Friday, February 29, 2008
Primo Levi on Hat Tilt
The great Italian poet and author, Primo Levi, once wrote:
What a very few are acquiring in knowledge of the physical world will perhaps cause this period not to be judged as a pure return of barbarism.
Oh Primo, finding optimism in a world gone scrote. I wish that I could agree with you.
But then I see this. And even the curves of thigh on the hotts are not enough to validate the worth of humanity.
So I crack open a bottle of Night Train I bought from a surly old Korean Deli owner near Wilshire. And I snack on some tasty Hostess snack cakes.
And gradually the dissonant noise of global club culture, the shouting of woos, the pollution of the boobies, the garish garb and shaved chests, all slowly begin to fade and defocus into ambient background noise. Spectral wash. Meaningless abstract detritus to be tuned out and ignored. Like construction work outside your window. Or the joyless rituals of American Idol.
The chaos recedes. The skies open up. And a rain comes and washed the hair gel away.
Like Primo Levi, I find joy where I can.
Because there's always hope to be found, even in a world of hat-tilted designer White Sox caps. There's bluebirds and boobies. Sunshine and suckle worthy thighs. Classical music that transforms the spirit and uplifts the soul, and fantastic butts on 19 year old coeds.
I sip my 'Train, and stare at the setting sun, and all is right in the universe.
Ask DB1: Hott Speak
Private School Hott writes in:
----
Dear Douchebag1:
Thanks for the site. I'm hoping you'll give a minor clarification: are your comments demeaning the hotts as Future Hairdressers of America actually a form of self-parody?
Are you trying to act douchescrotey, like in your picture (I'm assuming it's you, and if it is, you look douche-liciously hot). Or are you an accidental d-bag? Douches in glass houses shouldn't throw ice er whatever.
-A hott/ fellow graduate of an expensive private school.
----
I've read this email six times and have no idea what it's asking me. Perhaps someone else can expain it.
However, if Private School Hott has nice inner thighs, I will forgive the incoherence and buy her a number of cocktails while listening to her complain about how, like, her best friend Kimmy is, like, totally a bitch. For hours. While nodding appreciatively.
Yes, Private School Hott. Kimmy is, like, totally a bitch.
Because I'd listen to you read the phone book in Gaelic if there's an off chance the night will end with my powdering your butt cheeks with talcum powder while singing songs of Algerian revolution.
M.C. Mesher
Mesher's Swedish fetish porn look causes feral street cats to spontaneously cough up furballs. And while the potential for Gaybag is there, something tells me this is a metro look in the smaller cites of northern Scandinavia.
But Pouty Lost Brunette wears the white frilly top of my luridest high-school fantasies. And so she makes up for Mesher's wrongness. Almost.
The Douche-Face
People often ask me, "DB1, how will I know the douche-face when I see it?"
I always answer with the same cryptic Zen response: You will know it when you know it.
It is not about the specifics of the face. Not simply a Ben Stillerian "Blue Steel." It goes deeper. More sunken of cheek. More annoying of pout.
In the presence of the lei biting hott, the douche-face can reveal itself at a moment's notice.
And when it does, be ready. To fling the poo.
Friday Haiku
Smirks echo through time,
Like Jersey Girls past thirty,
Where's the White Castle?
Jean Claude Van Douchebag
needs several kicks to his head
to release the hott
-- kissy lips
Recedo Bagg's Hott
Came from set of Price is Right.
He has overbid.
-- jeffbagwell
Hair monster attacks!
Technicolor vomit dress.
But still, I like her.
-- mr. white
when I was a child
I thought my Mom was crazy
recycled curtains
-- the 'bag apple
"i'll take two beers, guy"
says ass-chinned, freckle faced douche.
i'll take night train. now.
-- bcs
no panties on hott
face frozen in position
douche signals his length
- 'bag lanta
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Ask DB1: The Bleeth
burris writes in with a question about The Bleeth level, as seen in the pic from a few days ago, "The L":
----
DB1-
I'm all for hot chicks, in whatever form they take, but seriously now.
Isn't a hot chick with enough eyeliner to make her look like a raccoon, flaunting a big fugly Louis Vuitton purse with lace half gloves right out of an 80's Madonna video basically the female equivalent of a douchebag?
----
What you're describing is what we call "The Bleeth" level, or sometimes "The Douchebaguette," which is the level of toxic douchebaggery in a hott (or former hott) who has spent too much time exposed to uber-douche, aka The Grieco Virus.
However, there is an important delineation between the stage-1/2 still redeemable Bleeth, and the stage 3/4 "No Hotties for Non Douche" tramp-stamped lost former chickas. Determining that line is a complex process which I cover in greater depth in my book, ironically titled "Hot Chicks with Douchebags" and currently available for Pre-Order from Amazon.com.
The picture here features a stage-3 Bleeth. Likely unredeemable. High levels of 'Baguette. But not yet a stage-4. I try not to feature too many pics of the stage-4 Bleeth. Yeesh.
Emotherapy
Four out of five doctors recommend emotherapy as the best course of treatment after extended exposure to chin cacti.
Take the treatment, Ambiguous French Cutie. This Kid Rock merged with Roberto Benigni by way of Siegfried & Roy shtick is way toxic.
Spot the Beastie 'Bag
Somewhere, buried deep in this lineup of Freshman sorority/frat commingling, I've carefully hidden an emerging Beastie 'Bag.
Look closely.
Can you spot his wigga wrongness?
He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks II
More scat poetry from He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks:
----
I DON'T LIKE:
WHORES. girls that smell like s@#t. girls that fart in my presence. girls that pop a squat and take a piss. girls that pop a squat and take a piss AND then put it up on facebook. majority of brunette girls. annoying bitches. girls that don't smoke trees occasionally. proper bitches that NEVER do anything dangerous. girls that don't watch scary movies.
cops. snitches. girls that smoke cigarettes. crooked teeth. yellow teeth. acne. sand on my feet. sand on my genitals. sunburns. peeling skin. tarantulas. moles. girls with a lot of freckles. beauty marks..it ain't no beauty mark bitch.
stretch marks. the distance of the ass to the vagina. hairy girls. hairy vaginas. beastiality. girls that only do missionary. ugly girls that think they are hot..bitch have you looked in the mirror lately???
eye patch. clams. hard unchewable steak. the words: "hot box", "on dogs", "wat a force", "wat a scram","f@#kin a", "boing", "dayum", "superman that hoe." myspace advertising. private profiles. gay porn. soulja boy. flat asses. girls on their period. the bumpy region of the gspot. giant nipples.
sex <----sometimes. hairy nips. ass crusties. rain in your hair when you have gel in there. the feeling of throwin up. the smell at the zoo. people fartin in the car. naive people. simple girls. stupid tv shows (i love new york..come on). horny ugly girls. fat horny girls. girls who don't stop callin me when we both know they are fat and ugly as s@#t. girls at clubs who just wanna "dance." ass zits. dandruff. ear infections. physical checkup...picture a 90 year old guy playin wit my balls....ya. overly gay guys. gay popup porn. 2nd round in sex with a limp dick. the word "jerkin." nicknames that don't make sense like "cheesy","da sit", "asap", "blunt", and many more. people who say money isn't everything. people who say money doesnt buy happiness.
----
Now sure, I know what you're thinking, "whatta douche," but who among us doesn't hate hard, unchewable steak?
The Unnecessary Point
If ever there was a redundant gesture in life, it is your finger point, A/Xwipe. What are we, blind?
In the immortal words of Caesar upon discovering his betrayal at that hands of those closest to him, "Boobies."
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Stonebag / Not a Stonebag
Is Stony a 'bag? Not a 'bag? I don't know.
All I know is her eyes call to me with the unknowable erotics of otherness. Her lips are pouty little pillows I would camp out on for weeks of monastic meditation before my descent into boobal perfection.
So yeah. Stony. You're a douche. Because she's touching your shirt with playful affection.
And you have an earring. And a tiny pizza bagel on the tip of your chin.
The Dripper
A sexy blonde, matching shirts, a pic of Monroe, and a heaping serving of douche-face.
She's abstract art with boobies.
He's douchal coffee enema drip.
Wednesday Limerick
A Trust Fund buys many bottles of Goose,
Which helps aging lotharios stay loose,
The hotts come a' runnin',
For free drinks and funnin',
And ignore the greased forehead on Moose.
HCwDB of the Week: The Grenade Tosser
Like an explosion of black fingernails, The Tosser overwhelmed the competition and takes the Weekly with ease.
Or perhaps it was our collective homeroom angel, on the pages in between.
As massa-douchetts puts it:
The Tosser - for all things that are Boobilicious and for all things that are Scrote-tastic. For all things pink push-up and all things pink hold up (nice belt, they sell men's clothes where you got it?).
Tosser by a boob grope.
Well said, Mass Pike. danny noonan unleashes the id:
The goddam grenade tosser inspires rage. Uncontrollable rage that makes me want to show up at his doorstep with a flower arrangement, invite myself in, the cover all the walls with plastic sheeting a la Nicholas Cage in Kiss of Death and go to town.
I'm working on my rage issues, but Grenade Tosser FTW.
The boobie grope, especially one of such succulent perfection, is what takes this putz over the top. As infallible puts it:
As much as I hate Rosencrap with his goofy grin and orange skin, my vote must go to The Grenade Tosser. What a tool. Before going into his many faults, let's meditate on this blonde Kapowski hott with her ample Fujis. She maintains her cheery demeanor with stoic resolve dispite the mechanations of the Tosser.
And what a tosser, indeed. He's such a lame emosexual. Black fingernails, printed button up shirt, big Bret Michaels headband, shiny wide bracelet, a tie in a club, big earrings, a hot pink belt, and the shirt that got Homer thrown in the asylum. Not to mention his horrid hot air balloon head and he/she face.
Excellent rant, infallible. What's clear is that The Tosser's boob grab shifted our collective satire into pure visceral pissed-offedness.
A distant second was Doctor Rosenrosen and Gildenhott, who managed to whip up some support. As sir arthur conan douche puts it:
After careful consideration I think that Rosencrap is the winner this week. He is a smelly poo. His filth goes beyond the confines of the pixels on the screen and actually stinks up the real physical world around me.
