Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Special Edward’s Got MILF

Sure, Special Ed may only be a Stage 1 PudWack.

And his Poolside Princess may be the poor man’s version of Fergie.

But we all know why I am running this picture.  Let us not be coy.

Bulbous Bouncing Bling.

Cantilevered Calcium Cannons.

Stalwart Sternum Stadiums.

Boobies.

I detect an emerging theme today…

Toolio Has Tried It Twice (Creature Feature)

Guest-host Creature offers the following ‘bag take-down:

Toolio has tried it twice.

Male bonding, that is. Sweet slice of Siam Suki does not approve, though she loaned Mr. T her pillowy pink blouse for the second event. Despite the fact that it fits, she draws the line at Toolie’s wearing of her thong taco truss for any future adventures.

The Veiner Sausage

Theory time, kids! The Veiner Sausage, whom you see here in tragic proximity to Tammi Taught-Tummi, is suffering from vascular bulge much the same as can be observed on turgid horse dong because:

A. Like any good American, he’s doing his doodie;

B. Grey Goose, as it turns out, curdles steroid injections;

C. His Brown Eye is on the verge of losing the fight against the Olestra potato chip assault;

D. He summons his pet pit bull with ninja flatulence chirps above 15,000 hz;

E. Oh, you guys know what to do…there’s plenty of letters left in the alphabet to finish this list…

Running Without the Goose (Reverend Chad Tent Revival Edition. Son.)

HCwDB regular and dimensional hypernaut Reverend Chad Kroeger touches down on Earth long enough to deliver this payload of bring-down:

Although a wretched and buzz-harshing picture, Snor and friends here show the downtrending of douche signifiers to the fringes of society. As civilizations rise and fall like so many Peloponnesians, so do trends and Snor’s moods. Snor think he’s a player with his gaudy ring, infected flab shave reveal, flea market Ed Hardy cap, obligatory wingman Yankee Matt, girlie drinks, and chin fungi. Snor is wrong. Snor is sleepy from a high glycemic index.

When you are the assistant road manager for Insane Clown Posse it is very difficult to combine Vegas flash with the VIP pop-up trailer. No Goose and Red Bull drinks here. No bolt on Vegas hotts. The drink is XXX and Faygo for the bros and Jugaloo hotts, and by hotts I mean Beth and multicolored Jenny.

Beth used to have a great job as a greeter at a Hyundai dealership in Nevada until she ran away with Jen to follow the Clowns to every festival they headline. They left with just the bikinis an their backs. As they are the tastiest Jugalette’s at every show with their trashy clothes and insatiable appetite for sugary soda, Snor and Matt have no other options here than the old regulars for a go. Snor told Matt they were really hot last year when they were 17 and only had two kids each frolicking in the putrid festival mud/toilet. But that Faygo hides the remarkable bodies they arrived in. And that thing on Jen’s tummy is not a tattoo, just sayin’.

As the good Virgil causioned Dante at the gates of hell, “Do not ye effort at escape or attempt to look like a douchebag, or ye become ons’t with them”.

Good luck Snor and Matt, I would rather finger Cee-Lo Green’s constipation than be you. And I will ponder that while I dive into another drunken day and dream of Wanda Sykes. Put on a fuccken shirt Snor.

HCwDB After Dark: On The Fence Pear

Site regular Indiana Choad and the Temple of Douche left something in the suggestion box earlier today: Why not have Pear every day?

Awesome idea?  Yes.

Feasible?  I dunno…how many pictures of beautiful women’s buttocks can there possibly BE on teh interwebs?  Certainly not two weeks worth.

But I shall endeavor to persevere.

To that end, I give you:  On The Fence Pear. Because there are two sides to every issue. And both of hers are supple and spatula-ready.

MR. WHITE’S HCwDB SING-ALONG EDITION: DOUCHEY IN THE STRAW

HCwDB reg Mr. White offers the following soundtrack for Country Molestern and his Reversed Cowgirls:

Oh I went down to the bar

But I didn’t make it far;

‘Fore I spied me a grinnin’

douchey hittin’ on the wimmin!

So I hit ‘im in the face

with a large metallic mace,

Then I made my move to court

a girl in tiny, tiny shorts.

Douchey in the straw, douchey in a hat

Hit ‘im in the stomach with a heavy baseball bat

Lookin’ at some ladies that you’d surely like to paw

Whlle you’re listenin’ to a tune called Douchey in the Straw!

Everybody now!

King D Voted; How About YOU?

Hall of Scrote legend and over-achiever King Douchious just voted in the weeklies; what’s YOUR excuse?

I was almost ready to stop hatin’ on the D…then I saw it. That. Big. Ass. Watch.

Scarf Face

The S.S.B. (Stolen Sister’s Blouse) that Scarf Face is sporting is in and of itself sufficient cause to be flogged about the head and neck with a flail made of a mop handle with a half dozen dead lampreys stapled to the jagged broken head.

But that…scarf…the so-called keffiyeh worn by that most insufferable of all bags:

The HipsterBag.

