It's almost inhuman.

I haven't been this disturbed by a face since Doctor Who battled Scaroth, Last of the Jaguroth, in City of Death.

What, too obscure?

Hello doucheness my old friend...
I've come to rag on you again...

There comes a time in every scrotebag's life when he must choose whether or not to bust the unearned dog tags, the 10 degree hat tilt, the douchey facial expression, and of course, the aviator glasses. Thinking, as every aspiring 'bag does, that such accoutrement will summon the hottie to his dark sleazy flame, he makes that choice. He pulls that lever. He wanks that pud.

And... uhm.... it worked.

sigh

Dammit.

I would light bonfires in the dried cackle brush of the Serengeti until the smoke signals summoned the rare white tailed mongoose. I would then explain in graphic and lurid detail to that mongoose how much I'd like to lick a pair of black short-shorts with white trim. Sure the mongoose wouldn't understand. But I would. I would.

I'm thinking of proposing that paramedics carry around this pic of The Sleeper and Blondie Bazumbas with them on call. Find a patient in cardiac arrest, show them this acid-washed Sleeper and his lithe cutie, and the adrenaline would fire up the heart pumpin' in no time. If you can keep down their Exorcist spew from pea souping across the room, it's gotta be a great method of visual psychosomatic stimulus.

Either that, or it'll kill them on the spot. I can't tell which.

But I do know it's Friday, which means The DB1 will be doing something he never usually does -- get drunk off a bottle of cheap wine, microwave a burrito, and watch Cartoon Network. Yup, it's a party in my life.

Thanks to all for the great submits this week, apologies if I don't respond to every email. Don't forget, I'm a douchebag.

Another reminder that the new URL is functioning if you're tired of typing out the full name of the site: www.HCwDB.com.

I was ruminating on an eloquent summation of this week's philosophic exploration of all things hottie/douchey. As we explore the simulacrum, Derrida, Baudrillard and Freud, I considered a number of discourses to reference. But then it came to me. The perfect word to end the week with.

Boobies.

It says it all. Boobies.

I'm not sure where we went wrong. At what historical point we split off from the potential for a Utopian future of enlightenment and instead descended into the cultural train-wreck that is this absolutely soul shredding slice of swirling sexy and sewage.

Yeah, I'm down with alliteration.

We've featured Buddha 'Bags on the site before, but this may be the douche equivalent of the Bliss State. Dharma 'Bag has achieved douche transcendence. He teaches The Four Douchey Truths and offers us the Eightfold Path. Unfortunately, that path leads to uber-douche. I'm transformed through six levels of douche-consciousness just comprehending that this pic exists.

Or maybe it's that glimpse of tanned lower back that sings of the potential to right our societal ship before we iceberg across the bow of velvet choads and asymmetric facial scruff. Both of those fantastic glimpses, of shoulder and hip, restores hope for the future. It makes Nietzsche believe in God and inspires frogs to line-dance in Saskatchewan.

There remains a glimpse of utopian potential. And if I choose to find it in a backside I'd like to slobber on for a weekend, then so be it.

There's nothing more enjoyable than a rowdy night out of douche-karaoke, in which someone finally gets drunk enough to put 0n the late 80s Sir Pecsalot classic "Douchey Got Back." Its moments like that when we all remember the retro-grease genius that is Sir Pecsalot in all his douche-rapping genius.

And by genius, I mean 'roids.

In analyzing the enhanced douchebaggery of Sir Pecsalot, it is important to note that he can, with very little effort, break me in half. Like a twix bar. I hate it when the greasy pumped up 'bag pictured can snap my sad little spine like a twix bar. Because I like twix bars. And they're easy to snap in half. That being said, the dude is dripping hair gel, Tag Bodyshots and bling like a Corsican sailor selling dried apricots.I have no idea what that means. But I like dried apricots.

I'm hoping once his tats are translated, we'll have more fragments of the Douche Sea Scrolls with which to expand our knowledge of the early 2nd Century Gnostic Scrotebags.

Asian hottie busting the skulls bikini sends my synapses popping with confusion by using the age old simu-attraction/repulsion technique. I'm lost. Dazed and confused. I want to explore the ambiguous inflated hinterlands but reel at the douche virus infection's douchey douchiness.

So instead I will much on a twix bar and dried apricots, and stare longingly at the red thigh scarf while hoping Sir Pecsalot doesn't two turntables and microphone my face.

Douchebaggery plague,
Pestilence, sickness, greased choads,
Bud Light Cries out, "No!"

A Kubrick nightmare
Swathed in cliched ink of Bag
Wyatt Douche: Frontier Choad

-DuckDuckDouche

I think its quite clear,
The Blonde is CC Deville.
My god he loves drugs.

-- the alpha douche

Blond is a tranny,
nipple pastey, pube-faced scrote
White trash with Douchebag

-Grigori Rasdouchin

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of douche, I will fear no hotties: for thou art with me; thy Izod and thy empty liquor bottles because you're too cheap to buy new ones, they comfort me. ['Bags of Corinthians 23:4]

It's like that moment in war after a long battle, when the platoon is outgunned on every side, surrounded by the enemy, but fighting for every inch. If instead of a platoon, it was a supernova sexy hottie, and instead of an enemy, it was a bunch of steaming, greased up choads.

But otherwise the analogy holds.

Puka Shells are:

a) Named for the Hawaiian word for "hole"

b) Tiny cone shaped snail shells with holes in them

c) Ground by surf and coral into a smooth, polished shape

d) Frequently find themselves forced to cohabitate with smelly Tag Bodshot and Armani Exchange covered douchebags

e) All of the above

To answer your shirt, little PP: No but those big DDs make me forget you're a big DB.

There's something amusing in the exchange of glances going on here. PP actually has a clever plan in action. Feature tiny type on his shirt to ensnare the local cuties into being forced to lean in to read what it says. At that moment, Lil' P.P. is free to engage in what is known in the Himalayas as "The Eyeball Quest." The surreptitious journey into the hinterlands. The sense memory exersize in which a fraction in time is preserved for future recall during a more, lets say private, moment.

But instead of taking that spiritual journey of the soul when the chance arises, Lil' P.P. chooses instead to glance at the camera.

They have a word for that around here... What is it... It'll come to me in a moment... Oh yeah. Douchebag.

Now I know what you're thinking. Shut up and post the funny pics, clown. And I will. But consider this. Those chances in life to gaze at the Holy Cleavite must not be wantonly spent on the frivolity of the nearby camera. Whence facing such a moment, remember this.

Glance.

Glance like the wind. Glance like you might never glance again. Before the moment is lost.

Carpe Boobum, boys. Carpet Boobum. Or regret it forever.

Where can I get a pair of upside-down sunglasses as cool as those? Scroteglasses Hut?

More to the point, where can I get a Miami hooha as fine as that one? She looks like Pumpy's fawn crossed with Reece Witherspoon, only with meatier shoulders. I would sprinkle paprika on them and enter them in a cajun cooking contest. She is delectable.

Glassy's facial fungle, on the other hand, is not.

Lets see.

Classic hottie? Check.

Classic stage-2 douchebag? Check.

Fondling my inner thigh in ways that aren't quite obscene but you wouldn't do in public? Check.

Must be Wednesday.

Oh yeah.

Come on people! Can I get an Amen?

And by Amen, I mean "yech."

Jolie Hottie, you must run. Now.

Those are not adoptable Vietnamese babies. They are grown douchebags.

A reader posed a query in yesterday's comments thread wondering if there ever comes a point when in the presence of such a fine perfect backside that auto-douchebaggery commences.

The answer is yes.

We all have what I like to term "The 'Bag Within." The only question is to what extent will we indulge this inner 'bag in the hopes of acquiring a female with great tracks of land, finely buffed sandstones and an ocean view. Or did I just describe a summer condo in Cape Cod.

Regardless, the question then becomes this: When in the presence of such fineness, is momentary auto-'baggitude justifiable under the circumstances?

I posit this question without answering it, as I think it's is an important discourse to consider as we move forward.

None of this, however, has anything to do with this pic. Velveeta Bag is just funny. Not ha ha funny. Just funny funny.

Lords of Pumpy, Tats of Xenu, Wisps of White Chocolate, Spirit of Douche Lee... guide us. Guides us on this journey into the dark realms of douchosity from whence the Rooster crowed.

Holy Hens of Hotness, that was an epic close vote for this week's HCwDB of the Week. But in the end, this cock was too much to block.

So give it up for The Rooster and one of the hottie faves on the site, the Holy Blue Triangle. The combo of greasy hair, smug douchey expression, hint of Jesus bling and popped collar was enough to send a majority of 'bag hunters running for the Pepto. And enough to anoint this pic our winner of the week and entrance into next month's monthly smack-down.

It was a tight vote, but the Rooster pulled it out. Why? Mathematics, of course. As hans lippendoosh brings the science:

A Giant Rooster is a douche of 0.4 to 10 times the mass of Richard Grieco which has exhausted the supply of grease in its core and switched to fusing L.A. Looks Hair Gel in a shell outside the core. Since the inert greasy core has no source of energy of its own, it contracts and heats up, and its gravity compresses the L.A. Looks in the layer immediately above it, thus causing it to fuse faster. This in turn causes the douchebag to become more luminous (from 1,000 to 10,000 times brighter) and expand; the degree of luminosity outstrips the increase in expansion, thus causing the effective scrotal emission to increase.

In douchebags massive enough to ignite Aqua Net fusion, an analogous process occurs when central vodka-cranberry supply is exhausted and the scrote switches to fusing Axe body spray in an energy field, although with the additional complication that in many cases Drakkar Noir fusion will continue in a field at lesser depth — this puts the douche onto the asymptotic giant branch and are called 'Scrotal Supergiants.'[1][2] The increase in surface scrotal emission shifts the douche's visible Grieco output to the Scro-Hawk — hence Giant Rooster Douche.

Nicely done H.L. Nicely done.

Fall Out Bag came close to taking the whole thing and also received his due. And by due I mean something that rhymes with stew. Like spew. As matt puts it:

I vote for fall out bag, solely for the fact that his woman is possibly one of the hottest on this site ever. And he's a pretty big f'n bag.

Short and to the point, matt. I like how you think. However, el douchablo goes in for Euro T.B., who showed surprising resilience and nearly pulled out the win. As E.D. writes:

Although the other contestants are really strong, the girls for me are out of the equasion. The Hot, as it turned out is nothing bu boobs, and even those are fake. And while Blue triangle is still visiting me in my dreams, she already had a lot of spotlight on this site.

So when it comes down to the douches, the rooster is just plain stupid. He makes me shake my head, but the presence of the blue triangle makes this pic watchable. Fall Out Boy is as generic as a douche can get. He followed the manual but didn't bring anything new to the table. And ETB sported a gay attire, looks like a juvy retard kid that you need to slap some sense into. He inspires rage in me. So I vote for him.

el douchablo is correct to factor in the gut rage element. A true HCwDB should inspire a number of immediate, primal and conflicting emotions in the viewer all at once. Rage. Laughter. Arousal. Depression. Hunger for a bowl of Lucky Charms.