Indeed he does, A.C. But friesenpoint takes it home for the Tosser, who is rapidly gaining douche-steam heading into the Monthly in two weeks.
no doubt about it: the grenade tosser. the boobies so fine, the trashy highlighted hair, the overly dimpled smile: it all adds up to a primo hot. rosencrap makes a strong argument for himself with sucking on a strawberry, but the tosser's earring and bracelet looking watch put him over the top. oh yeah, and the bandana. and the boobies.
Or as the bag queen puts it:
His flamingo-pink jelly belt just adds to mankind's shame.
Indeed it does, my queen. On to the monthly for the Tosser and his Bomb. They've earned it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The 'Bag Oilwich
Rarely does classic 'bag sandwich formation congeal into one giant splotch of oily goo.
This is one of those times.
I feel dirty just looking at this. Any suggestions on how to end this viral monstrosity from permeating mass culture ideological violence simply through existing?
Crowbar? Fire hose?
Da Bullz
Everybody put your pecs in the air!! And flex 'em like you just don't care!!
I can't tell if Tara Reid is hott or not, she's too decked out in adouchrements to tell.
But I do know this.
Red Bull is a phallus substitute.
Hell or Europe
Okay kids, time to play another round of "Hell or Europe."
Is this a picture from Satan's inferno consuming the souls of the wretched within the dark pits of sin and fiery lava of eternal torture?
Or is it Europe?
Or maybe we're in the green room on the set of Evita II: Electric Boogaloo with the Antonio Banderas stand-in.
Or maybe The DB1 is loopy because he just had a second coffee and can't find his socks.
He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks
From Facebook:
----
first off bitch I aint white..second off I ain't payin for no sex I rather buy a rolex...I like blondes, tanned bitches, brunettes..meh..yah meh..haters not welcome...gold diggers and stuck up bitches take a hike...I definitely don't have time for people who don't got time for me...I'm not down to earth..think of me as a bastard that can only please you sexually...I got mad money but I don't tell anyone...simply don't be messing that pleasure business s@#t together know what I mean? Or as camron says "ya dig?" I aim high and shoot for higher...college is a big waste of time and I just bang bitches and drink....I drink and smoke..you too? then we gonna get it on tonight... I don't give a s@#t about stupid people...I don't chase girls I replace em....yes reread...I don't chase girls I replace em...reread....many fish in the sea...but one me...and if ur readin this sayin damn this kid is he serious? Yes im serious ...i dont need ur approval to say wat i want...capo status..my advice to you cut it, cook it, sell it bitch...now 1, 2, 3 pop bottles
----
Reread, indeed.
And yet, there's something beautiful there. Short machine-gun like rants. A chop chop cadence. Tone poetry brought to life with the short staccato rhythms and sing-song lyricisms of the working class proletariat. It's modernist absurdist 1920s Left Bank avant-gardism, a neo-Marxian cry wrapped in class culture backwash. Jorge Luis Borges dipped in Bunuel by way of pop inflected Beastie Boys hallucinogens and a dash of Andrew Dice Clay.
Or else it just sucks.
Sarah Connor Writes In
Retro Hippie Sarah Connor writes in:----
Hi my name is (Sarah Connor) and there is a picture of me on your webpage...i would really appreaciate it if you would please take it off because i really really dont like the guy im in the picture with.
It's the Sarah Connor Scroticles one.
If you really want to make fun of him just crop me out or something! thanks!
----
Oh Sarah, future Hott of the Great War Against the Douchines. I cannot make fun of the Terminatorbag without the hott to counterbalance the cyborgian douchitude.
So instead, here's a group of hipster flush livin' it up, Wyld Stallyns style.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Where's Waldouche: Generic Frat Edition
Somewhere, hidden within this Krappa Stata Schoola sorority scrum, I've hidden a Fratty Wald.
Look closely.
Can you find him?
Bonus points for spotting Ubiquitous Red Cup.
Extra bonus points for Rare Blue Cup.
Super Bonus Points for a pic of the two pouty brunettes kissing.
Wall Street McSilk
Is there something in a late 40s stockbroker's mind that wakes up one morning thinks to itself, Ya know, I feel like wearing a black silk tube top out tonight.
And if so, can someone break out the Yupaway Spray?
Ukranian Svenga looks like all those Hallo! I like your profile. I am bored tonite and want to chat. spam-mails come to singular glorious phantasmic life.
Smells Like Tatt Spirit
Yes, from the designers of the Ed Hardy body tatts comes: Ed Hardy Men's Eau de Toilette, 3.4 oz. $75.00.
And no, this is not a joke:
----
This fragrance was created with special effects and colorful sensations inspired by the dramatic and cool Ed Hardy tattoo art. Bright and tantalizing citrus effects of Bergamot & Mandarin are touched by the aromatic expression of Thuja and the sharp bite of Clary Sage for added zest.
This opening is the perfect preview to a colorful Mint Julep cocktail that matches up with Ozone for a psychedelic explosion of color and effervescence.
The result is of super refreshing mint mixed with colorful bubbles that provides a provocative edginess. Sequoia Scent Trek brings a masculine woodiness to the fragrance that is embraced by sensual Musks and a touch of Black Amber. The final effect is of a masculine floralcy tattooed on to wood that lasts and lasts.
----
Yes, our collective aesthetic bankruptcy is for sale at Macy's, at $75 bucks a pop. Were this only a joke, I could sleep better at night knowing the future of culture and civilization doesn't hang in the balance.
But how about some shout-outs to the highly paid Macy's copywriter who came up with "masculine floralcy" as a descriptive term. I might've gone with "douchey and rank," but that might not have helped sales.
Hmm.
"Masculine Floralcy."
Kind of like running douchebaggery through the Polite Euphemismometer.
But I've always wanted to experience the "sharp bite of Clary Sage." She's that erotic masseuse from Memphis who works off Hollywood and Vine, right?
Make-A-Wish
Ah, how sweet.
The Make-A-Wish foundation includes up close breast exams on their list of wishes for hair tumor victims.
The L
Rarely do we capture a girl calling out a 'bag with her own hand gesture at the same time the 'bag is busting his "Westside."
Now granted, Blonde Delilah got her "L" for "Loser" backwards.
But I think we can grant her a little leeway here. Because on the hierarchy chart of heterosexual merit, boobies trump dyslexia.
Seriously, I just checked.
HCwDB of the Week: Bob Edition
This was one of the toughest Weeklies in awhile to cull down to three finalists, as there were a number of sneaky time-delayed wretchedness bubbling up in some of the pics I had to choose from.
But sort, I must. Like Solomon, Judge Brandeis or the chick on Project: Runway, I must decide. Drop my hammer. Toss my Night Train.
So without further ado, I dedicate this Weekly to my hangover. Here's to you, alcoholic induced corporeal dehydration. I name you Bob.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Torch
The Torch wasn't properly celebrated the first time around.
And by celebrated, I mean clever metaphors for hair on fire.
Maybe Spanish Paprika Hott was too old to incite blood lust.
Maybe Torch has too much of a Gaybag vibe to inpire the proper mocking. And just to reiterate the rules of HCwDB hunting, Gaybags are usually eliminated for their lack of threat to the hott.
But I'm not sold on the Gaybag excuse.
Torch has that hint of "metro" that suggests it's all part of his larger hair spiked plan. Maybe I'm being too generous. Or maybe I smell like a Caribbean whore house at 4am. Either way, Torch and Paprika get their shot in the Weekly.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Grenade Tosser
A second pic that incites more amusement than rage, which is definitely a negative.
But the power of early college hott with swollen hills that speak of well fed future generations certainly carry some weight.
And I mean that literally. Like 6 pounds each.
Grenade has black fingernails, a pink shirt with a grenade on it, and a punchable mug.
He's earned his shot in the Weekly.
Finally as part of my empassioned defense, I close with these two words:
Boob. ies.
Latin for marry me, treat me like crap, cheat on me with the mailman, take the car, the house and the chihuahua, just leave me your bathrobe with which I can make soup and drink your essence while crying into my bowl of Lucky Charms.
Mmm... meaty suckable forearm.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Rosencrap and Gildenhott
Some say douche, it is a turbag, who smells, like week old fish...
Some say hott, it is exotic. With slopen nose, and really great boobs...
Yeesh.
I just cribbed a Bette Midler song.
I feel dirty.
Hold me.
No, not you, Rosencrap.
Rose girl with the perfect hips.
Yes you.
Come to me.
Love me.
Lick me like a lollipop.
Tell me I'm your viking captain and spank me with a rope of licorice.
(ahem)
Okay, them's your three. All three will be crushed by either Millennium 'Bag or Deathtongue in the monthly. But lets serve up that slaughter in style.
Honorable mention to House, The 'Stralian Autopsy, and The Night Oranger, who just missed the cut.
Like Bill Murray, when he begged Anita not to leave in Stripes, don't go, the plants'll die.
Yes they will, Bill Murray. Drink that coffee straight from the pot, and vote, as always, in the comments thread.
But sort, I must. Like Solomon, Judge Brandeis or the chick on Project: Runway, I must decide. Drop my hammer. Toss my Night Train.
So without further ado, I dedicate this Weekly to my hangover. Here's to you, alcoholic induced corporeal dehydration. I name you Bob.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Torch
The Torch wasn't properly celebrated the first time around.
And by celebrated, I mean clever metaphors for hair on fire.
Maybe Spanish Paprika Hott was too old to incite blood lust.
Maybe Torch has too much of a Gaybag vibe to inpire the proper mocking. And just to reiterate the rules of HCwDB hunting, Gaybags are usually eliminated for their lack of threat to the hott.
But I'm not sold on the Gaybag excuse.
Torch has that hint of "metro" that suggests it's all part of his larger hair spiked plan. Maybe I'm being too generous. Or maybe I smell like a Caribbean whore house at 4am. Either way, Torch and Paprika get their shot in the Weekly.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Grenade Tosser
A second pic that incites more amusement than rage, which is definitely a negative.
But the power of early college hott with swollen hills that speak of well fed future generations certainly carry some weight.
And I mean that literally. Like 6 pounds each.
Grenade has black fingernails, a pink shirt with a grenade on it, and a punchable mug.
