That reminds me... did I leave the regressive chromosome scrambler oven on this morning?

"Shockers for all!", said the turd,
then signaled to the herd,
The drunk girl complied,
Like a beach at high tide,
And anonymous arms then concurred.

If the site's acting buggy today, I blame this tool.

I'm lookin' into the usual Blogger software freezes, but drop me a line if the site's particularly sluggish at your end.

And note that Ubiquitous Red Cup showed up to stamp Funnybag a Scrotey Tool. Not that there was any doubt in the first place. But Ubiquitous Red Cup never lies. It's the Oracle of Douchosity.

When Pittsburgh Steelers kicker Jeff Reed first appeared on the site last year, shirtless and douching it up near the ladies in a bar, many chalked it up to a one-off.

Unfortunately, Jeff Reed is sill mandanaing it up in the presence of the hott, as this pic will attest.

Now granted he's only a stage-1 douche, here. No real hand gestures. No douche-face. But she is lovely. And he makes a lot of money for having leg muscles.

So lets stamp choad on that belly, and hope he hooks it wide right.

One of the worst types of 'bags is the funny/serious tool. The fratclown who thinks adding a touch of "the wacky" will help convince hotts that he's not some humorlesss trust fund crypto-fascist metaphor for nuclear war.

Oh, Kendra.

Your parents had such high hopes when you went off to college for the first time.

Little did they know you'd be hanging in some creepy-ass basement with Trent Witherspoon, "funny" guy with the sexy stubble from Krappa Sacka Turda.

Don't ride that Harley, Kendra. It leads only to disaster.

Give it up to Pippy and Sultry Ski Bunny Perfection (SSBP), who combine all that is unholy hottie/douchey wrongness to take this Week's crown and book a spot in the Monthly.

no country for douchebags explains the power of the Pipster:

This week, after careful consideration, I have to cast my vote for Pippy. Make no mistake; JP and Miami are thoroughly depressing. Both are blight on society at large for sure and I certainly cannot find fault for anyone who voted for them.

But in the end, neither JP nor Miami could convince me. When you are forced to look at ‘bag authenticity, no one holds a candle to Pip.

And that's what it comes down to. Douchery as defined not simply by garish bling and the waft of Jersey seawater and Tag Bodyshots. But by the "douche aura." As guyladouche puts it:

I want to initially dismiss Pippy as just too plain. But he's obviously in a club...with a white deep V cut white shirt. With dogtags. (being in the military myself, that alone just screams imbecile) The Right Said Fred "I'm too Sexy" look with the half-assed hand gesture. Is he trying to be mysterious? Suave? Tough?

Well, he FAIL with flying colors.

Well put G la D. hue grand agrees:

My vote goes to Pippy. Johnny and Miami may be 'bags, but they're clearly weekend bags. For all we know, they lead normal lives, hold steady jobs, and go all out when the time comes. Pippy's subtleness, however, tells me that he is a 24/7 douchebag.

Hue is keying in on an important point -- the "pro" versus the "core" of douche. Some dress up on weekends, Paid to Douche (PTD) with Paid to Pose Hotts (PTP). These can still infuriate and rankle. But then there are the Pippys.

As douchetacular explains:

Some are distracted by his lack of douche acoutrement. Don't be. He trascends the glitzy material baubles that others must resort to to acheive his level of vile, sneering choad. Like a shaman of scrote he has left behind the empty devices of the material world to become one with the oozing tide of douchiness welling out of every pore. He is pure douchebag in every pore. You don't need hair gel to see it.

Well said, DT. However, the garishness of Miami Scammy won over many, including Julia:

I think Miami Scammy deserves the win. He clearly spent the greater part of his afternoon planning this look. Doesn't that count for anything? His bagness is tight.

Indeed it is, Julia. Johnny Pirate, despite questioning our future as a species, came in a third, but with fervent support. mr. choad's wild ride explains:

Mascara, no shirt, hint of undies from beneath ripped abs - awesome (if these were describing either of the Hotts with Pirate.) As it is, he needs to get hit in the face with a huge rotting sockeye salmon. Because I don't really like salmon, and I hate him.

Pirate FTW

But et tu douche? sums up the Pipster and Ski Bunny's win:

Pippy.