But as nad puts it so eloquently:

please, dear god!

you ever get that sharp, piercing pain in your lower-mid abdomen, just on the right side, thinking your appendix just burst since you also feel flashes of extreme hot and a general headache coupled with pale, sweaty skin and nausea? then did you wish death upon yourself to end the agony?

i just experienced that when i looked at Rooster.

We all did, nad. We all did.

Excellent analysis, deductive reasoning and critical thought on display once again in the comments thread. Many new avenues of sociological exploration on the hottie/douchey wrongness are opening up for us to explore as we move forward.

But for now, tip your red cups to The Rooster, who makes it into the next level of douche wrongness. And go get yourself a bowl of Lucky Charms. You earned it.

Goodnight Moon

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon

Goodnight bling

And the red cup balloon

Goodnight 'bag

Goodnight Tag

Goodnight kittens

And goodnight mittens

Goodnight scrotes

And goodnight choates

Goodnight little house

And goodnight mouse

Goodnight comb

And goodnight brush

Goodnight gel

Goodnight mush

And goodnight to the douchebags

whispering "hush."

Far far away, in the distant tropical land of Bagswana, brown satin 'baglings run free in their natural habitats, frolicking and mating as they have for thousands of days.

But poachers have been moving in. Prized for their slick neck-scarves, double sideways peace signs and foppishly curly hair, brown satin 'baglings are facing a massive upheaval within their temperate climate zones. Forced to move to the fringes of urban areas due to incroaching non-'bag gentrifications, 'baglings are venturing farther and father outside their normal mating lands. Bars, even sporting events have spotted isolated 'baglings engaging in the ritual Tag bodyshot application and offering to "Buy a honey a shot." Some 'baglings have even been spotted trolling the cereal aisle at the local supermarkets. It is a desperate situation.

Don't let this happen. Preserving natural habitats for brown satin 'baglings is something we must do if we are to ensure the survival of this rare and greasy species.

Give what you can to National Douchographic's Endangered 'Baglings Fund. Because the natural wonder of these creatures is something none of us can afford to lose.

On second thought, yes. Yes it is.

Speaking of woefully underrepresented 'bag subgenres on the site, the HippieBag has been sorely neglected of late. The Hippebag is one of the rarer douchebag strategies, as the scruff look has grown increasingly unpopular with the hotties. Instead, the cuties have been flocking to the greased up metro uber-douches. Trading in the scruff for grease, as the case may be.

But in some circles the unshaved HipBag look is still a go-to oblique strategy to gain the attentions of the dual-hotness, as pictured here.

HippieBags invoke the tropes of Spin Doctors cassette tape playing mid 1990s hackey-sack ultimate frisbee summers in the hopes that a couple of sexually frustrated Sarah Lawrence girls might want to do lemon drop shots, make out with each other and strip to a Phish bootleg. Because nothing's hotter than out of tune endless jazz jams sunk by off-key Vermont musicians.

It's a rarity, but it does happen.

I guess I'd be remiss if I didn't at least make passing mention of Prince William getting caught yesterday busting two solid stage-3 'Bagger moves, including the classic Pumpy boob grab.

Note the combo boob grab and collar pop for the ole' Prince of England, heir to the something or other.

Even more importantly, note that half the 'bags featured on this site get hotter chicks. That should be our new advertising slogan:

Come visit the United States! Our Douchebags Pull Hotter Tail than the Prince of England.

Yeah. I need some breakfast.

If interested, Here's the article in the Sun.

PIC DELETED
We don't feature a lot of pics of the trolling middle aged wanna-be 'bag desperate to occupy space near a hottie for a few minutes to fuel a month or two of rub-out fantasies. But here's a classic example. Enjoy that moment, Trolly. It's all you're gonna get from this angelic New England debutante type.

Trolly looks like one of those Wall St. Journal editorial writer hack types. Some bloated, vastly overpaid middle-aged putz who angrily thunders away by day about moral values only to pack up a bottle of Oxy Contin, anal beads and a twelve-pack of Viagara and catch the red-eye to Thailand for a four day weekend. You know those types. Pissed off they squandered their youth editing copy for the travel section of the Omaha World-Herald, only to take out their later life frustrations on the rest of us.

I'd keep ranting but I want to suckle hottie's neck like a hungry aardvark looking for termites.

Okay kids, time for another episode of the game that's sweeping the Nation, "Where's Waldouche?"

Somewhere, hidden among these six rolling hills of prime-time a-list derriere I've placed Waldouche.

But watch out!! He's in disguise this time!!

Yes Waldouche has on a wig and sunglasses making him extra hard to spot.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Then there's The Fly. And I don't mean "fly" in the early 1990s hip-hop slang parlance, meaning of impressive jacket stature and fantastic flat-top haircut.

I mean fly, as in insect.

As in Jeff Goldblum.

As in lays its eggs in poo.

As in I need a can of Raid.

I'm naming this pud The Cucumber, and not just because of the high likelihood that he bats for the home team. Okay yes, I'm naming him that for exactly that reason.

Staring at torn fishnets and a choke collar dude sandwiched between two sexy if bizarrely eyebrowed hotties, as I've been doing all afternoon, brings up an important point.

I've been debating for awhile whether the Gaybag actually officially qualifies as a sub-genre category douchebag. Certainly Gaybags can appear douchebaggy. Just take The Cucumber here. But I've meditated and ruminated on the topic, and I'm ready to make a decision.

I'm going to rule that Gaybags can not be an official sub-category of Douchebag.

Part of the intrinsic modus operandi of the douchebag is the affectations of douchebaggery in the interests of attracting a hottie. Gaybags may take on douchebag charm through dress, style and forehead grease, but since they're inherently harmless in the presence of the female, they can never ascend to the true personification of douchitude that is the various categories of scrote we chronicle on this site on a daily basis.

Now I'm sure there are gay douchebags in the gay universe. But I will leave that exploration to another website, perhaps Hot Douchebags with Douchebags. For the purposes of our critical exploration of the cultural ramifications of the douche virus, Gaybags are officially ruled out from qualifying for actual Douchebaggery within the confines of the HCwDB universe.

This, however, does not mean we can't marvel at the wrongness of this pic. Only that the soul sucking gut punch wrongness of a true HCwDB pic can never really take place unless the central driving thrust of the 'bag is his intense desire to impress the hottie, and willingness to douche out to do so. Thoughts?

Challo! I am Jurgen!! Es, how you say, duchebag?

Stupid Finland. First Erno, now Jurgen. All those European countries filled with Euro Trash Bags and the hottest milk chocolate treats this side of the Toblerone factory.

We need to reoccupy all of Europe and liberate the hotties. Some form of massive Marshall Plan. The Douchel Plan, maybe. Alls I know is something's gotta be done on a multinational intercontinental level to free up all the absolutely incredible Euro-hot females having to cuddle up with eyebrow douching turds like Jurgen here.

Surely international treaties make some form of exception for sending in the Marines for limited Hottie Rescue strikes. Someone check the Treaty of Versailles.

I was looking at this week's pics and feeling my usual sense of overwhelming nihilism, when I realized all three pics do share a commonality. This week's finalists all feature some form of Hills Have Eyes nuclear mutant douchitude going on. And that's not including Xenu, whose superior otherworldly manifestion, and the fact he battles Thetans, catapults him directly into the Hall of Scrote.

Xenu looks down on these three inferior douche contenders. He offers them a free Personality Test on Sunset Boulevard and enrollment in a number of courses for a nominal fee.

So in Xenu's supernatural honor, lets move on to this week's finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Fall Out 'Bag

Like the indie rocker band who shares this pud's douched out name, Fall Out 'Bag reminds us all of the college English major who partied like a rock-star, snagged the saline debutante everyone fantasized to, then spent the next twelve years pulling pints of Guiness while trying to get his band The Arthritic Tics off the ground.

Suck it, Indie Boy. Your six inch gelled hair and drooling tongue are mere signifiers of a future of dollar tips and bar-counter wipe downs. Or at least I'll tell myself that while trying to block out the joy that fantastic Cleavite would bring me for a solid forty-five seconds each night. She is Hot. Verb, adjective or noun. Hot.

I am surprised to see the Ubiquitous Red Cup hasn't found a way to sneak into this pic. Instead its grandfather, the Clear Plastic Cup, seems to be maintaining its tenuous grip on relevance.

Sorry Clear Plastic. The U.R.C. is next-gen alcoholic vessel.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: The Rooster


This striped beauty is a long-time fan fave here at HCwDB. She's also a douche magnet. Here she is with Federline 'Bag. And here she is with the Vortex of Douche. What's clear in all three of these pics, aside from the wide spectrum of choad, is that she is absolutely fantastic.

Rooster here may be the 'baggiest of the three, peacocking his douchitude for the world to see. Given the demand to include this pic in a weekly contest, his greasiness has clearly struck a chord. And by chord I mean root canal.

Cock-a-doodle-douche indeed, Rooster Wank. Get yer hands of the Holy Blue Triangle, or I'll... I'll... stare angrily at this pic.

sigh.

She is perfection.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Euro Trash Bag

Euro T.B. is a 15th century plague of douchitude, and the fact he's polluting these two cuties with a "Sex 'N' Roll" shirt only makes the sphincter tightening all the worse. Featuring the early 1990s Kevin Bacon buzzcut, the douche talisman around the neck and some sort of United Nations belt, E.T.B. needs to have his Nations de-Leagued.

And that shoulder on the left is top shelf. I would suckle its ridges while whistling Wagner.

So what say you, people? A worthy finalist round of three, but like the Ancient Mariner says, you can stopeth only one.

Which one will you stopeth?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Picking up where his father left off, Young Indy better be careful or Cat Hottie's gonna bullwhip his snakes until he digs in the wrong place.

There's a last crusade joke in there somewhere. But it's Sunday, and I like to treat myself on Sunday. Time for a bowl of the ole' premium blend Lucky Charms. With the shooting stars. Mmm... bluish milk.

Is it just me or does this stubbly tool remind you of Michael Biehn, "Reese" in the first Terminator movie. But then if he's the douche Michael Biehn, that would make him the hero rather than the Douchinator, which will just ruin my attempts at making various obscure Terminator references.

Dammit.

And I was going to go with the whole young Bill Paxton punk, "Your Hotties, Give them to Me" angle. Toss in a solid "Laser Pulse Hair Gel with L.A. looks wax." "Hey, just what you see, pal." Maybe slip in a few "And he will not stop... until you are Bleethed!" lines. Then end with a rousing "You're Grieco'd, douchebag!"

Man I need to get out more often.

EDIT: Or I can just turn it over to metalmilitia from the comments thread:

ReeseBag: "There was a war. A few years from now. A war on douchebags. The whole thing. All this--"

ReeseBag gestures to the skeezy nightclub. He stops and points at a couple of lurkbags.

