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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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?

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Ah, how sweet.

The Make-A-Wish foundation includes up close breast exams on their list of wishes for hair tumor victims.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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...

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.

And here we were thinking it was rats that spread the 14th Century plague.

When all that time, it was this guy.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, Australia.

First, Olivia Newton-John.

Now this.

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.

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.

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.

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.

PIC DELETED

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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

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.

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.