Welcome back for part 2 of my adventures in Douche Mecca, or, as the law might call it, Date Rapes in Training. To paraphrase the great Woody Allen by way of Groucho Marx, "Douchebags smell like poo." Or something like that.


I entered the Garden of Gel carefully, stepping over discarded Izod shirts and Polo collars. I quickly discovered that besides spinning "If I were a Rich Girl" and "Since You've Been Gone" on endless loops, the D.J. also occasionally took to the mic to encourage the guys to "splash" and the chickas to "flash."

And if there's anything we've learned in this crazy, crazy world, it's that young hotties will do anything if you command them to do it.

Except sleep with me. Or talk to me. Stupid hotties.

While only a few of the chickas actually took to the command, you can see one of them quickly trying to cover up again in the pic above. Note King 'Bag in the red trucks surveying his fiefdom.


Here's another healthy mammaried young lass trying to escape the splashing. She glances back at the spontaneous forming of a "Circle o' Douche" behind her -- five or six guys more interested in splashing each other than in noting the bouncing goodness behind them.




And then there was this fur-'bag and his douche-hatted companion.


I appreciated this creature more when he was bleeding goats down in South America.

Blondie's Nicole Ritchie thing doesn't do it for me, but I'd still rub crisco on those abs and cook up some bacon.




Here's another wide shot of Douche Mecca in all its glory:


I was an especially big fan of Rainbow Trunks Bag stumbling around at water's edge like a trained seal.

I almost threw him a fish.

Dig that blond goodness in the lower left.




And then there was Los Lonely WhiteMan.


I felt sorta bad for this shrively chested loner. Two hotties gyrating directly behind him, and yet he sat motionless in Douche Mecca, unmoved yet unbowed.

Los Lonely WhiteMan knows all.

Perhaps he is a douche philosopher like me. Reflecting and ruminating on all that is scrote.

But regardless, that sunburn's gonna hurt like a bitch.

Check out this angelic hottie moving among the crowd.


She was fantastic. And, like many of today's cuties, she knew it. And she knew you knew it. And she knew you knew she knew it.

But she didn't know you knew she knew you knew she knew it.

So you have that on her.

In fact, I don't think she stopped circling the grotto. She was like a 'Bag Pied Piper, leading the scrotes to drown in the river.

I especially appreciated that her bouncer friend sports the now more frequently recurring 'bag Jesus Bling/Tat combo. That's just genius on so many levels o' douchitude, one hardly knows whether to sacrifice a 10 Degree Hat on the Altar of Grieco for thanks or not.

More classic HCwD combos dotted the edge of the inner part of the grotto pool near the bar:


Ratty capped ninny here may bust a watch the size of Miami, but he's also cuddling a sultry dark haired mama who's tan body was so perfect it actually caused a spontaneous orange bandana to grow out of the dude's backside.

Gebus she's good. If you do nothing else productive today, the mere cognition of the perfection of this hottie's love mounds are effort enough to secure the advancement of collective higher consciousness.


Over by the south side of the pool, things were quieter.


HCwD combos like this cute as a button hatted hottie, her Rob Schneider looking purple towel wearing friend, and her greasy/hairy beer guzzling scrote accessory popped up like douche fungal growth along a river bank.

Or perhaps douche flowers along the edge of the Nile.

Note the color of the water. I believe they refer to that as "DNA Saturated Gray."

Here's another outgrowth:


Nothing's more charming than a hairy behemoth rubbing his own nipples while sipping a 32 ounce shooter.

Did I go in the water? With scrotes like this letting their nutsacks soak like they were ice fishing with two saggy teabags? I'd rather gargle with Paris Hilton's blood test down at the local STD clinic.

And then... amidst all the doucheyness and Grieco virus, I found one hottie who not only smiled when I aimed my camera in her direction, but posed for me repeatedly until I snapped this pic of perfection:


I love you, Anonymous Hottie, wherever you are. Even as beer guzzling, belly scratching toe funguses circle you, you remain a vision of perfection and loveliness that makes the DB1 feel like writing love poetry in Sanskrit and burying it for a thousand years just to confuse archeologists. You are just plain gorgeous, sweet and friendly. Stay away from the 'bag plague, A.H. They're swarming. Always swarming.

If anyone knows this piece of candy-corn sweetness, tell her the DB1 would leave his wife and kids for her. Of course I'm not married and don't have any kids. But I would go out, get married, and have three kids just so I could divorce my wife and leave them all for this pixie stick of love.

And there you have it. My Adventures in Douchedom. Scary. Enlightening. And hopefully entertaining.

Now back to reader submits. If you have a pic of a HCwD combo you think I'd enjoy, send it in to douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com.

Okay, now I really gotta get a coffee. That Night Train hangover's a mean she-bitch.