Ski Bunny's adorability is enough to generate neologisms, and the power of Pippy is magnified by the impeccable sameness of image after deleted image. The face, the gesture, the head tilt, the hairless chest exposing v-neck, the dog tags, the hott. His pics in toto aspire to an entropy-defying Unity.

Chalk up a win for the Pip, and we'll see him face off against Turd Flush in the next Monthly.

Lest there remains any doubt as to The Razor's scrotal wrongness, nor the snowcap melting hottness of his lady friend, this pic should satisfy both counts admirably.

Her thighs are like desert wind blowing through the cackle reeds upon a dew drop morning.

Bra is about to say:

1. Bra!! Another Pepsi, Broheim!!
2. Bra!! You see this chick I'm bangin' with, yo?
3. Bra!! Dig my star tat, bra!!
4. Bra!! Did Nietzsche really posit a Godless universe, or simply a universe of moral absolution?

"Holly" writes in:

---
Hey DB1-
Love your site!


Oh Holly, I will save you from this mugging using my special movie powers of plot point intervention. Just let me get in my time machine and go back to twenty minutes before the picture was taken. I'll wait outside the door, then grease tackle Muscles McCool here, allowing you and your delicious cupcake friend to exit undisturbed.

Then, presumably, you'll go home and massage each other's thighs with Crisco, while I awkwardly watch from outside the kitchen window until your neighbor, Mrs. Crabtree, calls the police on me. At which point, I'd yell out "Whooooaaa!" and fall into the nearby garbage can.

Wait, is this my fantasy, or did I just land in a mid-1980s teen sex comedy?

Excellent 'bag tag, Holly. Now get to a small cabin near a lake with your three hott best friends, and engage in a giggling pillow fight.

Luckily, Cheryl managed to find Robodouche's "off" button before any real damage was done.

The Iowa City High School prom quickly spun out of control once someone smuggled in a Sharpie.
(douche diggler)

Pablo suffered a type II neck sprain while trying to avert his eyes from the hottie/douchie train wreck in front of him.
(douchey mcscroterson)

Backstage at the Menudo Reunion Tour.
(pfah)

Although Cindy was told she'd be working with a bow tied Staff for the Mexican buzz cut festival, the look on her face clearly shows her disappointment when she realized what the promoter meant.
(anonymous)

Bif, tired of accusations of illiteracy, inked his favorite Shakespearean character's name around his torso, "Sir John Falstaff."
(mr. white)

spencer writes in:

----
Not the greatest capture (Lacks full-frontal hott), but this food court was crowded and I was trying not to look like a total creeper.

This guy just oozed douche. It's hard to tell, but he was rockin' the full orange glow, and the spikes + douche windshields were too much to resist.

Love the site.
----

While the pic does lack verification on the hott, there's a certain benign genius to this cohabitation of uberdouche and suburban mall.

To paraphrase Hannah Arendt, it has the banality of weevil.

Razor, your tri-vag facial pubes and silly hand gesture have the Lamar Latrell Popozaoed illogic of Alpha-Beta ennui.

Hmm. Something tells me that last sentence has been written before in literature. Perhaps it was Proust.

As to Pixie Hott, I haven't seen thighs that firm yet gelatinous since the paddling scene in Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama.

And, no, that movie wasn't even retro ironic good. But it did have paddling. So on its deathbed, it will achieve total consciousness.

Give it up to the douchebag Corky. Not even fetal alcohol syndrome has held back his maturing double boob grabbing skillsets.

It's a heartwarming tale of douchal triumph over limited means. Like Rain Man or Mask. Only with greasy tatts instead of genetic abnormality.

Let this be a lesson worthy of the Hallmark Channel by way of VH1's Mystery. Anyone can achieve uberdouchosity with enough effort.

Monday's selection of Hot Chicks with Douchebags is brought to you by Windex.

When your bathroom mirror fogs up from a mixture of Tag Bodyshots, sweat, spittle, hair gel, douched up wannabe rocker puds and unredeemable Bleethed out hotts, be sure to use Windex.

It's also good for spraying in your eyes to remove the pain of cultural decay.

Windex.

For that de-douchificated shine.

Coming off a strong Weekly last week, we have another choice selection of hott/choad offered up like the Sunday buffet at HoJos. Last week, the vile Turd Flush rode the power of dual slutt-hott energy to a grown up fecal triumph. Over Dog, no less.