Allie, Keisha…can you not smell the sopped rancid neck-cheese encrusted within this tragically cool trend-squatter’s woolen folds? I implore you both to empty your lagers into his woven commode seat of a keffiyeh, saunter into the furthest empty bedroom, away from the pseudo-intellectual arguments between young men tragically attempting to grow wispy bears, clad in high-water pants and girl’s blouses; yes, creep away from the tinny strains of the new “Starry Saints” vinyl being played ironically on an old plastic child’s phonograph; avoid the maze of old “Spin” magazines and soy latte stains that landscape the carpet; slip beneath the sheets, unwashed since Mom’s exasperated cleaning visit last Thanksgiving, and just do what comes naturally. Which is, of course, to start a mattress fire and ease quietly out onto the fire exit.

I beg this of them.  What would YOU have them do, fellow Bag Hunters?

The Boss is Lost, Al’s Pacas, and oh, yeah…the D’bag o’ the week!

DarkSock here.  In case you didn’t tune in Sunday (from fear of Frolic Exposure) you may have missed the notice about DB1’s sudden departure upon a journey of spiritual awakening; a walkabout to gain enlightenment and penance amongst the feral unshorn alpaca herds grazing in the mist of the Andes mountain ranges.

Walkabout and penance my ass.

So I’m trolling through the Boss’s filthy apartment, pawing amongst the strewn Ho-Ho wrappers and kicked-over half-emptied bottles of Trader Joe’s Blood Orange soda (which faintly smell of rubbing alcohol…) looking for pictures and passwords so I can keep the fight going on this site.

Among the yet-to-be posted pictures I also find death threats from Doc, a monogrammed pair of men’s briefs emblazoned with “Plinky”, the skeletal remains of a Jack Russel Terrier, a subpoena from the Llama/Alpaca Vice Squad Task Force of the Florida Fish and Wild Life Commission, and most disturbingly: a past-due final notice from Big Al Pacas (pictured here), proprietor of the North American chapter of M.A.I.L. (Man-Alpaca Integration League). This “notice” is hand-written on college-rule notebook paper in jagged angry font rendered from a fury-blunted Sharpie marker, and it states that either DB1 coughs up the $5,200 owed in alpaca feed and llama lubricant or Big Al Paca will be forced to send his cousin Thick Vinnie “Shit” Paca over to adjust some external genitalia with his pet snapping turtle.  And yes, that is a euphemism.

But my irresponsible conjecture matters not, only DB1’s parting words: “For the ‘bag mock and hottie lust must continue, unabated, in my absence.“

Fear not, our soon-to-be-gelded leader. Those Hotts will not go unabated; they will be bated until our elbow bursitis returns yet again.  GodSpeed, DB1; may you gain enlightenment while avoiding getting sticky alpaca poo on your new hemp sandals.

To that end: let us select the Hottie/Douchebag coupling of the preceding week.  Yeah, for a limited time we’re going back to the Weekly Vote; because I cannot shoulder such an awesome burden of selection alone.  But I can count votes whilst suckling a bottle of Beam like it was the fiery red teat of the First Mother Alpaca.

Here’s yer choices:

HCwDB of the Week #1: Ball State Kevin and Party Girl Kelly.

Ball State Kevin attracts Sex Kitten and Party Girl Kelly’s woo-hottiness into his Sauder-Woodworks-appointed dorm of inequity to do laws only knows what…perhaps change his ball state from blue to empty?  We must not imagine ourselves into a ball state of despair.  But it ain’t easy.

HCwDB of the Week #2:  Bird Poo and Sweaty Sally, as witnessed by Natural Nina.

I would give many things in order to wipe that moon-pie smirk off of Bird Poo’s mug. But Sweaty Sally’s soaked beach towel would not be one of them. I would fight off a sickened grizzly using only it’s own loose scat and a VW fender if that’s what it took to carry her soiled beach blanket around like a perpetually engorged Linus. While Nina watched.

HCwDB of the Week #3:  Chimpy McWhack and Kneeling Kelly

Why, Kelly, are you in proximity to this Ben-Stiller-Simian-Simulcrum? I hope against all hope that this coupling is due to a mix-up involving Ambien, a full bladder and his uncanny resemblance to a bidet.

HCwDB of the Week #4: Jimmy Pud and Mandy.

Jimmie Pud clearly got a Freudian idea whilst using a flat head screwdriver during shop class as he worked towards his doctorate at the Tallahassee Community College Campus. But lovely Mandy prefers Philip-Heads.

This is your Rogue’s Gallery for this week.  Vote, as always, in the comments threads, where I shall skim them, pretend to count, and pick my fave anyway.

The DB1 Goes on Walkabout

Fellow hunters and huntresses, your humble narrator is embarking on a mystic and meditative roundabout for the next few weeks.

A contemplative hunt for the elusive Grieco Quark, the Kabbalah described ‘Bag Shard that Rashi and Maimonides once spoke of. The douchal revelation that ties the universe together and marks transcendent hottie/douchey dialectic.

During my temporary walkabout, the site will be run by #1 Grasshopper and Supreme ‘Bag Hunter, the legend that is DarkSock, along with able assistance from a number of other regs.

Treat him well. His font will be blue. His wit, rapier.

Carrying only mead wine, rice cakes and led by an ancient, wizened Uraguayan guide named “Tim,” I will ride throuh alpaca country armed only with my wits, trail mix, and a gummi bear slingshot for protection.

I will be back shortly.

In the meantime, your temporary leader, ‘Sock, will guide you.

Treat him well. For the ‘bag mock and hottie lust must continue, unabated, in my absence.