"--everything is gone. Just gone. There's no hair gel anywhere. No facial grease. Highlights are impossible to come by, as is Jesus bling and 'Bag tags. There were survivors. Here. There. Nobody knew who started it."

(pause)

"It was the DoucheHunters."

Hotties: "I don't understand."

ReeseBag: "Internet communications. Bloggers. Web designers. Hooked into everything. They saw the effect that the Grieco virus was having on women everywhere. They calculated that nearly 50% of the worlds cuties would be Bleethed to level 3 or worse by by 2020. They saw all douche bags as threats. Decided our fate in a microsecond. Extermination."

Well played, sir.

PIC DELETED
This wizened old choad is the douchebag equivalent of a minority targeting spiced rum ad campaign. Arrr!! It's spicey!! Serve chilled at parties. And by chilled I mean stuffed and formaldehyded, then propped up behind the bar so the hotties can play ring toss on his tri-colored head.

Mmm... wispy haired Jennifer Connolly cutie makes the sun rise on a cloudy Saturday in Los Angeles. Stupid clouds. It's supposed to be sunny and 'bag filled every day in this city. Well, it's still 'bag filled. But cloudy.

In honor of the DB1's "headache," the word "hangover" has such alcoholic connotations, I'm posting another pic of Hot and her Fratty army pants wearing 'bag. Just because. I need a dose of the Hot. And by hot I mean boobs.

A wonderful glimpse of the Holy Cleavite and the headache is almost gone. Almost but not quite.

They warned me not to alternate vodka and scotch. They was right.

I go back and forth on whether or not DJs are inherently scrote. It seems unfair to paint an entire profession with the 'bag brush. And yet isn't a club DJ really just a glorified used speaker salesman with added grease? They're like the club equivalent of the audio/visual techie nerd at Best Buy suddenly blessed by the stud gods into a powerhouse of douche-force attraction.

Play a record at the senior citizens home on a Sunday, you're a minimum wage flunky. Turn out all the lights, get those seniors dosed up on E, pass out Red Bulls and you're hip hop Hugh Hefner. If you go for the grandma contingent, that is.

And yet DJ celebrity culture continues. They rule the roost and attract the lithe stalks of sunflower corn like Blue Wave here. So clearly they know what's up on some intuitive level.

Play that funky music white douche. I would spin your Blue Wave friend at 44 rpms until my needle scratched. And as we all know, there's nothing worse than when your needle scratches.

Okay, lame analogy, but what are ya gonna do. It's Friday.

I don't like to post too many trade convention pics because hiring a hottie forced to pose with creepy nerdbags doesn't exactly summon up the rage factor, but I'll make an exception for Snow White and Douchey here.

Douchey was one of the lesser known dwarfs, rejected by Sleepy, Grumpy and Dopey for wearing a tie that ridiculous. Douchey grew up and became an investment banker, and now he trolls trade shows for hired hotties to pose with.

Oh, Snow White. How far you've fallen since you switched agents, cancelled your Disney contract, and began doing Skinemax films under the nom de plume "Snow White Doll." Very sad.

This young college lad is probably not even a stage-1er, but I really like that blonde cutie, so figured I'd throw it out for the crowd to give the Up/Down verdict on his 'bag status.

Note there is a semi headbutt and tongue gesture.

Oh who am I kidding. He's not much of a 'bag. But she's a coed hottie.

So lets stare.

Lost at sea, two souls
Good Will Douching, sharkbait choad.
Scarf abs, seagulls weep.

On holy cleavite
I do gaze slack-jawed, amazed
Toss scrote overboard

~ Doucharellious

Velvet skin of hot
Come away from the scrate bag
Rip picture in half

-- rip van wanker

Blank stare, forehead grease
A gathering storm of douche.
Can great whites smell Axe?

-Good Will Doucheing


Douchebag Mariner
Release that fair albatross
Avoid the foul curse

-- danny bonnadouchey

I always wondered what the alien warlord that Scientology is founded on looks like. Now I know.

And to think, Tom Cruise prays to this?

Uhm... yeah.

And while we're celebrating Indy's eurotash win in the HCwD of the week, a reader snapped this pic of yet another Eurotrash Bag in Europe last summer and confirms that he is indeed both heterosexual and total douchebag.

Euro-Trash Bag, or as I like to call him, Euro TB, makes me long for rats dipped in plague coming ashore off deep sea cargo ships.

I think I'm attracted to the tiny brunette tonguing Euro T.B.'s armpit. But, then again, that's just wrong enough to gross me out.

What I do know is whatever mutation the Grieco Virus performed in Europe, it's almost become a seperate plague. I mean look at this guy. Someone needs to chart the virus mutation Galapagos style over there.

A worthy HCwD of the Week winner, Indiana Scrote seems to want to whip his idol to those two amazing short rounds in front of him.

And she is perfection. Maybe not as pure sex as "Hot" was a few pictures down, but fantastic nonetheless. Sure she's probably Miami annoying. Which is annoying x 10. But right now she's lovely. And I'd love her presence for a resounding 75 seconds or so. Because I'm studly like that.

But back to the vote. kentucky fried douche sumed up the challenge:

This weeks contest is a difficult one. While Pumpy obviously conquered last week, these are secondary scrotebags compared to him. Temple of the Blonde Hottie is definetly the tastiest dish, which gives Indiana Scrote extra bonus points. His weasel like gaze provides insight into his douche filled soul. Westbank is scrote worthy is his own right. He looks like an arabic Sean Paul and scores big time for the scrotebag hand gestures. Willy Wanker is just a run of the mill Brit, seriously pissed off, but still deserves an honourable mention. This contest has to go to Raiders of the Lost Scrote. Indiana Scrote takes a marginal win!

DuckDuckDouche agrees:

Indiana Douche and the Temple of Fine PoonTang. So lurky, so k-fed like, so f'in lucky to be backing that crispy piece of swank tang. He looks a little confused, has to be to wear that silly lid. After much consideration, the Squint and tan sealed the deal. I have to go with Humphrey Bagart. Frankly Douche, you make want to dip myself in honey and sit on a fire ant hill.

Indy takes it for me....

That's not to say Westbank didn't get some love for bringing the douche to an international state of pure douchitude. As david douchecovney puts it:

My first instinct was to vote for Westbank Side. But then my "instincts" told me that Balboa didn't stand a chance against Drago in Rocky IV. So I consulted the rationale of my colleague 'slayers and came away impressed by the myriad arguments. Cracking job ladies and gents!

There was something strangely hopeful about Westbank's blinged out state of 'baggery. To paraphrase the winner of the cold war, Rocky Balboa, "If I can grease, and you can grease... we all can grease!"

Wee Willy was a distant third, and he's so angry about it, he's going to hunt each of you down and glare at you bizarrely. But he did inspire at least a few angry reactions to his douchitude. And it's important to remember that part of the refined aesthetic of a truly superior HCwD pic is the irrational and primal rage it causes in the viewer. All three of these pics didn't have a high rage factor, but Wee Willy did bring up a certain bile in the back of my throat, and for that he deserves at least momentary recognition.

But this week, it was Indy Scrote's chance to shine. And by shine I mean Eurobags suck. jstanley01 makes the connection:

He's about as Indiana as Armand Peugeot. This cigarette-holder puffin', old-money French-puke's normal bag-wear no doubt consists of a silk bathrobe whose fleur de lis pattern matches the penthouse wallpaper. Here he's been caught slumming-it, trying to make like a cow-poke in pursuit of a babe-poke. Meanwhile babe-a-licious, in her locket, still carries the snap of "Troy" taken "that weekend" at the lake.

Nicely done J.S. A verbal smack-down of impressive stature. baron von goolo continues the impressive verbal gymnastics in this week's thread as he eviscerates the Temple of Blonde's unholy archeologist:

I would hang with Westside to gain his trust and get him to fix my computer. And WWW: I'm getting more dick than douche off of him. So the iScrote takes my vote. Not only is Jailbait Barbie whiplash hot, there's something about iScrote's pinched avian leer makes me want to lynch a smooth jazz DJ.

Excellent work, B.V.G. Lots of you were clamoring for the Rooster, so I've decided to toss his plucky ass into next week's HCwD so we can give him a pecking chance. So stop yer crowin'. It'll also give us one more chance to wonder over the perky beauty that is the Holy Blue Triangle, now in her third or fourth appearance on the site (sadly with new douchebag each time). Also Truck Head may be receiving an honorary spot in the Hall of Scrote in the section of my future ex-wives. I just can't get over that brunette. Perfection.

But for now, we raise The Scrote Adventurer to the rafters for next month's HCwD of the Month smack down. And we get ourselves a bowl of Frosted Flakes. And by we I mean me.

Great comments thread, everyone. A quality level of analysis of the hottie/scrotey wrongness that befits a worthy 'bag hunting operation.

It's math formula time, kids.

Boob grab + puka necklace /(forehead grease/smirk) =

a) Toady Stage-1 Fratbag
b) Skeezy uber-douche
c) Typical generic putz
c) Mmm... boobs

That's right.

I'm referencing an emo band that's referencing a Simpsons episode that's referencing a comic book.

Baudrillard. Simulacrum. The copy supercedes the original. A reflectivity of refraction in which the simulation becomes the real. And so it goes.

And so we have Fall out 'Bag. A tongued out scrote that even Gandhi would sandal in the nads.

Oh, and Hot. That is her name. Hot. No other verb will suffice. She defines the concept. She personifies the signification.

Hot.

I would burn my tongue on the stove of her beauty just to taste of that flame.

It's like I've been slapped in the face with a wet smelly diaper that looks like Angela Lansbury. Because it's wrinkled and white. And so's Angela Lansbury. I probably didn't need to explain that.

That dress makes Schrodinger's Cat choose life.

The cutie's your average Vegas waitress chicka, not superstar hot but she's got a nice smile and a sexy little arm. But what's with the orange/white two tone color shaved head look on Browless here? I haven't seen anything that sandpapered since 6th grade wood-shop class. It's like his face is a 1960s polished formica kitchen table. Hey, that could get big bucks on ebay.

Hang in their waitress chicka. The shift is almost up.

Since we've got kind of an old 'bag thing going today, lets celebrate Old Bag, puttin' on the ritz with a delectable piece of pie.

I can't tell if he's doing some form of Halloween performance or if he really does bust a red silk tie, giant fake stogie, and Jesus bling on the lapel on a daily basis.

But what I do know is sideburns are rad.

Old Bag, who looks vaguely like Aaron Spelling, may actually be Aaron Spelling. But either way he rivals last summer's Gramps for sheer balls-out sleaziness into his octogenarian years. And for that, we tip our collective red cup of the 'Train to the original O.G., O.B. Keep on rockin', Oldie. Keep on rockin'.

Maybe you've seen Michael Polinko.