This week? Who knows which of these three couplings will rise to victory and book a spot in the HCwDB Monthly. That's up to you.

Here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Johnny Pirate

Originally titled "Why There is No Hope for Mankind," this Malthusian vision of a world where our food supplies have run out and godlessness reigns in the form of uberdouche paints a dark future for all of us.

But I needed to identify this Red Bull swilling choad, and so I knight thee "Johnny Pirate."

And let us not forget innocent Neve Campbell sweetness. And no, I will not make the standard "Party of Five" masturbation joke. Because this is not 1999. This is not my beautiful car.

Ambiguously Asian Pixie displays her wonderful underarm shaving technique. That thing is smoother than a rabbit's ass after being microwaved.

What, like you've never microwaved a live rabbit before.

Come on. 10th grade? What, you blocked it?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Miami Scammy

There's such an incoherent miasmal stench to this pic, that I had to give it its shot in the Weekly.

Yes, "miasmal" is a word. Google it.

That smug, DeVry Technical Institute douchal expression. The double freaking belt, fer chrissakes.

As to the girl, I dispute with anyone that, underneath all that garishness, she isn't a cutie. With arching back and sweet face, hers is a sexy young plaything buried in a mountain of brandname douchery.

And if we're not here to find the essence of genetic hottness buried under a mountain of scrotal layering, then I don't know what.

Because we are a shallow and petty people.

And the boobie does not lie. It just misleads, like a shifty numbers runner from the Bronx named Benny Blanco.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Pippy


Even though I got a takedown email from the brunette in that last Pippy pic, I refuse to admit defeat for this choad. While it is true that the 'bag hunters in the comments thread felt Pippy may not feature enough adouchrements to qualify for finalist status, I'd argue otherwise.

I give you the douche-face.

And yes, my undying humpty hump for Sultry Ski Bunny of Perfection (SSBP) is a factor here. Large forehead? Perhaps. Uncanny resemblance to a young Drew Barrymore? Mayhap.

But I would still juggle koala bears in Rhodesia just for the chance to meet the Shaman who once removed the evil spirits of a Tiki hut occupied by her great aunt.

And I refuse to back down on Pippy. He is choad.

But choad enough to win HCwDB of the Week?

That, my friends, is not up to me. It is up to you. Honorable mention to Cowpoke, who just misssed the cut.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

There's gonna be a party in Vegas.

Oh yes. There will be party: Saturday, July 19th.

Why, you ask? To celebrate the release of my book, coincidentally titled Hot Chicks with Douchebags and scheduled to officially be released on July 8th from Simon & Schuster.

If you've enjoyed the site as either an occasional or longtime 'bag hunter, now's your time to pony on up and buy a book. And if you're the truly intrepid HCwDB fan, fly your ass to Vegas and celebrate with The DB1 in person. Buy me a cheap drink and I'll sign your book.

Yeah, you. Join me. To celebrate, we will party.

There will be hotts. There will be douches to mock. There will be a one legged firespitter named Ned. Yes, your humble narrator in all things boobie/scrotey will be there, drunk off my ass and drooling on the cocktail waitress's boobs while I pretend to care as she tells me about how much she hates her daddy.

Details of the day of celebration, libation and scatological procreation are still being worked out, but if you're interested in joining me to celebrate, drop me an email to get more information.

And if you live in Vegas and know how to promote a party (and I know you guys are readers), drop me a line ASAP and help me figure out how to make this circus happen. Only two rules: No annoying pedestaled DJs. And no Goose Running.

An appendectomy is surgery to remove the appendix. See also: Appendicitis

The appendix is a small, finger-shaped sac extending from the first part of the large intestine. It is removed when it becomes inflamed or infected. An infected appendix can leak and infect the entire abdominal area, which can be deadly. See: Peritonitis.

An appendectomy is done under general anesthesia, which means you are asleep and do not feel any pain during the surgery. The surgeon makes a small cut in the lower right side of your belly area and removes the appendix.

If the appendix ruptured or a pocket of infection (abscess) formed, your abdomen will be thoroughly washed out during surgery. A small tube may be left in the belly area to help drain out fluids, pus or general douchebaggery.

When you're more concerned with getting a picture of yourself attempting to bite into a pretty girl you've backed into a shrubbery than in the girl herself, you are a cactus douche.

You can see Koala's thought process: Wait'll I get this on Facebook! Da boyz'll know who's king!