He's earned his shot in the Weekly.
Finally as part of my empassioned defense, I close with these two words:
Boob. ies.
Latin for marry me, treat me like crap, cheat on me with the mailman, take the car, the house and the chihuahua, just leave me your bathrobe with which I can make soup and drink your essence while crying into my bowl of Lucky Charms.
Mmm... meaty suckable forearm.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Rosencrap and Gildenhott
Some say douche, it is a turbag, who smells, like week old fish...
Some say hott, it is exotic. With slopen nose, and really great boobs...
Yeesh.
I just cribbed a Bette Midler song.
I feel dirty.
Hold me.
No, not you, Rosencrap.
Rose girl with the perfect hips.
Yes you.
Come to me.
Love me.
Lick me like a lollipop.
Tell me I'm your viking captain and spank me with a rope of licorice.
(ahem)
Okay, them's your three. All three will be crushed by either Millennium 'Bag or Deathtongue in the monthly. But lets serve up that slaughter in style.
Honorable mention to House, The 'Stralian Autopsy, and The Night Oranger, who just missed the cut.
Like Bill Murray, when he begged Anita not to leave in Stripes, don't go, the plants'll die.
Yes they will, Bill Murray. Drink that coffee straight from the pot, and vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Peaches Sunday
It's true. I never get sick of making fun of this tool.
Peaches is legend. One of the first to practice and perfect a unique and signature douche move.
Peaches has it all. Consistency. Longevity. Douchefaceity.
And the ability to always have the cutest girl in the pic (in this case, the only girl in the pic) hovering closest to his somnambulant stare/point move.
Here's to you, Peaches. You are 'bag innovation personified.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Where's Peaches?
Somewhere in this Tiki Hut lineup of Miller Lite pounding fratchoads, I've carefully hidden Hall of Scrote legend, Peaches.
Look closely.
Can you point at him?
Flag Day
I love the smell of shaved body grease in the morning. It smells like something something.
Seriously. Put on a shirt. Enough all ready. Mein eyes can't take much more of this.
It's Saturday morning and my Cocoa Puffs, while still sugary and delicious, lose just a bit of that chocolate crunchy joy when I realize some beefed up Billy Zanebag is pawing a trashy bar hott's hindquarters.
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Sarah Connor Scroticles
PIC DELETED
C'mon Hippie Sarah Connor Girl-Next-Door Cute, surely this TBag-1000 isn't worth cyberneting his plasma rifles without crushing him in a metal press.
Yup, it's Friday, and the DB1 is running low on analogies.
So it was either The Terminator or the trusty Mark McGrath reference. Couldn't decide which one to go with.
C'mon Hippie Sarah Connor Girl-Next-Door Cute, surely this TBag-1000 isn't worth cyberneting his plasma rifles without crushing him in a metal press.
Yup, it's Friday, and the DB1 is running low on analogies.
So it was either The Terminator or the trusty Mark McGrath reference. Couldn't decide which one to go with.
The Boston Teat Party
I haven't seen two southie townies mug a hott blonde and steal her watch this blatantly since the Funky Bunch were playing clubs in Dorchester.
Yeah, I just made a Marky Mark reference.
Because hey, Boston references. Like Pauling her Reveres while USSing her Constitution. Like Baked Beansing her Dukakisis while Dunking her Donuts.
Where's Waldouche?: Birthday Edition
Somewhere, buried deep within this lineup of Happy Birthday Bikini Hots, I've carefully hidden a landing strip chinned Perry Farrell waldouche.
Look closely.
Can you find him?
Friday Haiku
The pale globe sets 'ere,
Hark! Aye, 'tis the douche-face lick.
Wrong. So very wrong.
Mama's little boy
She's given birth, something's wrong
baby is a douche
-- george dubya douche
dont look now hottie
but your ashtray's licking you
put out smoke in eye
-- bcs
Spider-man comic
Stenciled on this douchebag's arm
Stan Lee is not pleased
-- mr. white
hott - cigarette burn
to face best way to fight off
gene simmons douchebag
-- summer's eve satchel
wifebeater douche licks,
hot has pooch face, great hogans
I miss breast feeding
-- douche bigalow
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Night Oranger
Sister Douchebag, oh your tan has come,
As you know that you're the only one,
To say, lets spray,
Where you going, what you douching for,
You know those boys,
Don't want to spray no more with you,
It's true.
You're scrotoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister tight,
You'll be orange tonight...
Redbag / Not a Redbag
Okay, so Red's not really that 'baggy. More like caught in a bad moment.
But Reindeer Girl-Next-Door has that innocent pouty bedroom eyes of a vicodaned up Hilton sister on a three day bender through Tahoe.
So maybe it ain't the best HCwDB pic. I'm already drunk and it's 2pm. So up goes Red.
The Boobonic Plague
And here we were thinking it was rats that spread the 14th Century plague.
When all that time, it was this guy.
Rhode Scholars
Irish Eyes writes in:
----
DB1-
GodDAMN, your site is genious. I have spent endless hours of horror on HCwDB, perusing bleeth and choad... You are providing a much-needed service, sir.
However, Jersey--while it may be the original spawning site of the doucheplague--is by no means exclusive to all things scrote.
Rhode Island, that festering toilet of Mafioso wannabes and s@#tty clubs with lame house music, has a douchebag community that is quite spectacular in its own right.
Not cool enough to be Boston, or hip enough to be NYC, the Providence-Johnston-Warwick area is known as a quasi-Bermuda Triangle...you can send a fresh-faced, truly nice kid of 18 into one of those dance ghettoes, and he will invariably emerge as the newest member of ClubDouche.
Keep up the excellent work!
----
Some call it the smallest state in the United States.
I call it a half hour drive.
The Vampire Boob
Ever lie in bed and night and think to yourself, "Hey, I wonder what a creepy old vampire with a fake rubber boob in his mouth would look like partying with two college chicks?"
Well wonder no more.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Deep in the Scrote of Texas
Dallas.
Some call it a city in Texas.
Others, a cheesy primetime soap opera from the 1980s. Still others, Jack's upstairs neighbor.
I call it one of the Five.
Along with Chicago, Miami, Las Vegas and the Jersey/L.I. Corridor. One of the originary Grieco Virus nexus points.
And so very, very poo.
'Strailian Autopsy II
Oh, Australia.
First, Olivia Newton-John.
Now this.
Wednesday Limerick
Two no-shirt spiky haired trains,
The rain in Spain couldn't purge their stain,
The blond is Hott,
Although slightly fembot,
So lets ship this nasty oil slick back to Bahrain.
Tiki Wiki
Add army cargo pants to the "white belt" category of emerging 2008 douchal trends.
And yes, I see you, perky Lithuanian Princess in the white hat. You've been on the site before. But each time I want to tickle your inner thigh with a tiny ostrich feather and a satchel of licorice.
I also see you brought your friend with the belly button star-tatt. Kendra. The one majoring in "hair styling" over at Florida State.
You can bring her, too.
Just flush the muscle turds down the sink first.
The Millipede
Is that a millipede on your head, or are you just glad to see her?
Okay, this dude's not really so bad. But I haven't had my coffee yet.
Ask DB1
The Douchigal Son writes in regarding the challenges of Youthbaggery:
----
DB1,
I am a young forming mind and body of nineteen and I can't help but feel I am slipping off the tightrope of decency.
I used to be a very tactful and amiable guy, but as of late I seem to be becoming welled up in arrogant defense-mechanismy indolent ambition and lust for the 'hott'. Such ambition alienates my friends, and such hott-lust takes up more than acceptable thoughtspace.
I went to a club last night and pulled s#@t I never thought my appendages could do. I went up behind dancing hotts and proceeded to surreptitiously grope them or attempt to grind. I ditched my kindly friend to search for more 'acceptable' gropage.
I realize it is at more of a creeper stage as I am so far able to withhold feigning confidence. I did however bust out the acting chops and pretend to be having fun dancing to attract an orient-a-hott. Is douchitude the letting go or 'putting-off' the as of yet frustratingly unyielding idealism?
I am scared,
The Douchigal Son
----
Do not be scared, D.S. The urge to woo with the woo-hotties is one that grips us all like musty cheetos on the fingers. For female readers, the urge to bump-n-grind like rhesus monkeys on crack occasionally overtakes even the shrewdest of hotties in the presence of a greased up and shaved douche-chest.
The purging of The 'Bag Within is a challenge we all face in our attempts to woo the boobie, and the boobies face to resist their inexplicable attraction to bling and crusty foreheads.
One must realize that there is no end game, no conclusion, no finish line. We are all in process. We are always examining and reexamining the over caffeinated spectacle of purchased identity in this age of media saturation multitasking hyper-stimulation simulation.
Know this.
In the land when the image is king, challenging the image becomes a revolutionary act.
We all will occasionally douche out in service of chasing the thigh-suckle worthy hott. The challenge is to reach a state of awareness. To see the spectacle for what it is. And push for that higher truth.
Only then will the douche simulacrum cease its cacophonous noise spectacle once and for all.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Rose by Any Other Name...
PIC DELETED
...is still a douchescrote.
Miami Mice
Miami Beach never looked so toxic.
And even though Cheekboned Platinum Hott is overly made up, borderline stripper and looks like she'd wreck my credit rating, I'd still listen to her whine about how some manager she met in South Beach isn't returning her calls after they hooked up, just for the chance to buy her another 14 dollar mojito.
Because I'm a sucker.
The Blaze is Back
Hey kids, look who's back!!
Why it's 2007 Douchie Award Winner, Johnny Blaze!! Back in da hauz, and with a brand new cutie he can doggie 'bag in style with.
The Orange seems to have faded a bit, and the shirts are growing a bit yuppified for my tastes. Why the pullback Johnny B? Don't change on our account.
But the hair is still cactii goodness. And there's probably that whiff. A brand new bottle of Tag Bodyshot.
Because the ladiez love the smell of kitchen cleanser.
A.J's Sweat
Sure, to you and I it appears to be a toxic mixture of human perspiration, baking powder, Crisco, L.A. Looks hair gel and Axe Bodyspray.
But there are African tribes in The Congo that believe A.J's Sweat can cure rickets, Lyme disease and crotch itch.
