

Today’s theme is an architectural one…I give to you…COLUMN ASS PEAR!  Enjoy!

EDIT:  Apparently today’s offering is Déjà vu Pear.  So, I offer you these Bonus Buttocks as penance:  Side Pear LaPlante!

Larry The Lavender Love Lizard Takes on the Doublemint Chins

Larry the Lavender Love Lizard coaxes Jane and Jenny Chin-Chin to listen to his jawboning in the hopes that he may, after lubricating them with Goose, become the greasy peanut butter between their crackers.

Better walk on by, LLLL.

Because you do NOT want a visit from their Daddy…

Caption This Pic: Baron Von Goolo’s Hit-and-Run Edition

First, before any of you dear readers ask, “But DS1…where is the DOUCHEBAG in this image!!!1!! LULZ!!!1!!“, in a high and keening nasal voice, allow me to point him out.

He’s on speed dial on Lickety Split’s iPhone, which is inside of her shoulder bag.  You can just make it out between the thread pattern of the bag, if you REALLY zoom in.  Yeah.  That’s the ticket.

Second, Bag Hunter Supreme Baron Von Goolo throws the first stone in today’s impromptu yet fertile “Caption This”:

“”The snozzberries taste like snozzberries. And the camel toe tastes like father issues and bleach.”

Friday Haiku (Mr. Scrotato Head Edition)

HCwDB’s Resident Smack-Down Laureate Mr. Scrotato Head kicks off today’s guest-hosted Friday Haiku featuring the e’er-ubiquitous King D:

Betty Keratin
The King sports shades to save eyes
Lamp flares jealously

If you think your sorry ass can top Mr. Scrotato Head, by all means go for it and post your attempt, as always, in the “comments” section.

UPDATE:  Here’s Mr. Scrotato’s hand-picked winners.

Silvery duct tape
Keeps blue dress on golden globes
Save some for his mouth

– Douche Wayne

Vermillion shmuck,
Destroys men’s fashion edicts,
“tie should touch the belt”.

-Colossus of Choads

Raging neon burns
Hair on fire without flames
tuck in your shirt douche

– Claude Douchenburg

Image burned in my
screen. Thanks, assholes. Apple Care
won’t cover douche damage.

– Mr. White

Orange you glad boobies
aren’t balloons? Spiked hair’s around:
saline eruption.

– Douchie Arnaz

Late Night with HCwDB: “Dammit Woman; move! I can’t see the Mural” Ass Pear Edition

You know you’d like to put your Garfunkel in her Art.

U.S. Olympic Synchronized Nodding Team

Oh, dear Reader, I’d love to tell you that the tri-choad neck tilt you witness was an image caught microseconds after their skull plates were simultaneously flogged by a 48 pound, 12 ounce baby dolphin calf carcass obtained from my blackened gulf.

But no. There is no necrotic marine mammal slap o’ Justice to be had here today.

These choads are crimping their C4 thru C7 neck discs in a reptilian display meant to land their empty heads on a primo spot on Grecian Gretta’s voluptuous dirrty pillows. But they are wrong, my friends. I have personally gazed into her eyes and her moonpie grin beckons for the RC Cola I keep in my pants.

That’s right, you Philistines; I can SEE her giving me the Olympic Greek Eye O’ Coitus beckoning me to Mount-A-Limp-Puss, and I suspect her phalanx yearns to be rammed by the Trireme of Love.

And then I woke up. Smelling of hay and stable. After having peed in a Trojan Horse.

Just in case you sped-read through the above gibberish, allow me to cut to the heart of the matter here: Boobies.