He's "in the best shape of his life" and "forty-nine years old and living the dream!" in those awful Bowflex home gym ads that play in heavy rotation on The Sci-Fi Channel.

Every time I DVR Battlestar I gotta fast forward through that greased up mug's homoerotic workout.

Hey Bowflex Bag, I'm not impressed by your greasy douched-out abs, your age, or the fact you're proud you play in a "rock and roll band." I'm sure your rockin' Bob Seger covers are fantastic to the drunk waitress at the local Wings n' Things, but I don't need to stare at you pumping iron every six and a half minutes while I'm waiting for that blonde cylon uber-hottie in the red dress to come back on.

Now get the hell off my T.V. before I frak your ass.

And while you're mulling over the HCwDB of the Week, here's a skeezy OldBag to cheer you on.

Like most non-Yellowtail old 'bags on the site, Hawaii 50 here may acquire a sort of folk-hero glow. Any ancient pud still able to score balls of candle wax hot like this tight bodiced piece of pizza deserve a sort of inverted 'bag status.

But at what point does a douche cross over and become folk hero anti-douche for still being in the game even as the scrote hangs lower and lower? 50? 55?

Either way, she's lovely. In fact I'm going to clip my toenails in her honor right now. Yes, even the big toes.

Since it's the one year anniversary, and I'm still recovering from that shot of absinthe, I thought we'd mark this week's contest the 'Baggers Day edition. Which basically means it's just like any other weekly vote except I eat an extra moon pie.

Mmm... moon pie.

Speaking of moon pies, now is a good time to announce that I've set up a site redirect at www.HCwDB.com for anyone at work who fears the douchebaggery of my regular URL might offend the delicate sensibilities of those untrained in the 'bag arts. I'm also trying to get my RSS feed to work but I hear it's spotty thanks to Blogger's assitude, so bear with.

But enough of my ramblings, on to this week's finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Indiana Scrote and the Temple of Blonde aka Friday Haiku


Throw me the hottie, I throw you the gel!

This monarch of the sea is definitely a finalist worthy entry, not just because that blonde could melt the frost off Marion's ass. Indiana Scrote needs to have his heart ripped out by offensive Hollywood "primitive" stereotypes while the director hits on his co-star.

There's also the genius appearance of a James Bond villain henchman in the background, Odd Face, which lends the pic a certain intertextual echo.

Did I mention the hotness of the Temple of Blonde? She is my Hebraic Covenant. Her ass is a transmitter, a radio for speaking to God. I would Belloq her bad dates. Watching Indiana Scrote rub up against her is enough to make me shove the Staff of Ra six kadam's up his douchey ass.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: Westbank Side


There's something glorious about seeing the douche Grieco Virus go global. And by glorious I mean soul crushing ball smashing wrongness.

Westbank Side busts all the classic 'bag attributes wrapped in a grape leaf hummus package. Those glasses, those facial pubes cut in landing strip formation. those braids, and of course 'bag hand gesture #57.

Red on the left is sexy suburban housewife covert hot. She'll wear a sun dress to church, then tie you up with black licorice at night. Never underestimate the stealth sexiness.

But Pocahontas just warms the cockles of my heart. And by cockles I mean... uhm, yeah.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Wee Willy Wanker

Wee Willy Wanker just has that feel of an iconic HCwDB pic. His expression. The coral snake of douchitude around his neck. His earring that 1989 wants back. And of course his curvy, if slightly plump, little turkey of hot.

The combo of hottie/douchey head assploding wrongness just works. I'm not sure why as it's more than the sum of its parts, but it's definitely a spew worthy finalist and well deserving of consideration to move on to next month's monthly douche-off.

It was tough to eliminate Plastic Man, Rooster Wank, Coffee Bag and Insane in the Douchebrane, which also has a certain iconic flair. Coffee Bag was eliminated because I heard from Mr. Coffee, and he wasn't too thrilled about being featured but grudgingly allowed us to keep the pic up after careful international negotiations between myself and the Coff. So better not to rattle that cage.

And of course Truck Head, whose hottie alone makes me think this pic should get a bump to the hallowed Hall of Scrote as The Future Ex-Mrs. DB1's Wife #2.

But enough digressions, it's time to vote. And this goes for all you lurkers too. Time to step up to the plate and cast in with one of our three lovely finalists. And by lovely I mean moon pie.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Today marks the 1 year anniversary since I started HCwDB, and so I thought we'd celebrate by marking today 'Baggers Day.

I thought about celebrating like I celebrate all my holidays, two moon pies and a shot of absinthe. But then I thought this special first anniversary of a new holiday called for something more.

So I ate a third moon pie. Cuz I'm crazy like that! Crazy like a douche.

Thanks to all of the fantastic regulars whose 'bag hunting skills find the most incredible pics featured on the site. And major props to the commenters in the threads who crack me up and keep me going as we continue to hunt down the hottie/pukey combos that fill the MySpace universe of douchitude like so many stars in a constellation. If that constellation were poo.

Special props to all the soldiers who've been emailing me and who read the site (you guys know who you are). Stay safe over there. We need you guys to get your asses back to the states so you can rescue these hotties from the 'bag plague that's been infecting our country while you've been gone.

This site's just getting fully up to speed, and if I can finally get my douchitude together long enough, we'll be unveiling some new features in the next few months that should fire up the HCwDB combos and take us all to the next level of 'bag slaying.

So crack open a PBR and celebrate. I'm one years old, douchebags!! Douche-on!!

Real hair?

Fake hair?

Wig?

Who gives a rat's ass. That could be chocolate pocky covering his head and I'd still kick him in the nads. The dude is essence of weasel choad. And as the Navajo know, essence of weasel choad is one of the rarest and most potent toxins of the plant kingdom.

Which is why I worry for Polka Hottie. It's not because I want to nuzzle her lower back horse/salt-lick style.

It's because I genuinely fear for her exposure to weasel choad.

Because I'm a humanitarian like that.

There is something inherently astounding when a rocker scrote can wear a bandana the size of an H3 on his head. There's something even more impressive when that same scrote can have his douched out "Obey" shirt ripped off by two sweet nutri-grain cereal bars of wholesome 140 calorie goodness.

There's something even more impressive when I can sit on my ass, pick crumbs off my shirt, chug a PBR, and only get midly annoyed that this wonky greased up ball of pseudo-rocker tan-in-a-can stomached bud lite sipping ferret occupies the same temporal time/space axes that I do.

It's not that I'm a bitter and angry wanker, as the Brits say.

Oh wait, yes it is.

It's exactly that.

(Pic Changed -- See Below)

I know. I've written previously on the manifestation of Douche Spirit self actualizing through the use of bling, hand gesture, forehead grease, facial douche and various articles of 'bag clothing. And I'm not saying this choady blob doesn't warrant douche status based on the shirt, the cig and the general facial scrote.

But none of that is what intrigues me about this pic. It's that this dude just looks like a frog.

It kills me to violate my own dictum, as I've often insisted one must take action to be douche, and not simply "be."

Yet here's Froggy. Oh sure, the shirt is uber-douche and she's a sultry, dark haired hottie with a sexy overbite. But, well, Frog.

Frog.

EDIT: Well I'm not sure about Froggy, but some of the commenters thought he might've been actually "challenged," so I've swapped out his pic with one from the classic z-grade Roger Corman flick, YellowTail-Frog. Because when I pick on the 'bags, I want to pick on real 'bags.

As to YellowTail-Frog, that wacky Roger Corman strikes again. Trying to rip off "The Fly" with the genetic splicing between frog and skeezy old 'bag. Not one of his better knock-offs. Stick with Carnosaur.

Okay kids, it's time for another edition of everyone's favorite online game, Where's Waldouche?

Somewhere, buried deep within this lineup of gorgeous if overly stylized kumquat hotties, I've carefully hidden a white suited Disco 'Bag.

Look carefully. Study each corner of the pic. Feel free to pause at those two beanstalks of hot that tall dark haired vixen on the left calls her legs. I would fry them in buttersauce and argue politics with my family while chewing on them during a national holiday. But I digress...

Look closely.

Click on the pic for closer examination.

Can you find Waldouche?

Because of last week's Pumpy rampage, we have a two week backlog of HCwD of the Week pics to choose from for this week's contest. Before I winnow it down to a final three I figured I'd open it up to the floor for any requests. I've gotten emails requesting Soc and his Will-Ferrell-in-Zoolander friend, but Soc is already pantheon and I like to keep the weeklies open to newbie douche ascension.

So what do you say? Which pearls of douchedom from the past two weeks deserve finalist status for this week's douche-off? Enter your top three rec's in the comments thread and we'll put up the contest itself this evening.

Man, I need a bowl of the 'Flakes. And by Flakes I mean Frosted. And by Frosted I mean sugar crack.

People often ask me, DB1, can you give us a short-answer definition of the douchebag phenomenon? And normally I hate to reduce our complex and far reaching journey across the spectrum of philosophical douchitude to a simplistic series of approximations. But for today's lesson, Professor DB1 will try to give at least a roundabout philosophical talking point. Don't think of it as an answer. Think of it as a starting point for further discussion:

At its essence, if I were to attempt to make a generalized definition, douchebaggery is simply about the affected performative role-playing of the peacocking male in an utterly false and constructed way. It is about the adoption of cultural signifiers of "the stud" as an attempt to woo the female by inverting attraction, by making the male douchebag perform as the object of the female's gaze -- to feminize himself. This attempt at gender inversion, an almost mythic reinvention, allows the male to become the object of attraction through invocation of the tropes of gender masquerade. In this way, the male douchifies himself in the hopes of hiding his true self. Douchitude is the mask, the role being played, which hides the douche from his true reality in hopes of, well, getting jiggy with the hot.

I offer this rather cursory and simplified definition for meditation and contemplation, and will be taking questions shortly.

As Miami Moe (Hawk) here demonstrates, douchebaggery cuts across all racial, gender, cultural and ethnic lines. Anyone can be 'bag, be they white, be they black, be they Arab, Asian, Latino or be they Pumpy. Douchitude, like any pure zen art practiced by the Trappist monks of the Orval Abbey in Florenville teach us, comes from within. It is not identified by physical genetics but instead it radiates from the soul and the bling with the power of a thousand Griecos.

And like the wicked blue flame of an electric bug zapper, it attracts the hottie with its bright douchey glow.

As to this gorgeous little minx, she is everything that is righteous and holy and sacrosanct in the physical, metaphysical and theological worlds. She's Lisa Bonet in The Cosby Show hot, and I would gnaw off my ankles just to Theo her Huxtable.

Like a fine oak barrel aged Bourdeaux, Donkey Douche and his delicate captive fawn just keep getting better with age.

Really, there's not much else your humble narrator can add to this pic, so I will simply step aside, and let you stare at the genius...

Some people were wondering just exactly who the "Erno" was that I was referring to in my hypothetical marriage/divorce from quasi librarian hottie in Wednesday's Truck Head pic.