She is a delightful mix of pouty sin that tempts even the most jaded of heterosexuals.
Monday, February 18, 2008
'Strailian Autopsy
While the world recovers from the strangely heroic Australian uberdouchosity that was Corey Worthington, The Dingo who threw the house party / riot last month, we get this reader mail from Oz:
----
DB1-
Here's a friend of a friend of a friend, I don't think it needs much explaining.
There's a few shots of douchebaggery (hey, he was a big brother contestant) I'll let you pick the one you like best.
Great site.
-- Yahoo Douchuous
----
Nope, no explanation needed.
Where's Wez to drive up on his motorcycle and shotgun this Aussie tool all the way back to the early 1980s when you need him.
Metaphysicality and Douchebagggery
I believe it was the philosopher Soren Kierkegaard who first asked us, "Why does douchebaggery smell like poo?"
Or maybe it was The Village People.
I always get my depressing existential philosophy and 1970s disco confused.
Which, if you stop and think about it, aren't that different. Both make us question meaning in a cold and cruel universe.
But only one features cymbals every 1/4 note.
'Bag Tagging
Erin writes in with a West Coast 'bag tag:----
DB1-
So I met this guy last night and I was incredibly embarrassed to be seen with him in a club. I kind of noticed this type of hair style is popular on the east coast. He said he's from New York so I figured this is what an east coast douche bag looks like.
Sincerely,
Erin from Los Angeles
----
Nice 'Bag Tag, Erin. It seems you have captured the rare east coast Mendouchulous Oblongdoblus, or what is generally described as A Brooklyn Scrote.
While occasionally some manage to migrate to the West Coast, it is rare indeed. Excellent work to capture and 'bag tag such a devious scrotundae in picture form. Such spottings should be cherished.
Like when I spotted a Duck Billed Platypus losing at a craps table at the Wynn in Vegas. At least I think that's what I saw. Stupid alcohol.
The Tosser II
Yup. The Tosser is all sorts of wrong.
Throwing douche grenades in the club like a mixture of Kid Rock, Uncle Fester, Scott Weiland, and Warwick Davis in mid-battle pose.
Yeah, I just made a Willow reference. Because Ron Howard is an underrated directing genius.
And by genius, I mean frequently employed.
Pink has the meaty arms of delightful perfection. She gives angels inferiority complexes and makes old men curse the arbitrary years of their birth.
I would enroll in summer classes at Arizona State and help her study for her "Theater Design" course in a dorm common area just for the chance to sneak glances at the fingerprint residue on her iPod.
Then she would date a guy named Chip.
And I would dislike Chip.
The Shirtless Pud Award
Since it's a holiday, and we gave out two Weekly Winners last week, there's no HCwDB of the Week this week.
Instead, we'll hand out the honorary "Shirtless Pud" award. To this guy.
Lay off the Danish Au Pairs, Tommybag. They're only here to avoid having to go work in the Lego Factory like some Fritz Langian worker-slave nightmare mixed with shiny children's building bocks.
And unplug the Felix the Douche clock behind you, while you're at it. Those ticking eyes are creeping me out.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Sunday Grenade Tosser
Nothing like a little sunday grenade tossing on a three day weekend to fire up the kettle.
I would paw those baby lumps like Michael J. Fox on Red Bull.
The Crustacean: Hall of Scrote '08
Welcome the first inductee to the Hall of Scrote for 2008, The Crustacean. Although there is another strong candidate likely emerging in the next few weeks (I give you one Crimson guess).
While it wasn't a unanimous vote for the Crust, like it was for, say, The Prompas, it was a strong win, and by win I mean Puma armband. A win aided by the power of the Rainbow Boobie Hott.
As Mitch Meats puts it:
My metric for these is comparing the current nominee against the latest 10 or so inductees and whether or not he can out-douche enough of them, as it were.
We can see that with time, enshrinement in the Hallowed Hall has required increasing nausea as the virus has mutated into ever more ridiculous vectors of self-parody. How could a modern-day tepid scrote along the lines of Socrates ever hope to be counted among the greats like Donkey Douche? Sure, there are aberrations here or there, but overall the level of grease and chin fungus required has steadily climbed since the creation of the Hall.
I believe the bile contained in this one picture (thanks to Fruit Stripes pushing it over the edge) is greater than the entire oeuvre of the STDs and Peaches combined. The fact that Crusty is also in the same crowd as HBT, Bree, and Fish Slap in real life just seals the deal. I vote yea.
Well said, MM.
Danny Noonan, in rejecting Judge Smails' ditch digger soliloquy, agrees:
When we reduce this website to it's essence, this is what is left over. Ridiculous hotts and a vomit-inducing, epileptic-seizure inducing, sever-your-own achilles-due-to awe-inspiring-anger, douchebag. Crusty is a repeat offender and belongs with his peers, DD, Gator, FishSlap, Peaches, and the rest.
Crusy FTHoS.
Indeed he does, D.N. As Douche Vader puts it:
I consider myself a guardian/curmudgeon when it comes to the HoS. I hate to say it watered down, and think it should be reserved only for the scrotiest of scrote. Usually, I vote nay.
That said, hells yeah, Crusty should be in there. I mean, look at him. He's everything to be despised in a DB, but on steroids.
However, Minnescrota makes the opposite argument, saying The Crust doesn't quite rise to the level of legend:
This Douche is kind of like the Keith Hernandez of Scrote. He's full-on solid Douche, but doesn't have a signature move, i.e. reverse shocker with a counterclockwise swirl. I let my gut decide this one for me, I axed myself, would I Doucheambeau this Choad right in the nuts? Yes, I would. Would I drive to Daytona Beach to do it, NO I wouldn't.
I axed myself the same thing about Gator-bag, and I answered affirmatively both times. I'd even pay for Gator's first class ticket to Daytona so that I could meet him down there and in the ultimate irony kick him in the nuts with a my sweet Gator kicks.
That's how I know the Crustacean isn't ready for the Hall.
Well argued, Minn. But like many in the Hall, you don't have always have to be a first ballot to get in.
Sammy Hagar high-notes it down for us:
The Crustacean is not one to be forgotten. I don't want to see him spending eternity wandering in douchey purgatory. He defines douche. He emits douche. He is legend.
Let's put him in the Hall so hopefully young women of the future will be lucky enough to point at his abs.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Tao of Oates
Oates in not a douchebag.
Oates is the yin, the yang and the chakra to our collective Kaballah. Oates is the private to our eyes. The no to our can do.
Oates dances the mustache dance for all of our collective Freudian nightmares and Jungian sins.
Oates rocks the retro with grace and wit. Oates rebounds on the dance floor. And within Oates's style, his ballet, his poetry, we find the shards of ideological purity.
Oates washes our souls of sin. Oates is our ritual purge. Our mikvah bath. Our Mississippi river baptism.
Do not doubt The Tao of Oates. For Oates is not just the key to spiritual enlightenment due to his second-banana 1980s rock star iconic forgottenness. With a fantastic 'stache. Oates is the "other" by which we define ourselves. The projection of the schism within all of our psyches.
Oates is the unknowable. The ethereal. The corporeal embodiment of our deepest darkest fears onto that which we normally fail to comprehend. That which we deny to ourselves.
Oates fractures our false construct. All through the power of one single, iconic, 1980s moustache. For Oates is not Hall. Oates is Oates.
Oates is more than Garfunkel. Oates is more than Ridgely or either of those guys we can't remember from Tears for Fears.
Oates is liminality. Ambiguity.
Oates exists not as fixed polarity, but as conceptual dialectic. Oates is neither background musician, nor foreground solo artist. He is neither star nor chorus.
Oates is between the stage and the audience. The light and the dark.
Oates challenges the entire paradigm of binary either/ors that we use to construct narratives to define ourselves and our world.
A false construction that needs Oates to reveal its falsity. That needs that 'stache to reveal the higher truth.
The Oates in the Machine.
No, Oates is most certainly not a douchebag.
For Oates is us.
Saturday Haiku
(just for the helluvit:)Hark! The war is lost.
Culture dies not with a bang
But with shaven chests.
aldoushe huxley laughs
the brave new world has arrived
douchebag utopia
-- newman's own balsamic douche
Two 'bags and a blonde,
and they deserve an award?
Reality bites.
-- massengill
Guidos, Peroxide
Tequila menage a troix,
back to pedicures
-- douche bigalow
I'd need a gallon
Of Cuervo Black to escape
This "reality"
-- 23 skidouche
smurf-like cretins smirk
inflate a chest blonde zombie
i weep for the youth
-- 'bag lanta
Friday, February 15, 2008
Fan Mail
Possible early nominee for best fan mail of the year, all the way from England:
----
twats.
you are one.
turn off the website or put yourself on it. take your shirt out of your underpants and stop masturbating and wishing it was a real woman on your willy not your pathetic, miserable lonely hands.
you are very creepy and look like as much of a tosser as any of the creeps on the site.
love the website
stu xx
----
Nicely played, Stu. Now piss off, ya tosser.
Yup. I've always wanted to talk like a drunken angry working class Brit.
The Marissa
I name this scrote in the middle "The Marissa" for personifying a cheap carbon copy of the douched out husband of Marissa Miller, himself a cheap carbon copy of a cactus plant.
Gentlemen. You are spawns of suburbia.
Put down the hair gel.
You are not "punk rock." You look like a rooster.
Juan on the right looks like he'd rather be tangoing with Smithers to Barry Manilow, so I'll leave him out of this. And the Long Island twins aren't Deathtongue Hott, but nothing to sneeze a ferret at.
Jimmy Two Times
PIC DELETEd
He's gonna go get the Bodyspray, get the Bodyspray.
He's gonna go get the Bodyspray, get the Bodyspray.
The Hott House Flower
Great.
Now tatted up Oilbags are growing innocent little Hott House Flowers out of their nipples.
Someone fetch the weed whacker. I'm taking Ass Chin down.
Tom Bradybag
The one excuse for shirtlessness on a 'bag is being at the beach.
And then you had to go and bust the ginormous mandana, armlet, and ab rub move, Bradybag.
And I'm not just taking it out on you because the real Tom Brady didn't close the deal in the Superbowl.