Run away, Sherilyn Fenn cute. He's not just one of the guys.

Who has a finger pointing at the camera and is a huge pile of excredouche?

This guy!!

Heh. I always wanted to do that joke.

It's Saturday morning. My bowl of Lucky Charms isn't doing much to help the Night Train that decided to slap me upside the head at 2am. But not like I'd slap Baby Brunette's butt check bottoms on the left. The one with the power thighs that could crush walnuts flung at 80mph off a racetrack in Daytona.

Come to me, my thunder thighed petunia. And bring your three friends.

I was heading into my local Trader Joes to stock up on Peanut Butter Joe-Joe's cookies when he stopped me. A young boy, maybe five or six years old. He was playing with a tennis ball and waiting for his mom by the entrance.

"Whither the douchebag?" he asked me, his eyes confused.

Unsure if he meant "wither" or "whither" in the old English sense of "to what purpose," I asked him to repeat what he'd just said.

"Whither the douchebag?" he asked again.

I realized he meant to inquire as to douchebaggery's origins. It was a surprising question from a kid so young. Perhaps he'd glimpsed the tatted up uberdouche visage of Xenu somewhere. Somehow the land of Armani-Exchanged tools had invaded and overwhelmed his young senses.

A question so complex deserved a proper answer.

"Kid," I replied. "The collar pops not from without, but from within. As you grow older, you must fight it. Do not fear the douche. Confront it. Overwhelm it. And enlightenment will be yours."

He nodded.

"Thanks." he said quietly.

I wasn't sure if he fully understood. But as I went inside I'd hoped I'd set his young mind on the right path of de-douchification and enlightenment. The path of self inscription.

I felt I'd made a difference. At least a little bit.

Later, at the checkout line, I hit on his mom.

PIC DELETED

I know you're already sick of Pippy, but it's Friday, and I'm running out of quality pics submitted this week.

Besides, there's a certain genius consistency in 'bag reflex. It's like a form of douche Tourette's Syndrome.

Ordering a pizza? Sideways hand gesture. Flagging down a taxi? Sideways hand gesture. Begging your parole officer not to report the Tijuana weekend? Sideways hand gesture.

And Perfect Ski Bunny Hott remains the fruits of my loins. I'll even let her bring her brunette friend along. Because I'm generous like that.

Why do I get the feeling that Gabe from the accounts services department at J. Walter Thompson likes to spend his weekends dressing up as a pimp and telling the mature hotts that his name is "Javier," and he's from Colombia on "business"?

Give it up, Gabe. She ain't buying.

Oh, and a memo from Tim in accounting: It's your turn to bring the donuts to the office meeting on Monday.

I don't know if Erik Estradouche is really that bad, probably not, I just want to know why the hell my college birthday parties never looked like this.

I see you, little white lingerie princess, yes I do... Have you been naughty? Would you like to me to talcum your bottom, then spend two hours in the garage washing your car while you run up charges on my credit card?

Dammit. I knew it.

Jaundiced alien
Facehugger laid eggs in hott,
Take off, nuke from sky.

it's Tori Spelling
clubbing with Steven Tyler.
Apocalypse now.

-- pfah

Grandpa loved red skulls
Botox bag clueless while
Molesting my sister

-- something horrible

Bleethed out buxom blonde
Stoned roadie for Buckcherry
Bag hand gestures match

-- the davinci choad

The boobs are massive
Skeletor is the devil
The world is ending

-- danny noonan

hey michael jackson
good to see you like girls now
so what made you change?

-- johnny scrotten

Ah yes, the lesser known Ben and Jerry's ice-cream flavor, Miamy Scammy. It's made with vanilla ice cream, Italian flavoring, Axe Body spray and chunks of mud from Miami Beach.

Can't understand why it never caught on.

We haven't had a good Hoverbag on the site in awhile. Generally speaking, we define Hoverbags as any scrotal pud that mucks up an otherwise perfectly good lesbian kiss pic.

They're rendered douche status simply for showing up. Thus, an otherwise harmless dude like Little Joey here becomes Hoverbag simply for attempting the "double shocker" while smoking a stogie behind your classic sophomore year college coeds in their "experimental phase."

And let us all celebrate the college coed "experimental phase" period. It lasts about a year before they each hunt down a stockbroker husband and move to Staten Island.