Here's Erno in all his technicolor performance art glory. But be warned. The Erno experience is not for the faint of the heart. Like the possessed videotape in Ringu, witnessing this clip has unholy and supernatural side affects. Beware. Austrian dance steps and douchey hats may spontaneously grow from your face after viewing.

Is Erno a douchebag?

Hard to say.

He does, however, frighten little children and small woodland animals. Which has to count for something. But more importantly, his adventures in the world merit YouTube immortality, even if I'm the one of the first to "discover" his uncomfortably awkward Finland Germanic genius.

So lets all light an incense stick of Grieco inspired tribute to Erno. For without Nordic nihilists, whom would chase Lebowski?

It's not enough that Pumpy won the HCwD of the Month contest. Now he's poking his ginormous head and blocking an otherwise fantastic example of what I like to term "Performance Art Lesbianism." PAL was a welcome off-shoot of the rise of douchebaggery in the late 1990s in which otherwise sweet and innocent hotties turn on their inner sluts for the amusement of a choady FratBag who'd rather look at the camera and smirk than observe the sexy goodness going on under his stubbly chin.

Stupid Pumpy. Blocking the breast licking goodness like a 'roided up apparition.

However he's not blocking the red lace slip that Anniston Hottie is firing up my synapses with. Also note Pac-Choad on the left, gnawing a goobie boobie like the starving Fat Baby.

Heck, lets all get in the spirit. Hey everyone, it's Boobie Feed Friday!! Grab a boobie and chewbie!!

Holy Grieco, I'm getting goofy. Must be still hung over from too many PBRs last nite.

Yo yo yo, keepin' it real Falafel style!!

I shouldn't make fun of Salman Douchdie too much. His book "The Satanic Scroteses" was unfairly reviled and deserves critical reevaluation. Besides, adopting to American douche culture takes much practice, and he employs the "W" hand gesture with the dexterity of a thousand chickpea based sandwiches and soups.

Pocahontas needs rescuing before the Dead Sea gets even saltier from the residual runoff of Douchdie's greased up goatee. That tongue gesture is pure shawarma sandwich lamb goodness.

Even the Salvation Army would reject Camo 'Bag based on a Code #423 -- Douching Without Officer Permission. He's what we like to classify a D-203 HFRPT -- Human Firing Range Practice Target. Unfortunately the 10 Degree Army Hat Tilt rendered him unfit for active duty, so instead he's been dishonorably discharged. And by discharged, I mean thrown in with the dishtowels and washed with a powerful bleach. And yet. His stench remains.

Where's Private Pyle when you need him?

I long to dance the salsa with Princess on the right until she tires and I'm forced to carry her home to her brownstone on Main Street where we'd sit on a couch by the fire and I'd salivate uncomfortably on her ankles while staring at her boobs until she asked me to leave.

Red in the middle shows dangerous signs of sinking into the morass of female douchebaggery, the douchebaguette, stage-3/4 Bleeth infection. And it's hard not to see why. Stand too close to a supernova Camo 'Bag army scrote like Sargent Douchebag, and even the strongest willpower can't stop the Stockholm Syndrome 'Baggery from taking root like a deep foot fungus. And sweetie, not even Fast Actin' Tinactin can cure that infection.

I stepped in poo. Hark!
Angelic Blonde, do not weep,
Poo can be scraped off.

Indiana Scrote
Inside thy temple of douche
I hope thy face melts

~ Doucharellious

Portugese bag says
Po Po Po Po PoPoZoa
It means "I'm a douche"

-DuckDuckDouche

Creepy Joe Friday
Sluthing for a little love
Try guy behind you

-- the alpha douche

Beutiful Blondie..
Even if thyne roots are brown..
My penis cares not.

-- douchebag out!

To skeeze: perchance to dream: ay, there's the scrote; / For in that sleep of douche what dreams may come, / When we have shuffled off this muscle t-shirt, tonguey douchebaggery and creepy 'fro, / Must give us pause.

I anoint thee Prince Douchebagus.

I would Macbeth Ophelia with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. And then lick her face repeatedly.

Since 'Baggers Day isn't too far off, call 1-800-FlowerDouche and ask for the Whitesnake Tendril Bouquet.

Because there's no better way to tell your skeezy, aging douchebag friend how much you appreciate his smirking ooze and slimy hair.

All I know is Kelly Osborne's let herself go to hell since that show went off the air. Here she is rubbing up and down on a sweet spongecake who may or may not be in high-school, so I will refrain from any lascivious comments and simply say "nice cans." Because I'm classy that way.

As to this Black Sabbath of douchitude, I would take Arty McTardy out back and read him passages from The Bell Jar until he Cobained himself.

Then I'd fly off to Antwerp, where I would study 17th Century Flemish folk dancing for six months. Upon the date of these two cuties turning eighteen I would fly back to the States, read them Tolstoy, and nuzzle their feet while spanking myself with a rubber ping pong paddle.

It's bad enough that uber-scrotes are out there patrolling the clubs and polluting the hotties, but possessed demonic dolls? It's one thing to star in cheesy 80s horror films, it's another to dye your hair black, put on a suit and mack on a gorgeous ball of blond love who may or may not be related to a famous party girl actress.

Seriously Chucky, didn't a scream queen machete you in the face in the last installment of the series: "Chucky VII: Chucky Douches Out"? Or is this like a "Freddy Vs. Jason" thing where Chucky takes on an uber-hot party girl with fantastic steak tar tar ta tas, only to be forced to fight Pumpy in a made for ancillary XBox sales duel to the finish?

I'd love Party Blonde in ancient Greek ways that would get me thrown in jail in Texas.

I don't quite know what's going on here. I don't want to know what's going on here.

But there's one thing I do know, fluffy boy.

When they suggest you do tequila shots on your back while pulling up your muscle shirt to resemble a bra, know this. The hottie taking your pic thinks you're a douchebag.

And hey, what do you know? She's right.

Now guzzle the lime, putz.

It's hard to count the varieties of douche manifest within this pic. Once 10 degree trucker cap met popped collar, 'bag hand gesture and scrote face, all in the presence of this sultry brown eyed girl, all motor functions left my bowels.

I would rotate Truck Head on a grill spit and baste with L.A. Looks gel until his facial goo melted.

Then I would build large talisman structures on remote tropical islands in her honor to confuse future generations of archeologists.

She is just hot perfection, right up the DB1's alley. Slap a pair of librarian glasses on this one and I'd definitely consider a short, stormy marriage followed by a drawn out divorce in which she would take half my bank account while dating Erno, the German video performance artist from Ludwigsburg. It would be worth it just to darn her socks for a fortnight.

And while we're recovering from a hard fought HCwD of the Month contest, Wee Willy Wanker here wanted to pop in and tell you what he thinks of you.

He's like a douche chaser. Helps cleanse the palette. Like gari, the pickled ginger you eat between pieces of sushi to clean the tongue and prepare for the savory tastes of the next piece of fish. In this case, that piece of fish is actually a flaming ball of 'bag.

Excellent analysis, deconstruction and debate in the comments thread, props to all for bringing their A-game to our parsing of the cultural narratives and forces of hegemony that conspire to create the dominant and oppositional HCwD discourses of our day. From Derrida to Proust, from string theory to post-feminism and third wave gender analysis, we must dig ever deeper to expose the forces at work that lead to such unholy, and douchey, comingling like the four featured in this month's contest.

As to questions about Donkey Douche, the D.D. has already ascended into the Scrote pantheon, there is no need for his greatness to trifle with the mere mortal hottie/douchey combos that must compete for our attention and our votes in this contest. Don't cry for him, Dario Argento. For he will remain with us, haunt our dreams, at least until the crazy ghost killer shows up in the final reel.

Stupid late night horror on HBO.

The monthly voting basically came down to T 'Bag and Pumpy, with Beastie simply not rising the blood pressure enough to cause a ripple and StewBag's Maggie perhaps throwing off the curve with her defense of her douchetraction tendencies in the comments thread. As to Pumpy, he crushed the competition like only a Douchezilla can. Like the first icon of the raving roidbag to appear on the site, Old No. 7 aka Cro Bagnon, Pumpy's sheer simian force and the cuteness of his innocent hottie was just too much to overcome.

greekbag sums up why Pumpy can ascend to the douche pantheon with barely a scrote accessory on him:

From the moment I saw Pumpy, I recognized his greatness. He is the Proto-Douche in the new wave of Roid 'Bags that is sweeping the nation today. Look at this guy's hands! One is almost entirely covering her right side while the other one has gone in for one of the most egregious boob grabs this side of T-Bag. And his hottie is excellent. She's no Maggie, but she's perky enough to make me dream about eating soft shell crab off of her stomach and then taking a long nap in between her beautifully crafted silicone chest...

His piercing gaze through those fake Ray-Bans transcends our current understanding of douchiness and reaches a completely new level that I cannot put into words. The Grieco spirit seems to have chosen him as the future of Douchitude. And the future is a bleak one.

Also, if you don't vote for him, he will rip out your spine and use it as a toothpick.

I vote for pumpy

But that's not to say the T Bag didn't also find some love, and by love I mean Fruit Loops. david douchecovney brings some stellar analytics to his deconstruction and winds up casting in with the T Bagger:

Within this set of specimens there are actually TWO subsets. The first being the combination yam grab/moronic facial configuration exemplified by Tbag and Pumpy. The second subset can be characterized by having only one distinctive douche trait. Beastie has the 'bag hand gesture & nothing more to recommend him. Stewy has his hair. I have taken the hotness of the hot chicks as given in all cases.

As two are always better than one if the object be "good" or "desireable" then conversely, two become worse than one if the object be "bad" or "repulsive". As we are attempting to determine the worst douchbag it follows that our second subset must needs be eliminated from consideration.

It is my feeling that a vote for Pumpy is wasted. Wasted on him, on you, me, all of humanity. It is wasted in the same way that the sensation (which must be quite pleasant) traveling from his paw is wasted on his brain. The message does not compute, like a tree falling in an empty cranium, Pumpy is a a waste.

Tbag gets my vote. I hate that guy so much.

Seriously you guys . . . hate . . . that . . . guy.

I hear ya D.D. (and I don't mean the Donkey). danny bonnadouchey agrees, and sums up the wrongness:

T'Bag ruins this picture. Everytime I try to focus on those amazing boobs, I see someone's hand limply grasping one. "Who's hand is that?", I ask. My eyeline then raises to meet T'Bag. It settles first on his gaping maw, emitting a velociraptor-like screech of elation at touching those fantastic boobies. I then meet his gaze, his red eyes burning me like two hot coals of baggery. I finally take in the hat. The straight-brimmed, two sizes too large hat.

I'm going to go lay down in front of traffic now.

To offer the female perspective on the 'bag boob grope #02, fanny double douche had this to say:

if that were my funbag he was groping, you'd need a barrel of crisco to make my passion fruit work again. so, my vote is for t-bag.