I'm also taking it out on you because PINK has the hindquarters of an aged whisky tumbling lightly over ice.
I would park there for a season and contemplate quantum mechanics.
Friday Haiku
Jesus Bling and Tags,
Hair ripples like plastic grass,
On the field of ass.
lenny kravitz son
are you gonna go my way?
if so, i'll punch you
-- bcs
Brian Austin Green
90210 checks drying up
Initials B.A.G.
-- marcos douchebagdatis
What is he wearing?
Is that Dice Clay's old jacket?
Five bucks on eBay.
-- mr. white
Mark of bag theory:
Testicles get chesticles
Teabag my head please!
-- jonathan pompadour
Install tile all week
Pose hard with bartender hotts
Impress myself, Brah.
-- bleethlvr995
In dungeon of douche
Gavin Rossdale wannabe
preys on mammaries
-- jacques doucheau
Is that tobasco?
Also disolves forehead grease.
Go ahead, try it.
-Amerigo Vesdouchey
traveling salesman
heads of hotts stuffed in man-bag
send me leads Glenross
-- the 'bag apple
Skunk, dog tag and cross,
throat punch pepe ladouche please,
give hotts my bus pass
-- scent of a douche
boy band reject thought
his myspace fans were the bomb
til best two want cash
-- newman's own balsamic douche
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Hunting the Artbag
Your humble narrator in all things Ass/Axe, The DB1, is in San Francisco for a wedding, but also to hunt the elusive and wily Artbag.
Yes, that post dot-com former Z-3 Roadster owning internet baby hipster tool. You know the kind. The one who mocked your lack of technical knowledge and bragged about their stock options, 2000-2002, only to go into a burned out and dazed shell after the crash.
With little left to do but get a real job and bitch about how much they "almost" cashed out with, they turned from DSL to hair gel. From wifi to ironic t-shirts. That said things like Free Paris.
Artbags.
The kind with 'Zines about the nuances of Swedish death metal. Or where to find the best ginger bread cookie in Omaha.
Artbags get their own category in my book. And deservedly so.
I plan to spend the weekend making fun of their facial hair from a reasonable distance, then hitting on their girlfriends when they're in the bathroom.
The Mark of the 'Bag
People often ask me: "DB1, how will I know the Mark of the 'Bag when I see it upon a douche's forehead?"
And I answer: "Grasshopper, the Mark of the 'Bag will make its presence known. Just look for the schlong-n-balls of forehead shine. The kit and caboodle. The beavis and butthead. Or, in some cases, a shlong-n-balls crossed with a Fender guitar."
Even in cases where the 'bag isn't that douchey. As with Blue Satin Nipple, here, the Mark of the 'Bag reveals inner douche.
Pouty Cheekbones can't see the Mark of the 'Bag. But we can.
She has the smooth polished skin of apple pie ice cream. I would drink her with a shot of rum and a confused Vegas car dealer named Tim who's suffering from dementia and needs a place to stay.
The Jersey Paradox
Here's my problem with Jersey.
Even the good guys are douches. By all accounts, Largy McBulge here appears to be a relative decent dude. He's unassuming. Has his arm casually around his hott. No obnoxious possession gestures. No douche-face.
But then you realize he's wearing a combo earring + matching necklace, a ridiculously exposed muscle-t showing off the bulge, and the ripped 1980s jeans left behind on the set of Bon Jovi's Blaze of Glory.
And it's Jersey in a nutshell.
Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell is Dairy Queen Blizzard sweet.
With sprinkles.
Freshman Girls
Tall, orange and douchey is no way to go through life, son.
Madame 'Baggerfly
Ah, the Oldbag.
Oldbags often achieve an anti-hero status simply for keeping their saggy scrote in the game.
There's Far East Hott, a sexy cube of cute in which Puccini's operatic high notes only begin to evoke the curvy pouty lips of Asian Delight.
But then 'Baggerfly crashes in like a bartender version of the lead singer from one hit wonder Midnight Oil.
But is he threatening? Not really. More like Dad's best friend from Thursday night poker. So go to it, Oldbag. Sing that Aria. You get a "nottadouche."
Just lose the neutron sunglasses and fetch me a Johnnie Walker Black, stat.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The O-Head
It's not nice to make fun of squashed skull heads that look like an elephant crapped out a football.
Therefore I will only say that feral overbite on the left makes me want to troll trailer parks in Mississippi in search of that elusive diamond in the dust.
And then Eliza her Doolittles with 19th Century aristocratic class patriarchies. And lots of shoulder sucking.
Fan Mail
----DB1-
You are such a loser.
So you have no problem saying how gorgeous you think these girls are, then practically state why they shouldn't be with the person they chose to be with?
So you're telling them how to live their on life.
So you're dictating.
Meaning, you think you're above everyone else.
I'm not saying you're worthless. I mean we all need people like you around so we can laugh at them when we need a good cheering up.
But Christ, Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?? Do you think you're God's gift? Do you even have a girlfriend? ... or do you prefer to swing the ball towards the crowd instead?
----
When not dictating, I do prefer to swing the ball towards the crowd.
So I got that going for me.
Marissa Miller and a Cactus
Courtesy of WWTDD.com, Sports Illustrated cover-girl hott Marissa Miller is apparently married to a cactus douche.
But at least we know what the shape was that obsessed Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Wednesday Limerick
Three cutes went to party in style,
They checked out bikini night at the Carlyle,
Then Sven showed his abs,
And scratched at his crabs
And the place smelled like Patchouli for awhile.
HCwDB of the Week: Deathtongue
Deathtongue in a lickslide.
Unlike the waxen burnt atrocity that is Millennium 'Bag, this Weekly winner errs on the side of quartasian hott perfection. As Amerigo Vesdouchey knows, Sloane Peterson will always set the standard:
Deathtoungue.
She is Sloane Peterson and Princess Lily (from 'Legend') roled up in one great ball of Hott. Not coincidentally, both roles were played by the same actress.
Young Mia Sara. The Hott of Hots by which all others are measured. But this is not to say that amateur pud isn't scrote enough to hold up his side of the equation. As the everpresent anonymous hits the tongue on the head:
gotta be deathtongue.
he's not the blatant douchenozzle of BG or the "i lost a bet" douchetard of Pinhead, but there's something a little sneaky about his douchiness. If you saw him in a club, you might not want to immediately hit him in the head with a trashcan. but doing what he's doing shows a whole lot of contempt for and a little misogynistic hatred a la Pepe le Pew (kudos to whoever said that first) of the hottest hott i've seen on this site.
Well put, anon. Bagadoucheous agrees:
Now I take a deep sigh and a dry heave and talk about Deathtongue. Unf@#king real. The sheer dichotomy of this picture makes it the clear winner. Miles above the rest. It is the absolute definition of this site. Scrote/hott at it purest most disgusting form.
I just stabbed myself in the neck with a fork. I just shaved my pupils down with a nail file. Thats how beutiful this woman is and how disgusted I am to see her with him. The angel and the devil. This picture is deep with meaning. It represents the human race and our relationship with God. The fact that she acts as if he is not even there makes it everything. Uggg. Please kill me.
Yikes. Someone check and make sure Bagadoucheous is okay.
But lets not forget our 2nd and 3rd place finalists. McDouche makes the case for the somewhat overlooked boob/scrote ratio of The Pincushion:
Pincushion gets my vote. Do you realize how many hours and money he probably spent on that gay hair and "bag" of piercings and have it all culminate with him being one step away from induction into the DB Hall of Fame?
Hall of Scrote mentions may be a bit much, since P.C. can't even win a Weekly, but I agree the hair is award winning. And her boobs are marshy-mallowy.
And the ever present anonymous urges us not to forget the atrocities that is the 'Bagnana Dacquiri:
'Bagnana Daiquiri. I know the Deathtongue has the hottest girl, but that peaking groin tat. Seriously, that's the nastiest thing I've seen in a long time. I'm scared to know what that 'tat really is.
Yup. The groin tatt is wretched. But it's the 'Tongue's week to lick.
As Talayatu eloquently puts in:
Deathtongue... there's a message there, a story, an allegory, like in medieval iconography. He is just SO douchey (and an irono-douche too, probably, my least favorite kind) and she is just SO classic. Just look at how different their manners are, look at the differing expressions, they exist in the same space but not, by any means, the same place.
Quartasian hott exists in a realm of pure hott goodness and decency, and Deathtongue belongs to the douchey scum of the earth. Quartasian hott is with the douche but not of it.
He is Mordor; she is Lothlorien. Yes, I will stand by my Tolkien reference thank you very much. Deathtongue for the win.
Stand by that LOTR ref there, Talayatu. For Deathtongue and his Quartasian are a deserving winner.
Raise their wrongness to the winner's circle, and we'll see them take on the Moulin Rouge in the Monthy.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Melissa's Art Class Scuplture
Lovely Melissa Hott shows great pride in her granite marble slab carving.
Inspired by both Michaelangelo and Rodin, Veronica sought to capture the spirit and essence of Michaelangelo's "David" while invoking the postmodern aesthetics of Salle, Schnabel, and putzy shirtless uberdouche.
Good work, Melissa. Now chisel off the stuffed frog about to eat it's head.
The Crustacean for Hall of Scrote
Duck Duck Douche puts a nomination on the floor:
----
I have a question, in the 8 short months that I've discovered your website I've noticed that Hall of Scrote candidates usually get nominated at the peak of their dooshy-ness like the Gator and Trainwreck.
After looking back through the archives, I find myself wondering why the Crustacean is not there. I've seen at multiple pics and he has in my opinion ,one of the best/worst pics on the site-
--Duck Duck Douche
----
Excellent points, triple-D. The Puma armband + Ab Reveal is pretty significant within douche hierarchy. And I haven't seen this many ambulatory Barbies since Todd Haynes' Superstar.
So I put it to the you.
Is Crusty ready for the Hall of Scrote?
The Torch
Think of it this way, Torch. At least you can see what's in front of you and above you at the same time.
Flame on, indeed.
Huggy Blonde has perky truffle-like cheekbones that inspire Peruvian rats to spontaneously evolve into higher life forms with ambulatory thumbs just for the chance to woo her with picked berries from the tall trees.