PIC DELETED

I haven't seen such a blank expression since Not Sure switched America from Brawndo to water.

Speaking of Brawndo, The Thirst Mutilator (it's got electrolytes!) I think it's time to officially welcome Mike Judge's Idiocracy into the pop-culture referencing fold. I wasn't sure it was going to make it, and while not likely to reach the saturation of Office Space, Idiocracy has enough genius in it to more than deserve to enter the discourse.

Welcome to CostCo. I love you.

It's lunch time. Tony and Clara are hungry, but they're not sure what to do. They need your help.

Should Tony and Clara:

A. Order from Taco Bell
B. Order from White Castle
C. Order from Subway
D. Confront their societal constructions of self, explore their authenticity and attempt genuine communication through philosophical inquiry and deep introspection.

Vote now!

Firm Boobied Leelee Sobieski Brunette writes in:

----
Dear Douche bag exposers,
Hi! I found myself on your site listed as "sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette" under Friday, April 18, 2008. I thought it was hilarious and I laughed really hard even though not all the comments are too flattering for me, I have a good sense of humor.

Anyhow, although there are probably many pics of me with "douche bags" on my myspace profile because I have a diverse group of friends and am nice to everyone, the "douche bag" got tagged with should receive his own month for all the hot chicks he tries to take advantage of and the ridiculous wardrobe he consistently sports, not to mention what he does for a living.

Anyhow, I just thought I would share with you his myspace profile for some excellent material for your site. Feel free to grab some, I think your site is hilarious!

Have a fab day, and happy douche bag hunting. :)
Ciao,
Becca
------

Ah, cute girls with 'bag hunting skills and a sense of humor. Becca may be a candidate for the DB1's third future ex-wife, somewhere around my early 40s after a stint in Reno sent me to the clink for six months.

Cowbag probably isn't true douche, although the shaved chest and rippling face that looks like Lake Winnipesaukee after six jetski Hells Angels rode through its waters definitely are punchable.

But hey, if Stripper Hott's body were any tighter it'd fuse oxygen into ozone. And by oxygen, I mean me. And by ozone, I mean me after coitus.

So yeah, Cowbag's not really classic douche. But I'm going with it.

Mainly because exposure to the new Carmine Gotti Song is so nauseating, its core radiating Jersey douchosity so foul, I need a little counterpoint.

Cowbag and his stripper hott are definitely that counterpoint.

EDIT: Apparently they're a famous celebridouche couple in Britain. Which is kind of like being the best juggler in Armlessland. I don't know what that means, but it sounds good.

Pippy just wants peace for the earth,

So why must we mock his douche worth?

The hottie will say,

Pip, Pip, Pooray!

It's one thing to Run with the Goose. It's another to show off your Batman Underoos in the process.

I feel your pain, scrunchy minxy Minnesotan-like blonde chimpmunk cutie.

Snag Underdouche's Goose, and we'll make cocktails by the fire as I rub your forearms with Vick's vapo-rub and you tell me about how daddy didn't love you enough.

Pip's a classic example of when a ball of metro taint has his douche factor exponentially ratcheted up simply by being in the presence of Sultry Ski Bunny Perfection.

SSBP is all that melts snow in Oslo.

I would nervously ask her if she knew the time. After waiting awkwardly for three seconds while she ignored me, I would grab her straw and run away with it.

One of the most balanced, and toughest, Weeklys we've had in awhile, created a brilliant and hilarious comments thread. Kudos to all the 'bag hunters who raised their voices of outrage and mock to parse the hott/douche dialectic with rapier wit and raging id.

But in the end the power of Turd Flush's vacant stare and blonde's incredible side boob were too much to overcome. carl lazlo makes the case:

Turd Flush. I think it should be noted that I fear the ramifications of this breed of bag. He seems to be a Zombie-Bag or 28 bags later douche. That skin color can only be produced with douche sweat, eye-liner and prolonged excusrions into the tanning bed.

He is indeed the Zombie Turd. In upsetting the power of uberdouche that is The Dog, Turd Flush came up with a mighty win. mitch meats explains:

If Dog were with any other woman in the known universe, he would be a shoe-in. But, alas, it must be Turd Flush. His vacant gaze sees the nipple on my soul.