But Otto Graf von Douchemark takes it home for Pumpy:

Im gonna cut it short this time: Its Pumpy.

He is Arnold Douchenegger, the Douchinator. He could squash your head with one hand and still have the same non-expression on his face. He looks like that because he does not have to prove that he is douche, he knows it. No need for toungebaging or bag-faces. His face is just scary. He looks like he knows your going nuts over his tittiegrap but you cant do s#@ about it.

I just tried to imagine a fight between Pumpy and Cro´bagnon, that would be the end of the world as we know it...

And so we raise Pumpy's stretched out jersey to the rafters. It was a hard fought HCwD of the Month contest, but Pumpy prevailed. Props to 'bag hunter danny bonnadouchey for finding the pic, and props to all for the excellent comments and voting. I thought the Ghost could've given Pumpy a run for his money, but that's the way the forehead grease drips.

To quote the great Jean Baudrillard, who sadly passed away a few days ago:

The liberated man is not the one who is freed in his ideal reality, his inner truth, or his transparency; he is the man who changes spaces, who circulates, who changes sex, clothes, and habits according to fashion, rather than morality, and who changes opinions not as his conscience dictates but in response to opinion polls.

However, since you just read that on a computer screen, it may not have really taken place. Rest well, Baudrillard. The simulacrum remains.

#10: Oiled up Mugs
#9: Guys who look like Jim Carrey on Acid
#8: The Shirtless women who love them
#7: Shirtless 'bags
#6: Sweat pants
#5: I'm completely out of attributes to comment on with this pic
#4: Damn, how many more do I have to make up to get to #1?
#3: Almost there...
#2: White Bandanas
#1: This guy

You know, some days I wake up and feel infused with divine purpose. I want to change the world. Save orphans from drowning and plant trees in the rain-forest. Feed a homeless man or simply smile at a nun.

Other days I want to get my tongue pierced, put on mascara and lick a cutie's chin.

But it looks like Plastic Man beat me to it.

Oh well. Maybe I can clean a penguin instead.

Snapped by a reader during a trip to South America, this pic is a nice demonstration of the EuroBag in all his skeezy glory.

Someone needs to corner kick this soccer 'bag for the underwear display alone.

Longtime readers might remember Spike from his appearance in Spike and the Sultry Vixen last Fall. Well Top Gun flyboy Spike has returned to douche out for us wearing a lovely red headed bottle of burgundy goodness. Note the same 'baggy expression, cheesed out glasses and secret longing to take a bubble bath with Tom Cruise.

As to the red wine he's holding, tight jeans and cleavite and my hangover is almost gone.

Voting for HCwD of the Month will remain open until tomorrow so get yer votes in. And no cheating and voting for the Soc pic. That dude has found HCwD immortality, his place on the douche mantelpiece is secure. We need to raise a new champion to the rafters. And by champion, I mean cocoa puffs.

And while you're stewing over the pile of pud presented for your parsing, here's what may or may not be the hottest Russian defector since Vanessa Angel in Spies Like Us. She is triple shot vodka goodness. And posing with a smirky, lip fungus who may or may not be Scott Weiland's illegitimate son. There's a cold war in my pants.

Megods, I'd Marx her Engels. I'd defect her pravda. She warms my Tolstoy with an extra order of bratwurst.

What, so bratwurst isn't from Russia. Sue me. It's not like "She warms my Tolstoy with an extra order of Blini" has quite the same ring.

As to Smashing Pumpkinhead, it's rare that a head forms an off kilter octagon without causing permanent brain damage. It is positively Piscopoian in its freakish oddness. It makes me itch. Make it go away.

You gotta give it up to the legend. Not only can he maintain the oiliest head this side of Halliburton, but his hair is neatly organized for harvesting in the Fall.

And his friend.

Wow.

It's hard to put this pic up with a HCwD of the Month contest going on because it's douchitude might overwhelm the senses of all of us (and prevent voting), but what the hell. It's Monday, and I need a good 'bag slap in the face.

What's that?

Soc, you want to say something?

Socrates: All we are is dust in the wind, dude. Just like my D&G chained up douchitude. And while my Nordic flat topped friend may overwhelm, that's no excuse not to vote for the HCwD of the Month.

Well said, Soc. Well said.

For kicks and hiccups some friends dragged me to an Olive Garden last night to observe the suburbanite Housewives of Douchebag County riff-raff in their natural habitat.

We ate the all you can eat breadsticks and salads. I had a bowl of oil topped off with some lasagna. Good times were ironically had, even as I slid home.

But what I do know is that what toe fungus is to the toe, Olive Garden is to the great food and wine of Italy. And having spent an incredible two weeks eating pasta, gelatto, proscuitto and melon, while chasing 19 year old Italian hotties on the south island of Lido a few years ago, Olive Garden offends me far more than any Jersey Guido does. So it is in Olive Garden's douchey honor that we hold this month's HCwD of the Month contest.

And really, is there a better way to spend a monday than voting on scrotey/hottie immoral, unholy and just plain icky comingling? This four pic smackdown of headache inducing douchitude and the hotties who love them is brought to you by Olive Garden.

When you're there, you're douchey.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: T Baggin'

One of a series of furry hipster bags to appear on the site over the past month, (see Beaver, Harry) T Bag represents the non-shaving Scruff Bag movement to a, well, a T.

And that perfect Malaysian hottie makes me long for sticky rice and papaya at Indochine on Lafayette Street back during my New York days. Mmm... good times.

I would wrap her in a grape-leaf while practicing tantric mandala sand painting. With each colored pebble I place during the excrutiating ten day process, I would chant my mantra to honor her boobie greatness.

Then I would watch as the currents blew the sand away, reducing my art to mere dust once again. And within that impermanence I would learn two enlightened notions:

1. I really love boobies
2. I really really love boobies

Namaste.

HCwD of the Month Finalist #2: Pumpy

A rapidly growing douche legend. But that rapid growth could be due to the 'roids so potent my nads just shrank to the size of pygmy marmoset monkeys.

Pumpy won the HCwD of the Week contest on the pure strength of his roided up douche-face. And, of course, the primal boob grab, a rapidly developing douchebag tradition.

Hottie is cute and sweet and innocent. Sure when she opens her mouth she probably sterilizes infants with her pitch, but in pixelated form, she's all good.

This pic is definitely a HCwD legend, and whether it wins the monthly douche-off or not, probably deserves a place in the Hall of Scrote. But that's a vote for another day.

And by day I mean twinkies.

Mmm... twinkies.

HCwD of the Month Finalist #3: Stewbag aka Rod Stewart Douche aka Maggie Hottie


It's hard to argue with Maggie's utter lusciousness, and unlike some of the regulars, I'm thrilled she stopped by to say hi to everyone in the comments thread. And I'm not just saying that on the off-chance hope that she'll get drunk and hook up with me when she comes to L.A.

Okay, yes.

Yes I am just saying that.

But I would punch hipsters at Sky Bar just for the chance to rub my shins on her tissue dress.

Rod Stewart 'Bag is so many levels of wrong, I can't even think of an appropriate metaphor for what I would do to that 'bag. I would punch him in the face, then punch him in the face.

HCwD of the Month Finalist #4: Beastie Bag


So what-cha what-cha what-cha want?

Not this douche.

This is clearly a case where a stage-2 beastie bag hip hop wigga got a bump in the finals (over Ghost no less) simply due to the utter adorability of dark haired cutie. I'd slather her with mustard and enjoy with a side order of fries while watching the BoSox gear up for a spring training game on DirectTV. She is all-American hotness. I would love her perfect white teeth from afar, writing Patrarchan sonnets for each bicuspid.

There is something enjoyable about the trashy Motel 6 feel of the background. I can't tell if it's a halfway house, a z-level porn set or a University of Peoria field trip to see the biggest ball of yarn.

But enough of my rantings. Like the faux Greco-Italian fresco plaster of the Olive Garden, we can choose one, and only one, to rise up and accept the hallowed mantle of HCwD of the Month.

And I entrust that important vote to your hands.

What say you? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Well I took the pic down as per Grilled's request, but can anyone figure out what this email means?

---------
POSTED MARCH 9, TITLED GRILLED CHEESE. TAKE IT DOWN. IM A DOUCHE AWESOME
-----------

Remember those high school "art" 'bags? The "too cool to care" crowd who always seemed to pull cheerleaders without the slightest effort? Or course the appearance of lack of effort was their effort. They were like anti-bag douche. And like anti-matter, they punched holes in the space/time continuum.

That's Art here.

Drifts into the club like a toked out stoner Tommy Chong. Busts the anti-'bag aesthetic, only to douche out in so many subtle ways. Anti-'bags are still 'bags, let there be no doubt. They simply invert the scrote, and douche from within.

I would love Rene Zellweger Twins while playing legendary punk-rock band "Bad Brains" at full volume and using body lotions illegal in most western countries. I would then repose with a cup of earl grey and the latest issue of Harper's Weekly whilst my stamina recovered.

Cock-a-doodle-douche!

Once again there is no chance in Holy Grieco I'm going to let you slip off on a Friday night without one more spew worthy pic of liver calcifying wrongness.

Dread Pirate Doucheberts is everything Eurobag greasy. He's got the Seinfeld Puffy Shirt. He's got bling, including the rare four fingered uberscrote. He's got douche-face.

And he's 'bag headbutting a confused, somewhat feral looking cutie, with a perfect half-sphere globe poking out from that bizarre Mayan sun-dress.

Punch the screen. It will feel better.

Andrew 'Dice' Clay has always been a troubling nexus point in our douche time-line. Originally created as an ironic character commentary on the late 50s greaser loser douche, the Diceman somehow bought into his own hype and became actual douche.

I'm not sure where the transition point was. But from a mid 1980s performance art satire a la Pee Wee Herman, to rock star arena entrances in 1991, the Dice Man definitely douchethed.

But it's hard to rip on Andy Silverstein too much. The dude is over the hill and pimping his own irrelevance in some new reality show, so I almost feel bad for the guy.

Still, there can be no doubt that back in the dawn of douchitude, Holy Grieco Year 1 (1990), The Diceman was a part of that emerging aesthetic of scrote in its infancy. We must factor in this comedy angle on the blinged up, loud, greasy phenomenon that began in the early 1990s and blossomed like a raddish turd into maturity in the past few years. So for that, lets raise The Dice Man into our celebrity hall. And by celebrity, I mean Baio.

I can't tell if she's hot for hip-hop David Blaine Bag or hoping he'll freeze himself in a block of ice.

A note to all the hotties reading this right now: black lace undergarment with green silky slip that's barely there? Bonus points. Serious bonus points. And by bonus points I mean mmmm.

I would crest the salt flats of Madagascar for the chance to fell a tree boa in her honor.

Donkey, pray tell me,
How can my soul recover,
Post douche perfection?

