It was an intense 'baggle royale between four worthy contenders for the Monthly crown, but the back-to-ab-pointing basics and utterly reprehensible douchosity of The Crustacean was too much to overcome.

In an excellent vote, the comments were plentiful and eloquently parsed the hott and the scrote in all four Finalists. But, as il choadrino puts it, The Crustacean takes the crown:

I raise my Peach-tainted finger in a vote for CRUSTACEAN. Mostly because I think he's an ass, but also because his jeans remind me of the dotted-swiss blue dress Nadine Sternberg use to wear in third grade when she'd beat the crap out of me on the playground.

And if you will excuse me, now I must drink.

You're excused, I.C. That ridiculous Puma Armband alone is enough to break up a dedicated A.A. support group and cause them to hit the Glenlivet.

I would love Fruit Stripe Hottie with the rechargeable power of a Prius battery. Her hips are like a sun dappled sunday morning at grandma's house. Her legs comfort like lemonade on a screen covered New Hampshire porch.

As 23 Skidouche puts it:

Crustacean by a mile. My esteemed colleagues have already done a scholarly job deconstructing the myriad reasons why this douche is the clear winner, so there is no need to rehash them here. What I will mention is that

Crusty has assembled an impressive body of work on this site already and has paid his dues on the scrote circuit. This picture here represents the crowning achievement of his douche career, and so in honor of his lifetime of work in the field of scrotology, The Crustacean deserves a a victory in the monthly and a shot at HCwDBotY.

Indeed, I fear you are right, 23. This pic will stay in our colective trauma for many a month. Expect it to do extremely well at the annual The Douchies in December. I expect it to take at least one Pat Cup.

Although the metro-mystery Memphis Choad came in a solid second, with what reader John Edwards terms, his "inflasian" hottie by his side, he found his fans. And by fans I mean participants in the metrosexual vomitorium. The Arch Douche clearly and simply states the case:

“Memphis! Memphis! Memphis!”

So goes the chant that echoes in the night, black and cold and hollow.

Indeed, A.D. And clementine of cappadoucha makes the strong case that we shouldn't overlook the power of dual grease in The Greasers either:

The greasers must recieve my vote. The culmination of the silk, the cock-and-balls marks and the blonde Anne Hathaway damsel in distress is almost too much to tolerate. Mostly, however, it's the choadgobbler on the left with too much product in too much hair, the hint of chin pubes and the thumb-ringed douche gesture. This wad of vaginal mucus' greatest transgression though, is his smug expression.

It seems to say, "Yes, I know that I'm a bumtaking rimjob monkey whose only purpose in life is to be the perpetual wingman, but I get the chubby friends (like me), and if that doesn't work out, my severence package from KFC just kicked in so I can buy myself that inflatable girl I've had my eye on for some time now. Boyeeeee!"

Ultra-fantastic smackdown, C.o.C.

But canadouche sums up what we're all thinking:

A glimpse of "The Crustacean" invokes enough anger to get me to roll myself out of bed and to go down to the local fish mart with a 12 pound sledge hammer and smash any and all crusteceans, but then I pan to the right and see Fruit Sripe Hottie and that beautiful clothing remnant which in some cultures they refer to as a "skirt" and it all goes away.

And right there is the essence of the perfect hottie/douchey contradiction. That Yin/Yang polarity between hot and scrote that drives us crazy with swirling emotions. Hope. Fear. Rage. Revulsion. Arousal.

Give it up to the Crusacean and raise his jersey to the rafters. He's earned a Monthly win, and a ticket to the Douchies in December.