What? Like you've never met spontaneously evolving Peruvian rats before?
William Blake
The road of excess leads to the palace of too many tatts and a large white watch. -- William Blake
The Brazilian Double Decker
The classic 'bag/hott sandwich is rarely seen in such a crushingly pressed manifestation.
It's like a Cuban pork sandwich. A tasty slice of meat pressed between two scroads.
Or the little known "Brazilian Double Decker," whose ingredients include ham, swiss, mayo and sixteen cans of Axe Bodyspray. Sandwiched between two slices of pimento loaf, a Mohawk and a degree from DeVry.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Tie Fighter
Shirtlessness.
It's what's for douchebags.
House
There aren't that many indicators proving House is douche. Besides the ginormous Jesus bling on the shirt and the hott sucking on his nose.
But then you realize it.
The ephemeral douche-face. That hint of sneer and kissy lips that marks douche like no other indicator.
Yes, House is scrote.
But Play-Doh boobies make babies sing the Tinky Winky happy dance.
Lost Lost Vanessa
PIC DELETED
Poor Lost Lost Vanessa.
Along with her best friend Debbie, she has wandered away from her idyllic middle class suburban princessdom. To spend three years having inadequate sex and dysfunctional conversations with emo douche.
Because they're in a band. And she hates her dad. Who sells insurance and has a hernia.
Poor Lost Lost Vanessa.
Along with her best friend Debbie, she has wandered away from her idyllic middle class suburban princessdom. To spend three years having inadequate sex and dysfunctional conversations with emo douche.
Because they're in a band. And she hates her dad. Who sells insurance and has a hernia.
Beetledouche
Tell me the creepy crawlies crawling up Skater Von 'Bag's neck aren't the same critters on Michael Keaton's neck in Beetlejuice.
Mmm... Heathers era Winona Ryder.
As to the curves hugging Beetledouche here, I would half pipe her baseplates then nosegrind her goofy foot with a switch stance varial kick flip, just for the chance to empty her swimming pool while collecting unemployment checks and mourning my complete lack of future.
HCwDB of the Week
These are three great candidates. And by great I mean a vile mix of cultural wrongness commingling with sexy perky boobage. In other words, the perfect Yin/Yang of hott/scrote wrongness.
But if you're looking for the burnt redness of Millennium 'Bag, scroll down. I gave him a bump directly to the Monthly. And by bump, I mean crimson.
So who gets to face off with Rusty in the Monthly? Here's your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The 'Bagnana Daiquiri
Uberscrotage can always be sussed out by the noxious display of the Ab Reveal.
Combine that with chin dribble, the ubiquitous white belt, and a pointy 'hawk that could impale a leaping river salmon in mid-jump, and it's Douche-Con 1.
Then factor in three ladies from the temp agency down the street on their night off, and it's all sorts of wrongness.
But there's one factor that makes the 'Bagnana a serious competitor.
The hint of the groin-tatt poking over the belt.
Gross. Very gross.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Pincushion
Uhm, yeah.
Uberboobies.
Chin piercing from hell.
Hair that Clive Barker wrote horror books about.
So why am I still yammering on?
Because the boobies inspire me.
The belly button piercing focuses my muse.
And the hair makes me spit up griddle cakes.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Deathtongue
We've featured many gorgeous women on this site, but rare is the hott that makes me want to cut out my kidney with a rusty spoon.
Deathtongue's Quartasian hott is one that does.
She is inspiring.
He is your rank small town college guitar playing business majoring uberdouche.
He's not a pro-douche, which makes the pic even more heinous.
He is Deathtongue. He has rhinestones in his shirt.
And she is perfection.
I will now sucker punch a dwarf.
So them's your three. Three extremely worthy candidates. This is one of the toughest Weeklys in awhile, and that's why I depend on you.
Which combo of rightness and wrongness is the perfect mix of grease and boob to rise to the level of victor?
That is up to you. Cast your vote by posting, as always, in the comments thread.
But if you're looking for the burnt redness of Millennium 'Bag, scroll down. I gave him a bump directly to the Monthly. And by bump, I mean crimson.
So who gets to face off with Rusty in the Monthly? Here's your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The 'Bagnana Daiquiri
Uberscrotage can always be sussed out by the noxious display of the Ab Reveal.
Combine that with chin dribble, the ubiquitous white belt, and a pointy 'hawk that could impale a leaping river salmon in mid-jump, and it's Douche-Con 1.
Then factor in three ladies from the temp agency down the street on their night off, and it's all sorts of wrongness.
But there's one factor that makes the 'Bagnana a serious competitor.
The hint of the groin-tatt poking over the belt.
Gross. Very gross.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Pincushion
Uhm, yeah.
Uberboobies.
Chin piercing from hell.
Hair that Clive Barker wrote horror books about.
So why am I still yammering on?
Because the boobies inspire me.
The belly button piercing focuses my muse.
And the hair makes me spit up griddle cakes.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Deathtongue
We've featured many gorgeous women on this site, but rare is the hott that makes me want to cut out my kidney with a rusty spoon.
Deathtongue's Quartasian hott is one that does.
She is inspiring.
He is your rank small town college guitar playing business majoring uberdouche.
He's not a pro-douche, which makes the pic even more heinous.
He is Deathtongue. He has rhinestones in his shirt.
And she is perfection.
I will now sucker punch a dwarf.
So them's your three. Three extremely worthy candidates. This is one of the toughest Weeklys in awhile, and that's why I depend on you.
Which combo of rightness and wrongness is the perfect mix of grease and boob to rise to the level of victor?
That is up to you. Cast your vote by posting, as always, in the comments thread.
HCwDB of the Week: Millennium 'Bag
I'm not ready to waive the waiting period for the Hall of Scrote for M.B. just yet. But since Millennium 'Bag is a certain Weekly winner, I'm promoting him directly to the Monthly.
That way we can let the other three pics vie for the 2nd slot in the next Monthly instead of letting this Moulin Rougebag destroy the competition.
Yeesh.
Shaved head patterns, burnt man-tan and a plastic top. See you in the Monthly, Millenium Bag.
Now please let Pocahottie go before I mix you with sugar and call it Kool-Aid.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Hot Chicks with Douchebags Book
It's Sunday Night, and your humble narrator in all things chin-fungus/thigh-suckle, The DB1, has returned from a relaxing weekend of non-douche contemplation and boobie meditation.
Although it's just under five months out, I've put up a link to pre-order my book through Amazon.com. You'll see it on the upper left of the homepage.
We're still working on the cover art, but the book will be a full color extravaganza through all the categories, subsections, manifestations and scatalogical classifications of all things douche/hott.
It's 95% new pics (over 150 choice cuts of hott/scrote), features some site favorites, a roadmap to de-douchification, a history of douchebaggery, as well as a ton of surprises I don't want to give away.
Needless to say I'm very proud of it, and if you're a fan of this site, I think you'll love it. I worked my ass off on it all summer and fall, and it's all that I could've hoped for. Which means a cultural paradigm shifting artifact meant to confuse and perplex future historians.
I'll post more info as the book release gets closer, as well as info on the Book Release Party in Las Vegas, Nevada. Yes, the Heart of Doucheness itself.
But for now we celebrate. And by celebrate I mean mock a classic 'bag like White Chocolate.
Full posting resumes tomorrow.
Friday, February 08, 2008
The Princess and the 'Stache
Oh sweet innocent Princess Hott. To what depths have you fallen that you chose so poorly?
Who has cursed you to spend eternity kissing this Froggy 'Stache?
Leave him.
For anyone.
Even #092 in the background.
Or simply wait for the blue alien ray-gun to vaporize his sorry ass.
The Angry Turtle
I've always dug leather pants on a hott. Especially one with that touch of Sheryl Crow mixed with a dash of Catherine Keener in The 40 Year Old Virgin.
Speaking of which, watching Superman Returns on HBO recently, I realized Catherine Keener would've been the perfect Lois Lane.
Too old? Maybe.
But 16 year old Kate Bosworth as a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist was like Will Smith as a brilliant medical biologist in I Am Legend.
In other words, no.
Call of Doody
So if Luke Skywalker and Willem Dafoe in Platoon douched out a child, we can conclude one thing:
That child would love staring at boobies.
At what point in the evening did Captain Scrote decide not only to bust a mandana the size of a Buick, but also go shirtless?
And at that point, shouldn't Sandra Bullock Cutie have run away screaming?
The Double Sunglasser
I almost gave Scruffy Seymour Hoffman a "nottadouche" pass, but then I realized that not only is he wearing late night infomercial Blu-Blockers (tm), but has another pair of sunglasses on the shirt.
One pair of dark sunglasses in the clubs is a stage one douchal offense, but two? Automatic douchification.
Pouty Rebecca Romijn O'Hottness has the expensive stare of a supermodel that says, Yes, I will love you. Now buy me the Prada.
And I would.
I would buy her the Prada.
Friday Haiku
Oh sweet Paola,
Frat dudes from Delta Tao Pi,
Not gangsters. Douche face.
angst is difficult
with your Dad's Mazerati
valet parked outside
-- the bag apple
Stupid grillz and teeth
Hott exchange student clueless
This is cool in Spain
-- scrotebob douchepants
Satiny red hott
Don't let metal teeth nibble
Or risk tetanus
-- mr. white
grindle sniffing toads
ganstas! we're black, you know it
padma lakshmi hott
-- 'bag lanta
Guy on right is mad
That hott is blocking her boobs
He wants his first feel
-- the douche is alright
Just let the hott go
No one else needs to be Bagged
Paul Wall must be stopped
-- burnsy
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Bugs Belty
That last pic, "Bugs," was just freaking me out. I'm not sure why. But I'm in a fickle mood and it's Thursday night, so I'm blowing it away in favor of this noxious combo of a metrodouche and a Drunk Hott who knows not what she does.
Do you see what I see?
Apart from the shaved chested turd showing off his underwear.
Yup. There it is.
The Ubiquitous White Belt of Douchosity.
The Batman Utility Belt of Scrote.
The, uhm, cheesy-ass white belt. That sucks.