Orange puckered clay,
too many carrots? odd hue
Wascally douche bag

-- DuckDuckDouche

Thy scowl sinks ships
While your lady sends thousands
Homer would be proud

-- Pandora

Time at gym paid off
Chest is larger than her's, but
How do lips lift weights?

-- the alpha douche

Liquid embarrassment
Squirting on my Izod
Collar flip with gratitude

-- ultra doosh extravaganza

Grinny McCheesy, master cockblocksman who ruined my Thursday night last week, is still at at. Turns out he's a friend of a friend, and by friend I mean poo.

Our mutual friend, and by friend I mean turd, sent me this pic of Grinny swarming a gaggle of cute last night and alerts me that the swath of douchitude the McCheese is cutting across Los Angeles is rapidly becoming legendary.

For my fellow Los Angeles denizens I'm putting out an Amber Douchelert. Be on the lookout for a tall, gangly stringbean who interrupts hottie talk by crashing into the conversation and spilling his vodka and soda on your jacket. Key signs that you are in the presence of McCheese include observing the rapid spread of douche virus, and the vague scent of burning wormwood.

Anyone to acquire evidence of Grinny caught in the act of spreading his douchitude gets a free HCwD t-shirt. Send all pic evidence, and by evidence I mean spew, to me, DB1.

Beware the McCheesy. For he is scrote.

PIC DELETED

Siddharta Bag just wanted to let you know that from his place of enlightenment, he loves you.

He asks that you worship his oily forehead and spikey frosted hair, while admiring his dimpled Leno chin and casually unbuttoned tuxedo shirt that says, "Formal with a Grunge Tip."

Sid has spoken. Sid loves you.

Do you love him?

I wasn't aware pez dispensers were now scoring hotties. I would shove a grape pellet down his guzzle, then sell him in the 50% off bin at Wallmart.

Long Island hottie's Holy Cleavite sparkles with the merest glimpse of pale skin straining to be set free. I can hear the Holy Cleavite, whispering to me on the wind.

I rub the Holy Cleavite, and a Holy Cleavite Genie appears in front of me.

It says:

DB1, nuzzle me with your nose while you make weird hiccuping sounds, and I will grant you three boobie wishes. They're like regular wishes, only they involve the power of the boobies.

And I wish for Purple Pez Bag to fall face first on a lawn dart then get eaten by mutated piranha in the east river.

But these are only boobie wishes. And since this wish doesn't involve boobies, it doesn't come true. So I wish for more boobies instead. And there are more boobies.

And life is good.

Ahhh....

It's like waking up with a fresh brewed cup of coffee. If that coffee tasted like spew.

I would steal third world babies and sell them to Angelina Jolie just for the chance to stir-fry shreds of that pink top into my next order of lo mein.

"All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom it is given. For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother's womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it. "

Matthew 19:11-12

Reader pfah managed to capture a closeup on The Ghost's 'Bag Tags, which I think adds nuance and depth to our exploration of the douche's internal complexities.

Perhaps they simply want to be held.

Coming off the rank douchitude of the HCwD of the week, as well as another ghost pic, I had to go with an innocent if aspiring bagling. There's something sort of cute about busting the leopard print coat. Kind of like when a six year old puts on a suit and tie. A douchey suit and tie.

As to Douche Lee, the photog who captured his Holy Spirit confirms that he is, indeed, classified as male according to physiologic standards. Although his true spiritual embodiment rises above simple gender binaries.

Do not question the Douche Lee. For his holy spirit echoes the Grieco across the metaphysical douche universe.

As to the Leopard. Stage-1 'baglings are more amusing than annoying. But in this case, that shirt inspires at least a minimum spew worthiness.

Wait, what's that over in the corner?!?

It's the Ghost!! And he looks pissed, Bob!!

The Ghost is in the arena. And he's moving towards the stage, grabbing the mike from Beastie Bag to address the crowd:

Ghost: Why y'all be haters?! Y'all don't know me!! Y'all don't know me!! Step off, beyoches!! I'm the Ghost!! I don't need no votes for you HCwD of the Week contest, when I got this sweet sailor hottie right here to worship my dog-tags and shaved chest!! Kiss my bling, hatahs!!


And now the Ghost is picking up a chair, and flinging it into the ring!! Bob, this could get ugly...

But wait...

Is it...?

Douche Lee!!
Douche Lee is entering the ring, Bob!! He's approaching The Ghost, who doesn't know what to do. Now he's putting his zen hand on The Ghost's shoulder to calm him down, and picking up the mic...

Douche Lee: Ghost, if you do not settle down, I will be forced to thrash you. Beastie won. Accept your loss. Allow the Zen Douche spirit to soothe your pain. Grease up your forehead and The Grieco will show you the way to the higher path.

I believe in you, Ghost. I see your douche potential. Now put down the chair and let me buy you an energy drink.

And so peace was returned to the arena.

Sphincter.

Extremely tight vote this week, and by tight I mean sphincter. But in the end Beastie Bag squeaked out the win over Ghost on the sheer force of the innocence of his hottie.

Let there be no doubt, nothing is quite so wrong as seeing a sweet, wholesome midwestern peach get polluted by one lonely Beastie he be. Sphincter.

Although I did the tallying without pen and paper this morning because my head hurts from too much 'Train. So it's possible the Ghost actually won. But feh, it's probably for the best, otherwise Maggie would be the hot chick in two of the four pics in Monday's HCwD of the Month contest. And the permutations of the math would simply be too much for my sorry alcoholic hazed ass to attempt to figure out.

Did I mention sphincter?

Both Ghost and Justin Timberdouche received a fair amount of votes too, as this was a well balanced HCwDotW smackdown. popconservative makes the case for the Ghost:

The Ghost, and it's not even close. Even if the HC is on the down side of Bleething (the fake Hell's Angels gloves, etc.), that guy is far and away the douchiest of the bunch.

baron von goolo agreed:

Tough call. Mugger's hottie is bringing Joy to my Luck Club, making Mugger's scavenging leer that much more of a violation to all that is right with the world. But I have to give the nod to Ghost. His full body sheen threatens the lolly and the dolly with a slug-like coating of viscous douchery that no amount of Silkwood showers or Bestine could ever fully erase.

New reader ultra doosh extravaganza went for Mugger's oily 80s Pop-Star wrongness:

Be it the MUGGER!!!

He sux so bad that even he knows it. Look at his lack of confidence. It is as if that chick coerced him into wearing that Janet Jackson get-up.

Hard to argue with that logic. But Amerigo Vesdouchey brings home the argument for the utter sphincter of Beastie and his perfect, all natural hottie goodness:

Beastie 'bag (who BTW looks more like Add Rock than Mike D) has a lifetime of sweet homegrown lovin' at his side. There's no way in hell that this gay sweatshirt/cap wearing, 'bag headbutt/hand gesture sporting douchebag has done anything to deserve her. He can shove that brass monkey, glass and all, right up his ass.

Beastie 'bag gets my goat, and by goat, I mean vote.

And musclehead concurs:

Therefore, my vote goes for Beastie Bag. If for no other reason than his hottie is absolutely pristine. Hopefully she can be rescued before succumbing to the douche and becoming just another bleethed out waste.

fanny double douche agrees, taking home the prize for the B-Boy Scrote:

my vote is for beastie bag simply because i want to make b-boy bouillabaisse with his face. this dicko infuriates me. i can only hope those two fingers don't smell like her easy-bake oven.

So there it is. Beastie moves on.

Looks like Maggie's repeat appearances may have cost The Ghost some love. And by love I mean sphincter. So Beastie is in next week's 4-pic all purpose smackdown douche extravaganza. And I'm off to have a bowl of coco-puffs.

Sphincter.

It's possible the sideways "V" hand gesture has some form of coded wigga significance I'm unable to ascertain. It could mean "Vest Side." Or perhaps it's "The Shocker" for men. Or maybe even, "I'm on my second day of employment at Best Buy."

But what's incontestible is the sideways "v" has achieved douche supremacy, far surpassing the outdated W of the "westside" movement (2005-2006) or its predecessor, the always classic "shocker" (2004-present).

So "sideways v" back atcha, Green Sparrow. May you fly straight, little bird. Fly straight.

If this pic doesn't make you want to spew cheerios across your livingroom I don't know what will.

I would nuzzle Bratz Doll Hottie's bunny slippers in creepy shoe-fetish ways, then kick Cypress Hill in the tunica vaginalis.

What? Men have a tunica vaginalis. And by the looks of it, this stained jeans paunchy goober has two.

PIC DELETED

I often like to think of the perfect HCwD hottie/douchey pic as a form of 21st century dadaist art. Something Marcel Duchamp would stick on a bicycle wheel and call "Douche Wheel."

Take this couple right here. Stare at them long enough and any notions of their human form quickly denatures. They become abstract. Out of time. Removed from all reality.

They become dada. Irrational, frivolous and silly.

Spikey haired tight-jacket wank has the anti-aesthetic revulsion of a modern art movement. His porcupine head and ginormous chin echo the surrealist masterpieces of Dali and Ernst. He confuses and astounds with his illogical surreal douchitudte.

He is dadouche.

Midwestern Turtleneck makes me want to rub up and down on the wall. I'd Man Ray her Klee. I'd Picasso her Braque. I'd, uhm, paint her boobies.

Look, they're not "retarded," okay? Lets get our terminology correct. They're "special people." With "special gifts." One of them being the ability to score pouty hotties, apparently.

Actually anyone can get caught in a moment of tonguebaggery. It's not like we all haven't been there. Only when I go there, I'm not standing next to a drunk party girl. I'm usually lying on my rug, listening to Stevie Ray, picking crumbs off my shirt and reaching for another swig of the 'Train.

Maybe that's the problem. When I get retarded, I need to head-butt a puffy lipped pixie stick. Or at least stop scratching myself. Stupid rash.

There comes a time in every 'bag's life when he must choose. To take that next step. To reach that higher level of Buddhist consciousness through the act of full commitment to The Holy Grieco. Body, soul, spirit and grillz. Combining and permuting together in waves of perfect synchronic harmony. Transcendent awareness of the self. And by self, I mean douche.

It takes a special level of greased focusing consciousness to reach such a hallowed and rarefied plateau. A triumph of choad, if you will. A wealth of wigga. A trancendence of tribal tat.

Those legendary few who raise their game to this plateau eclipse mere skeeze, mere fratbaggery, mere low level amateur 'baggedness involving tongue and hand gesturing. For these enlightened scrotes, such physical gesture is simply unnecessary. Their leptons, muons, protons, electrons and hairy nutsack all vibrate with transcendent harmony. For they have reached what I like to term, "douche plateau." A privileged place of consciousness that only the chosen few can drink from. With tag bodyshots, inappropriate tattoo, and requisite sexy Miami hoohas by one's side, Jonathan Livingston Seagull opens his enlightened wings and flies off into the setting sun of spiritual awakening. A setting sun, that is, of douche.

