Your humble narrator on this dark journey up the douche river that we've taken together, DB1, is finally back from his travels into the heart of doucheness. Vegas. The Hard Rock Casino.

Sunday's exclusive Rehabber's Club party.

Think MTV's spring break on douchebag steroids. Or Dante's 5th Circle of douchebag hell. Or, if you're an art fan, think a Jackson Pollock canvas if he used hotties and douchebags instead of paint.

But before we get to Douche Mecca, lets recap my adventures that got me there.

After a brief stopover at the Hilton to check out the Star Trek convention (even I'm not cruel enough to call those dorks douchebags), I ran into this guy:


Uhm.. Yeah.












After watching Klingons grew tiresome and seeing Young Spock from Star Treck 3 now in his mid 40s and losing his hair, I quickly redirected my energy towards the day's goal: The Sunday afternoon Rehabber's Party at the Hard Rock Casino. One of the hardest tickets to get into in Vegas.

Pulling up at the Hard Rock, it wasn't hard to see why:


Sexed out hotties in skimpy clothes were all over the casino. And, as is the case, the douched up scrotes were circling like bees.

Check out sideburns boy here, busting the Macy Gray hat. His tanned up little minx even caught the eye of the free agent 'bags waiting in line to check it.

The Hard Rock was everything I'd hoped -- a swirling cesspool of douchitude and hotness that made my head spin.

After hitting the blackjack tables and downing a few Coronas (the Hard Rock casino is a blast) , I made my way over to the Rehabber's Party line, which was overflowing with all the uber-'baggitude I'd hoped it would be:


This was the front of the line, but it went all the way down the hallway and into the casino. Hotties and 'bags were standing around by the hundreds, toasting each other with cans of Miller Lite and the occasional eloquent and artful cry of a "Woo!"

I asked the guys at the front of the line how long they'd been waiting to get in. "Three and a half hours, bro! Awww Yeah!" as they busted 'Bag Hand Gestures #42, #23, and #19A. Unfortunately my camera wasn't quick enough to capture such douchitude.

No one who wasn't staying at the hotel could get in without waiting three hours and paying the 30 dollar cover-fee. Not even the wanna-be rappers in the pic above (by the door).

All were blocked. By this scrote, manning the door:


Seriously.

This popped collar spikey haired bouncer 'bag was so beyond regular douche, so beyond uber-douche, his force of scrote actually spontaneously created a new element on the periodic tables -- Douche-Nine.

Douche-Nine took his job seriously. Extremely seriously. Choosing who could and could not gain entrance to the Rehabber's Party is perhaps the most important job in the entire universe.

There was one rule and one rule only for getting into the Rehabber's Club: Have an uber-hottie with you to balance your douchiness.


In other words, to get in, you needed to be a HCwD combo. But as long-time readers of the site know, this makes perfect sense, as the HCwD combo encompases all meaning, philosophy, nuance, existential pain, intellectual journey and spiritual onslaught that we each face on a daily basis.

Like bald Twisted Sister 'Bag here with his nervous designer bag carrying hottie. Each on their own is nothing special. But by coming together their HCwD Powers just might, might, be enough to convince Douche-Nine to let them gain entrance to Douche Mecca.

Proving that the power of the HCwD combo is more than even solo hot chicks, check this pic out (click on it for more detail if it's too dark. And by "detail," I mean to see the boobs more clearly).


Solo cupcakes like this one on the right were wandering the hallways, hardly believing they couldn't immediately gain entrance to Douche Mecca. Scrotes would attempt to talk to them with clever enjoinders like "Yo!" and "Whatsup girl?" But the hotties wouldn't flirt with outsider-bags too unscrote to gain entrance.

So they circled the front angrily until the Douche-Nine finally let them in.



Eventually the scrotes began to swarm the door, preventing even this uber-hot blondie with perfect legs from getting in, even as she brought four 'bags with her.


Note Douche-Nine on the very right of the pic holding back the unwashed 'bag masses from attaining entrance to Douche Mecca.

Here's another look at this frustrated blonde being held back from Mecca by the power of Douche-Nine:





But blondie would not be deterred. All she had to do was remove her shirt, and entrance would be gained.







Hotties like this one were the only few chosen ones getting by Douche-Nine and directly into the Rehabber's Party, and she came, naturally, with three uber-bags in tow.


As you can tell by her attributes, it was an easy choice to make. Note the circling douchebags with no prayer in hell of getting into the party before Monday trying to latch on to her powers of the HC.

No dice, bros. No way Douche-Nine lets you pass.






As to your humble narrator?

The Grieco viruses had now gone airborn, and I was concerned for my own well being. What would being this close to source-scrote and Douche Mecca do to a human being? Was I pushing the bounds of acceptable exposure to new and unhealthy douche levels?

No. I had to keep going.

I couldn't stop here, right on the edge of seeing the source of all that's unholy and rank in the coupling patterns of the HC and D. I could not turn back now.

After standing around for awhile I realized that there was no way this humble pilgrim could get this close to Douche Mecca only to be turned away by a greasy scrote sipping bottled water and repeatedly rubbing his own stubble.

I owed it to you, the reader.

So I used my powers of douche-hunter persuasion and, after busting a couple of cans of Miller Lite, I had suitably become Essense Du Douche. Being the clever bastard that I am, I managed to finagle my way inside using a series of Douchebag Mind Control techniques that only a Master possesses.

I can not give away the secrets of how I gained entrance. Know only that by studying this site, by reading me every day, can you too learn the power of Douchebag1.

And so I was inside. And there it was.

Douche Mecca:


Tilted hats.

Low hanging shorts.

'Bag Hand Gestures #1-#239.

Stage-4 infected Bleethed out terminal hotties in string bikinis.

Water with about 300 different strands of DNA floating in it.


Yes folks, I had journeyed upriver for you, my loyal readers, only to find the place from which all HCwD power originates. As source-douche as any Grieco, Baio or even early 1990s Corey Feldman. "Wooos!" abounded like siren calls from the wilderness. The air was filled with dancing Grieco viruses as the 'Bags and Hotties congregated like Douche-Gods on the Island of Delos.

The Lord said "Let there be Douche."

And it was douche.


The D.J. was spinning. The cabanas had flat-screen T.V.s. Miller Lites were everywhere. Hotties were being groped by 'bags in the water.

And your humble narrator was there to witness it all.







Tomorrow: More pics of my adventures inside Douche Mecca.