Reader Mail
I've been getting lots of email from Australia, Canada and the U.K. about the spread of global douchebaggery, but add another country to the list. The Lion writes in:
----
DB1,
This comes all the way from Johannesburg, South Africa... Unfortunately not that much Hott (a curious and sad feature of this city), but plenty plenty douche.
Disclaimer: I did not grow up in Jozi, and am repeatedly dismayed at the gross 'baggery on display. I am lobbying my government for more regulation cultural globalisation. My first proposal is to ban the production or importation of white linen slacks.
-- The Lion
-----
It is sad to see the spread of K-Fed Douchery to all corners of the globe, and on behalf of my country, I apologize. Although it is hilarious to see that "Douched Out Yankee Cap" reaches across all nations and border-states to create the universal sign for "scrote."
Regulations do little to stop the insidious spread of the Douche Virus, Lion, but mocking helps. Be sure to scream "Duuuuuche!" when witnessing a hottie/douchey commingle taking place, like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
It doesn't cure the plague.
But it helps.
HCwDB on DListed
Welcome DListed-ers! If this is your first time to Hot Chicks with Douchebags, come for the douche. Stay for the boobies.
I'm pleased to see DListed took one of my pics for their caption contest and actually gave me credit this time.
If you're searching for the original post of the genius that is Millennium 'Bag, you can scroll down, or click here.
EDIT: Pic swapped out due to take-down request.
The Automaton
Planet of the 'Bags
Get your stinking hands off her you damned, greasy douche!
Pope Greasius XII
PIC DELETED
Jesus Bling of the Shirt. Check. Hitler Chin Pubes. Check.
Yup, it's Pope Greasius XII, out for a night of relaxin' and lettin' the vibes flow. You got a problem, broheim? Because Greasius will throw down like the Kung Fu Pope that he is.
Brunette may look like a confused Au Pair from Antwerp, but her gold superhero dress can lasso my Düsseldorf any day of the week.
Jesus Bling of the Shirt. Check. Hitler Chin Pubes. Check.
Yup, it's Pope Greasius XII, out for a night of relaxin' and lettin' the vibes flow. You got a problem, broheim? Because Greasius will throw down like the Kung Fu Pope that he is.
Brunette may look like a confused Au Pair from Antwerp, but her gold superhero dress can lasso my Düsseldorf any day of the week.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Reader Mail
----DB1-
Afew months ago a coworker of mine put his job on the line defending your site at the workplace. He got fired because he thought it was completely work appropriate.
Just thought I'd let you know how epic your site is and the lengths some will go to support it! Keep it up.
-AD
----
One can never get fired for reading Hot Chicks with Douchebags.
One can only be delayed from reading Hot Chicks with Douchebags. For the job may change, but the mocking rings forever. And only through the mocking of the hottie/choady dialectic, will one find the path to enlightenment.
Tell your friend that what he has lost in temporary material sustenence, he will gain in the power to deconstruct the gel, bling and douche-face and see a Higher Truth.
The Truth of Poo. And the Truth of Boobies.
The Mushroom
Yessh, I gotta clear that Mayerbag ooze off the top of the page.
This All American perky cutie and her mutant mushroom windswept Best Friend 'Bag oughtta do the trick.
And by do the trick, I mean piss me off. Which is still better than thinking about Mayerbag.
John Mayer: Douche Eternal
Your body is a toxic waste dump, Mayerbag.
You are the once and future personification of averageness. If celebrities had a "C," you would score it.
An overrated mediocrity masquerading as crossover talent. A transparent record label invention posing as real human being. A pseudo-deep tool with inane lyrics, chord progressions that the pre-pubescent Hansen brothers had already advanced past, and the worst licks this side of the Color Me Badd free concert down at the Esplanade during the Summer Carnival.
Now take your attempts at ironic douchebaggery and hold them for The Surreal Life: Sucky Rockstar Edition in 2009. Because you'll need all your douchey wiles to go up against Mark McGrath, Lenny Kravitz and Yngwie Malmsteen in a cornucopia of overrated habdashery.
Wednesday Limerick
There once was a douche named Fredericke,
Who turned the other cheek,
But the putz was a klutz,
No ifs, ands or butts,
And boarded a plane to Mozambique.
Yup. Need more coffee...
HCwDB of the Month: Gabehcuod
Give it up to the gardener in a douched out hotel resort in a Steven King novel: Gabehcuod. His hair is a maze for Jack Nicholson to run through.
It was a very close race between the amateur scrotery of Gabehcuod and the pro-douche of The Brick.
But Gabe pulled out the win. eau de douche makes the case:
Gabehcuod, easily.
The arrowhead-douchiness of the hair pattern, the sickly spikes, the creepy tenseness in the grotesque muscles that only master douches can summon, the hideous splayed fingers, threating the womb of our gray hott, with rings on the thumb, middle finger and pinky. The strange, legs-together, bent-kneed body-push. the douchey, thin-lipped pout. The cut on his nose, most likely from a douchey sports-fight. Two more rings on his other hand, gripping sweet next-door hotty's shoulder, agressively pushing her into his douchey frame.
And... is that a bottle of Grey Goose at their table, in the lower, left-hand corner of the photograph? I believe it is. Gabehcuod, master douche.
Well said E de D. doucheywood ca agrees:
It has to be Gabehcuod. Not only does he have a design carved into the side of his head, a pencil thin chinstrap beard, a little rat tail growing off of his lower lip, blingity bling bling everywhere, and a mowhawk, he has all of that AND A F@#$ing BRUCE-WILLIS SIZED RECEDING HAIRLINE (did someone mention steroids already?).
The Hott, channeling Maid Marian, wants me to swoop in like Robin Hood and save her from the Scientology womb-freeze that is being blasted on her
Excellently put, D.C.A. However, The Brick came in a close second, with colostomy bag making the argument:
While Gabehcuod is a real specimen I have to go with the Brick - he is straight out the school of classic douchebaggery. Plus, I can't help but laugh every time I see that pic.
Very true, C.B. But what cost the yellow spandex cartoonish spectacle of the Brick from taking the crown, even with his perfect brunette plum on his arm, was clearly the "pro" status. baron von goolo explains:
The Brick's wearing a posing thong, freshly defoliated and marinated in fake tan. He is obviously fresh off the stage at a competition. Competitions pay the winners. Payment begets professional status. Pros are disqualified from douchebag voting. Ergo, the Brick, while exhibiting more than a couple of douchey traits, is ineligible.
The small town punchable charms of Wally Playah, and his sexy cornfed cutie, earned some small but vocal support. kowalski makes the argument for the W.P:
Wally. Yeah, he's small change, but he has a sense of arrogance that exceeds all the others; he doesn't get that he's a small timer, and a small timer who acts like he's the biggest thing in the world is the worst type of douchebag.
Very true, kowalski, and strong argument for the core essence of douchebaggery. But it was Gabehcuod who offered us the winning hott/scrote combo. In the end you know you have a Monthly Winner when three different 'bag hunters offer up three different lone reasons why the couple deserves the crown:
altar-ego: Gabehcuod. The hair, nuff said.
anonymous: Gabehcuod. too big of a bitch to pass up
jurassic douche: Gabechuod. He has a freaking maze in his hair!
Or, as butch cassidy and the douched out kids puts the final stamp on it:
Gabehcuod, the pinheaded scrote for the win.
For the win indeed.
Congrats on a well fought Monthly, and by congrats, I mean someone slap this freak with a dead otter and make love to Wendy's kneecaps using only motor oil and a feather.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
No More D.J. Smelly Smell
PZ writes in:
----
take off the 2nd one....u smell a dj
cuz ill have u owned. k thanks
pz
----
I've always wanted to be owned. Sometimes, when I'm feeling kinky, even pwned.
But what I've never wanted is to smell like D.J. ass.
Not a Marine
While this shaved model scrote may not be an actual Marine, he did storm the beaches at Ft. Lauderdale on President's Day.
And while the MILFS are hard to tell too much about, I'd wager there's a Mature Sex-in-a-Can or two in there.
The Smell of D.J.
PIC DELETED
sniff... snifff...
Do you smell that?
It's D.J.
Someone must've stepped in a pile. Everyone check their shoes.
sniff... snifff...
Do you smell that?
It's D.J.
Someone must've stepped in a pile. Everyone check their shoes.
Hookahs
I can't tell what I love most about this pic, the trampy hotts, the ginormous mellon on Fwippy McSour in the middle, or the photographer who gave equal weight to the hookah when taking the pic.
Way to frame up the action properly there, Stieglitz.
The Ficus Head
When did the fauxhawks turn into actual mohawk/gel-plant sproutings?
And does this mean Kid from Kid and Play was a visionary ahead of his time?
I would let Svetlana verbally abuse me in broken English while I scrubbed her kitchen floor wearing only a potato sack and a mustache cut to look like Oates from Hall & Oates.
Because Oates rules.
Vote or Kissy Lips
Today is Primary Day in a bunch of states, so if you're registered in either party, get yer ass to the polling booth and vote.
If you don't, I'll post more pics of this guy.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Millennium 'Bag
And the robot boy dreamed of one day being a human. But he was trapped in his crimson douched out artificial shell forever.
And, lo, he shed a metallic tear.
Which quickly shorted out the circuits carved into hair patterns on his douchey ass head.
Two Girls, Eight Red Cups
College.
Where today's youth grow strong of mind and spirit.
Where young minds go to read Plato, Aristotle and Socrates.
Where two drunk sorority girls and a standard issue fratdouche stand around with nothing to do but pose in their underwear.
Oh College. How I miss thee.
And yes, Orange Bra needs to eat a bowl of beef chow mein.
The Hott and the Head Plant
Gazing at the Hott and The Head Plant reminds me of one important question:
Did I water my ferns this week?
The Smirky Nub
And while you're considering your vote in the Monthly, he's another pic of that smirky nub from Saturday's "Where's Waldouche."
Nice Hitler Chin, douche-face.
HCwDB of the Month
We had two, count 'em two, Weekly winners called back due to Puss Penalties on behalf of the 'bags in the pics, leaving two runners-up to fill in for the Monthly. That being said, this is still a tough vote, as there's no clear favorite.
Once again I turn it over to you. Which of these four Weekly winners has just the right mix of noxious douchey bile and sexy boobie hott to call itself a Monthly Champion?