(language edited for the kids):

First of all, I am writing on my boyfriend's account. You have pictures up from me & my girlfriends, and let me say this first. You are the uglies peace of s@#$ on earth. Do you get @#$@ed a lot by men b/c you look like the biggest fag I have ever seen. Here you are. Making fun of people when from what I've heard (I'm originally from Cali and know more people than you ever would in your life) you have the smallest dick in the world. Don't care if your straight, gay, or bi. I don't know who the f#$@ would even wanna f#$@ your scrawny ass. You look like a goat. Well not even that good. Please take a shower sometime b/c you seriously look greasy and s@#@. You are such a loser. Maybe you should go back to school, get a f@#$in education and do something with yourself rather than this gay ass web site. Your lucky I don't know your address because I'd find out where you live and beat the f@#$ out of you, or better sue you for all your worth. BTW you don't wanna know who my dad is. He will kill you himself.

ANYWAY YOU F@#$IN LOSER I WOULD SUGGEST F@#$@ING AROUND WITH OTHER PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BACK. WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND YOU PEACE OF S@#$@.

Seriously. I would highly recommend you take the pictures posted from New York & Chicago down soon. You don't wanna see what will happen to you, you f@#$@in p@#$@y.
------------

Was it something I said?

Note to all hotties and 'bags, if you're in a pic and genuinely upset, which you really shouldn't be, email me. But, for Grieco's sake, tell me which pic you're upset about. And please do not make fun of my small willy nor my goatlike appearance. That's simply mean. My small, goat-like willy gets upset.

I feel the same way, sweetie.

This week's HCwD douche-off has me thinking of the unholy phenomenon we study in terms of the representative abstract metaphor. If the douchebag functions as signifier of societal rot, the hottie embodies the simple pleasures of a tasty Hostess snack cake. Together they form consumption and horrorshow. Pleasure and pain. Tasty chocolate cupcake and sludge poo. One cannot exist without the other. Consumed together, The HC and D combo forms a more complete picture of not just the steaming load of douchebaggery, but plastic packaged mass produced cupcake goodness. Together. Like Yin and Yang. Like poo and gold.

It would be easy for us to simply cast aspersions on the unholy wretch of the blinged out 'bag and forget the joyful exhileration of the chemically treated sucrose enhanced sponge-cake that is the hottie. As Lacan teaches us, it is precisely within this absence, within this psychological dissonance between Hostess fruit pie and Jersey douche, that we locate true desire.

And on that note, on to this week's finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: The Ghost

Those sunglasses. Those tats. That grease. That tasty Hostess Hottie. The psychological ramifications of staring at this pic too long can not be understated. It is taint.

Brunette hottie warms the cockles of my heart. And by cockles I mean cockles.

I would lick her shoulder like a snozzleberry.

Who ever heard of a snozzleberry?

We are the music makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams. And she makes my pants feel funny.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: The Mugger


This pic didn't get as much love on the site as I'd thought it would, and by love I mean twinkies. This combo of perfect Asian soup dumpling hottie and cracked out Paula Abdul 80s clothes wearing creepbag renders the perfect inspiration of head smashing wrongness.

Straight up now tell me, is he really going to molest her forever?

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Yes he is.

She may be inflated, but so's the Macy's Day Parade Garfield float. And I always loved Garfield. Because he's so surly. And he loves Lasagna. And he's so mean to Jon. I mean really, why's he so mean to Jon? The guy feeds him and takes care of him. And yet he's always shredding his clothes before Jon's big date. What's that about.

Come on Garfield. Be nice to Jon.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: The Beastie Bag


This pic gained a lot of love, and by love I mean mini muffins, for the purity of the girl-next-door hotness comingling with the dual 'bag headbutt and hand gesture #28. As Mitch Meats termed him, one lonely Beastie he be. Although lower case bag made the case that he's simply a college age Dr. Evil. Nicely done lcb, but I gotta go the Mike D route.

She is classy hot. The type you marry for at least a solid three years before you get drunk and cheat on her with that old high school crush you run into at Ralphs, and she divorces you and takes half your stuff leaving you sitting around on your floor, eating 'Nilla Wafers and watching Judge Judy. Man. Sucks to be you. But it'd be worth it for three years of that sweater suggestive goodness.

Imagining Fratbag pumping out the Ludacris while studying for his Greek and Hellenic Studies class is enough to make me toss a dorm refrigerator into a quad.

Special props to The Hand, Huey and Douchey, Gunter and Klaus, and the
overwhelming Soul Meets Douchey which I just couldn't stomach looking at again in the finals, all worthy pics in their own pictoral way.

I'm going an extra week for the weeklies, meaning we'll have four pics in next week's HCwD of the Month douche smackdown.

What say you, fellow 'bags, 'bag hunters and hotties? The Ghost, the Beastie or the Mugger?

Wait, wasn't that the title of an old Don Knotts movie?

Vote as always in the comments thread.

Droppa Load, distant cousin of Poppa Chubby, loves the ladies. He dazzles them with hilarious appropriations of ordinary objects in sexually satirical forms. To wit, using buttons for nipples.

To Droppa Load, satire is the key by which the female can be shown the hilarity and wisdom of Load's outgoing personality. The Load understands this. You do not. For the Load is not you. And never the twain shall meet. Because the Load has his strategy. And that strategy works:

First, you charm them with nipple buttons.

Then you perform coitus.

There's a million stories in the naked city, and they always start with a dame. Getting molested by a greased up turkey douche with a giant, creepy hand.

That swollen appendage haunts me. It tasks my hope. It appears to be moving. Morphing. Mutating. Reaching out not just to grab hottie's beanbag bebops. Not just reaching out to grope her dueling banjos. Her hand warmers, honeydews, headlamps, hills, honkers, hottentots and humdingers.

But to rend the garments of ideology. To cast aspersions on futurism. To render moot all the progress that has come before. The Hand says "Feh to you, humanity." And with one grope, an angel dies.

Apparently everybody's favorite hairy douche, The Beaver, has managed to spend his time moonlighting by roping in die hard cuties. Including this sexy, possibly undergage daughter of a celebrity. Care to guess who she is?

I'd pulp her fiction. Oh man that was lame, but what are you gonna do. The DB1 is wildly hungover.

PIC DELETED
Goes great with a side order of fries, a Mr. Pibb and an electric drill to the scrotae.

A little taste of everyone's favorite oil generating third world douchebag to go with your hangover?

It's like an inglorious mugfest at the Scrote-K Corral.

Tiny little ambiguously Asian vixen fires up the synapses in all the right blood rushing ways, while Huey and Douchey look ready to go pump each other.

Feel the scrotitude build. Watch the viral douchitude jump. Then scrub your eyes out with bleach.

Yup, it's Friday, and time for one more gut-punch unholy HCwD combo of wrongness comingling in ways that question God, morality and meaning. This classic 'bag sandwich is the perfect spew platter to finish off a nice week of scrotitude and prepare for the weekend.

Thanks again for all the email submissions, apologies if I don't respond to each and every email. And no worries on last night's cock-block encounter with Skinny McTeeth, good times were still had by all. And by all, I mean Huey and Douchey's moms.

People ask me: DB1, you keep referring to the 'Bag Headbutt as a staple of the douche oeuvre but I don't see it. Could you give us another example?

Of course.

Of course I can.

White Trash Trailerdouche,
Kid Rock Progeny, lost girl.
Point at this, douchebag.

won't the real slim sha-
dy please stand up, please stand up.
you sir? down in front.

-- vinegar water sack

Trash 'Bag has no class
Like school on a Saturday
Bitchin Camaro

-- danny bonnadouchey

Oh Trailerdouche
Where did you get the money
for a Russian bride?

-- el douchablo

Grease up the scrote stache.
Yo, Jimmy the Cab Driver!
Release the hottie!!!

-- fanny double douche

I sort of feel for the Lurker 'Bag, quietly slipping into the background of group hottie pics. Quickly slapping on that "been here before" face of casualness, hoping desperately to hide the gnawing dread of being in such close proximity to award winning poon.

So in that sense, I feel for Pele the Conquerer. He's triple backflipped his way, unnoticed, behind a gaggle of hot, then got his eyebrows into douche position #4 in time for the pic.

Then again, in another sense, I hope he gets run over with a steamroller. That shoots bees.

The DB1 (that's me), went out for a night of Hollywood debauchery and lascivious wrongness last night. Things were going good. I'd snuck a bottle of Night Train into the bar, and was feeling the liquid confidence of a true douchebag. I was even hinting at the popped collar and 'Bag Hand Gestures of uber-scrote. I hadn't yet gone over the edge. But for my readers? I was willing to take that risk.

I'd even cornered an innocent Sweet Polly Purebread, fresh off the boat from some flyover state I wasn't even sure was in the union. An actress-model-something-something. She laughed at my jokes. I surreptitiously glanced at her cleavage. We pretended we knew what the other was talking about.

Good times.

Until Grinny McCheese came by. That's him intercepting Purebread. I decided to take a camera-phone pic of the event as it happened. Like a hurricane of douchitude, my charm, my moment in the sun with model hottie, was pounded like a gang of bikers running a train on a 19 year old on Castro Street. Overwhelmed Midwestern Hottie didn't know what hit her. This oily scrote's tallness, chin, and 64 pearly white teeth came down the road to Damascus, and like Saul before her, the Hottie saw the Light. It was like competing with a human barracuda. The next thing I knew, poor innocent hottie was dazed and confused by the stench of douchebaggery and the blinding shine reflecting off his 124 pearly white teeth. And like Keyser Soze before her, she was gone. Home to polish Grinny's oily digits like a shoeshine boy in rush hour.

But that's okay. A few more shots, and I barely remembered my name.

Oh, who am I kidding. Curling up in fetal position in the bathroom doesn't make me a puss. Does it?

Reader 'Bagnonymous submits the following photoshop genius, as well as an animated version that can be viewed here.

Oh man. This pic's going to haunt me tonight.

I'm torn. Happy McSlappy here just looks way too thrilled to be in the presence of these ladies.

Aha! But note 'Bag Hand Gesture #43.

Is this 'budding scrote enough to cross 'bag status merely with the casualist flip of a hand gesture? Or should we slap him with the dork label and send him back to his job at the fryer of the local Carl's Jr.? What say you?

HCwD fans across the pond in England have been having some fun photoshopping Donkey Douche in a variety of truly genius pics.

Dig that D.D. Photoshop Action.

Oi, good work, ya tossers!

poo (pōō) Pronunciation Key
intr.v. pooed, poo·ing, poos
To defecate.

n.

1. Excrement.
2. An act of defecating.

[Probably from pooh.]

These two teen 'baglings aren't too far gone to save. But the signs are troubling. I can't tell which I like more, the pencil thin 1910s villian 'stache or the creepy octopus 'bag hand gesture.

Turn back, kids! The path to the dark side of scrote is a dark one, indeed. There is still time. Save yourselves, lest you end up at a party like the pic below in your college years.