That, my fellow 'bag hunters, is up to you.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Gabehcuod
"Gabehcuod" was found on his typewriter, typed out in various patterns, before Wendy had to go running through the brush patterns in his hair.
Yup.
That's the story of how Gabehcuod got his name.
Redrum, indeed.
Wendy has that sexy late 20s girl-next-door thing going, if you live in Vienna, with a killer body that used to be the gardener of the estate, and has always been the gardener.
Note Gabecuod's use of the rare 'bag hand gesture, The Stomach Possession (#204).
He is marking her womb area as his territory.
Very, very douchey.
Add in three rins per hand, roided up muscles, and the douche-face, and it's par excellance of 'baggery. And side boob.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: The Brick
Brick.
Brick lies on ground.
Brick evolves basic motor functions.
Brick grows arms and legs.
Brick becomes ambulatory.
Brick discovers tanning booth and muscle contests.
Brick grows stubble.
Brick finds brunette hott with which to prove his manhood.
Brick wears yellow bikini underwear.
Brick wins HCwDB of the Week.
But is it enough to win the Monthly?
Only Brick knows.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Wally Playah
This is tough one for Wally Playah to win.
While he's strong enough for a Weekly, his small-town standard douchosity is likely not enough to overcome the others.
Or could he be the underdog that could? The New York Giants of douchebaggery?
Perhaps.
Alls I know is Small Town Cornfed has one of the great bodies of this, or any other, online gawking session.
I would suckle her lambchop legs like a hungry zombie in a George Romero film.
I would do things.
Many things. To her. That she would mildly enjoy, while nostalgically remembering an ex-boyfriend who was better.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Boobermensch
Boob.
And a boob.
The understated douche factor on tri-pube face was not given its due on the first go-around for this couple.
Granted he doesn't have any excessive hand gestures, hair or bling. Nor does he make the douche-face.
And the shirt really isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. Kinda stylish.
But her boob is carved from Granite by a the left hand of Michaelangelo and the right hand of God.
And so the Boobermensch is weighted to the hott scale. But do not underestimate those facial pubes.
They are rank.
So which one of the four is our Monthly winner?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Once again I turn it over to you. Which of these four Weekly winners has just the right mix of noxious douchey bile and sexy boobie hott to call itself a Monthly Champion?
That, my fellow 'bag hunters, is up to you.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Gabehcuod
"Gabehcuod" was found on his typewriter, typed out in various patterns, before Wendy had to go running through the brush patterns in his hair.
Yup.
That's the story of how Gabehcuod got his name.
Redrum, indeed.
Wendy has that sexy late 20s girl-next-door thing going, if you live in Vienna, with a killer body that used to be the gardener of the estate, and has always been the gardener.
Note Gabecuod's use of the rare 'bag hand gesture, The Stomach Possession (#204).
He is marking her womb area as his territory.
Very, very douchey.
Add in three rins per hand, roided up muscles, and the douche-face, and it's par excellance of 'baggery. And side boob.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: The Brick
Brick.
Brick lies on ground.
Brick evolves basic motor functions.
Brick grows arms and legs.
Brick becomes ambulatory.
Brick discovers tanning booth and muscle contests.
Brick grows stubble.
Brick finds brunette hott with which to prove his manhood.
Brick wears yellow bikini underwear.
Brick wins HCwDB of the Week.
But is it enough to win the Monthly?
Only Brick knows.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Wally Playah
This is tough one for Wally Playah to win.
While he's strong enough for a Weekly, his small-town standard douchosity is likely not enough to overcome the others.
Or could he be the underdog that could? The New York Giants of douchebaggery?
Perhaps.
Alls I know is Small Town Cornfed has one of the great bodies of this, or any other, online gawking session.
I would suckle her lambchop legs like a hungry zombie in a George Romero film.
I would do things.
Many things. To her. That she would mildly enjoy, while nostalgically remembering an ex-boyfriend who was better.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Boobermensch
Boob.
And a boob.
The understated douche factor on tri-pube face was not given its due on the first go-around for this couple.
Granted he doesn't have any excessive hand gestures, hair or bling. Nor does he make the douche-face.
And the shirt really isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. Kinda stylish.
But her boob is carved from Granite by a the left hand of Michaelangelo and the right hand of God.
And so the Boobermensch is weighted to the hott scale. But do not underestimate those facial pubes.
They are rank.
So which one of the four is our Monthly winner?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Where's Waldouche: Rambling Edition
I know it's quieter around here on weekends and I should probably be kicking back with my bottle of Thunderbird, my tasty HoHo snackcakes, and relaxing rather than mocking the choad.
But I just can't resist.
Only minimally hung over from last night's festivities, I sit back and wax philosophic on this Saturday.
I ponder the simulation and the authentic. The original and the copy.
The spectacle in the age of multitasking multimedia revolution. The eroticized name-brand plumage of store bought purchased identity. Identity as marker of commodity fetish reinvented as eroticized object of desire. Spectacle as commodity. Douchuousness as reinscribing one's self worth within the media age.
The masses of swirling overstimulated over-caffeinated uber-cacaphony, transmuting down the waterslide of digital media in a shower of pixelated ones and zeros. The form over function in an age of spectacle without nourishment. The artform of schizophrenia, the blurring of aesthetics, the noise of multimedia bombardment on the senses. The attempt to rise above the age of market supplied media chaos by embodying the spectacle. By becoming the cartoon. By personifying the deification of the consumer product as object of worship.
The ritualistic embodiment of the simulacrum as merit based fame determinant. The need to mimetically refract the shared signifiers of meaning and value to achieve self-worth.
A confused, disjointed, overly stimulated masses of consumers. A crisis of morality, a breakdown of spirituality in the age of "do you want the Lamborghini? You'll get the Lamborghini!" Gatorized aesthetics.
The unsatisfying club going chase. The endless pursuit of glitter without depth. Popped collars meant to amplify the face into store bought product. To rise above the everyday and become human commercials, walking billboards of product-as-identification reinforcing the paradigm of conquest. The douche as frontiersman, as conquering cowboy, of empowered Manifest Destiny achiever within the consumer culture media age.
And so I sit back on a Saturday, and ponder the hott and the douche, locked in permanent gender transmogrification, and I muse into my alcoholic afternoon with the boozy detachment of boobie bouncing ramifications.
I do what I can.
I offer you a "Where's Waldouche?"
Because within this dialectic of boob and choad, of metrosexual forehead greased douche-face and the object of his acquisition, the boundaries of society begin to break down, crack and reveal themselves.
And we have Red Bull inspired Revelation: redbullation.
And boobies.
Saturday Thumbs
Listen up, Albanian Alfred E. Newman. Your double serving of Asian Hotts see through your horrific cheap cologne and ambiguously eastern european accent.
So step back before I chop socky your ass with the humorous gait of Hong Kong action star Sammo Hung.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Deathtongue II
Reader Mail
Horrid Crap writes in with the following picture and incomprehensible but somewhat genius email:----
Ok Ok I admit:
first is that I have a thing for asians, given where i live its a good thing too. Second off if that I used to produce club events, now I think that this probably puts me close to douche in most peoples books because of the way that most people in that particular profession come off to the world, very truthfully, as total and utter bagnoids.
My saving grace is that I am in the entertainment industry and mainly used it as a way to skip lines, anal bouncers and bar tabs, as well as have hoots at all the bags and nuzzle boobs with hotts, can't be blamed really....
But what is now left in the rank and undernourished flappy scrote that makes up the Honolulu club scene is two-bit bag promoters, who put stansions outside of restaurants , throw in a marginal DJ and a couple of hotts for go-gos and try n charge you $20 Dollars to get in.
If that's not bad enough , these viral idiots don't even have the decency to understand that they are complete hosers and thus start assuming some big boy roll, lucky for you and fellow hunters like you, you can be secure in the fact that when i see them , just is thrown down in the town and they are thus I reminded of the shallow existence in which they wallow, scumscukin toe jam by birth bagglings that they are.
----
Well said, H.C. At least I think.
And isn't the "Rank and Undernourished Flappy Scrote" replacing the "Rutti Tutti Fresh and Frutty" breakfast at IHOP?
Boobies and the Gogglebag
Oh boobies. I love you so. There's two of you. Sometimes you look identical. Sometimes slightly different. If I grow tired with one boobie, another boobie is right there to say hello.
Oh Gogglebag. Your sunglasses suck. Your hand gesture is annoying and your hair is poofy. Your sleeves are big. You need Ving Rhames to get medieval on your ass.
Oh boobies, take me away from Gogglebag. For he smells like poo.
Basic Training Choad
I have another pic of Deathtongue and his feline perfection, but I can't do that to you back-to-back. I just can't.So instead, here's a standard issue Basic Training Choad (with requisite Yankee Cap, bling, tatt and shine-face), and a nice serving of freshly prepared stripper hotts.
All mixed up and served in a redrum.
Deathtongue
This one just hurts. Like a baseball to the groin while Bob Saget comments, "Whoa, swing batter! That's gotta hurt!"
Yes, Bob Saget. Yes it does hurt.
Like a horse kick to the jaw. Like a Ramboian electric bedspring torture device in the jungles of Vietnam.
She is perky cat-eyed hott.
And he is Deathtongue, All that is Douche.
Run with the Devil!
Shout Satans might!
Deathtöngue!
Deathtöngue!
The Beast rises tonight!
Friday Haiku
Pirate Janitor,
Basement electronic grooves,
Someone throw breaker.
Love in the basement:
An Aerosmith B-side song?
Or douchebag anthem?
-- mr. white
Spears rehab pic
No wonder she got so sick
Greico infected now
-- jonezy
salsa in basement
living la vida loca
chollo unafraid
-- creature
Willing chunky bleeth
'bag desperate for hard-on
Still prefers young boys
-- the grateful douche
Almighty button
you fight and strain to restrain
douchebag's potbelly
-- douche mcallister
Electricity
Pirate wench loves the button
Keep it closed baby
-- all your douche are belong to us
couldn't get into club.
so what? dance in the alley.
take out the garbage.
-- pfah
no bulge in his pants
for the bleeth humping his leg
douche favors wide stance
-- newmans own balsamic douche