And colostomy bag explains how the toxic swirl of hott and turd commingled to win:

The Turd Flush, on the other hand, actually has some hotts, albeit slutty ones. He inspires the more conventional feelings of rage and disgust, but on much higher levels than any other of the more recent entries. In fact, if anyone ever truly deserved the status of "colostomy bag", it would be Turd Flush.

Yes it would, CB.

Like Hagler-Leonard, this is a controversial win that will be discussed for many a month. The Dog is so beyond regular douche, a couple of intrepid readers discovered that if you google "cocaine" and click on images, you'll find the Dog snorting away.

That's gotta be one of the signs of the douchepocalypse right there. But in addition to Dog's support, the Prince of Pud nearly pulled this thing out in a huge upset. g0dluvsugly explains:

without a doubt. prince of pud. he has the intent and he has the hott. the chin strap. the chest flex. the shocker. the fauxhawk. the disparate 'bag-to-hot ratio. this pic lacks nothing.

But fret not, in the 2008 Douchies, methinks Dog, and possibly even the Prince, may merit Douchies for their unique contributions to ending our cultural worth while polluting girls along the way.

Alas, only one could emerge. And it was the Flushed Poo of Turd.

As all choads lead to rome puts it:

Turd Flush - because people with no talent in life have to try twice as hard to prove they are worthwhile. At the club, they may seem to be attractive, successful sex mongers, but all I see is a BA in English, 2 months of community college, and a beauty school drop out.

Well described, ACLTR. Give it up to the Turd Flush, and we'll see him in the Monthly.

From Enlightenment, to the Age of Reason, through Modernity and Postmodernity, ours is a world of many cultures and philosophies each exploring the universal questions.

What is life? What is love? Do shirtless mandana fools at clubs deserve to have their Red Bulls peed in?

I believe it was Descartes who first asked, Why does the douche-face annoy?

I still don't have an answer for you, Descartes. So pass the Foie Gras and we'll journey onward until dawn.

Creepy eyebrows and the ridiculous facial hair are somewhat goofy, but otherwise there's not enough to stamp "choad" on this guy's forehead.

Maybe the necklace?

I dunno. I'm inclined to give a nottadouche pass, but figured I'd open it up to the floor.

Kimmy is all sorts of girl-next-door adorable sweetness, with a hidden body of sinny sinn sinn. Oh yes. I'd drink melted chocolate peep malteds of her distilled essence. I'd leap over tiger lilies dressed as a Northumbrian clown just for the chance to mildly annoy her great aunt by poking her with a Qtip.

Willy: Yeeeeeee. Ya know what's rad?

Blonde: What's that?

Willy: Showing my swimming trunks, bra.

Blonde: I'm not a bra. I'm a girl.

Willy: Whatever, woman. Just check my undies. They's fab.

Blonde: You smell like Axe Bodyspray and moldy wonder bread.

Biff: Yeeeee. That's what Willy's talkin' bout.

Blonde: I, uh, gotta go now.

Willy: I'm Willy!! Willy, yo, man!!

And.... scene.

Tell me I didn't just make a Willy Loman joke. I feel dirty.

What's with the black fingernails on the Nordic vampiric Dave Grohl on the right? Surfers should never go goth. Get thee to a hackey-sack field, stat, boyo.

As to Two Tone Jenny, as horrifying as the black fingernail douche innovation is, the two-tone hair thing has that perfect balance between slutty and sexy to power a thousand Priuses.

I was almost inclined to give her screaming snapping alien mouth boyfriend a "temporary douchesanity" pass, but then I noticed the wristband, finger bling and, yup, black fingernail. No Pass For You.

TINY PACKAGE DELETED

Kimmy and Kelly knew that Todd's man-crush on The Gator went far, but not that far.

All dressed up and nowhere to go but some creepy-ass dorm room with a giant blue sheet over the window.

Ladies, short skirts over long legs will always earn my undying respect for who you are on the inside.

I just want to know the real you. What's in here.

And if, in the meantime, I get to gnaw on your thigh like a hungry Burmese toddler digging for clams in the mudbanks, then so be it.

Yeee harrr!!!

Nothing beats the Cowpoke + Dog Tags look. Because when not taking out the cattle for a run over the plains of Utah, Cowboy Joe likes to serve in the Marines.

Yet he's roped a fine filly there. Get 'er dun!

Keywords: "douchey bling," "stupid-ass trucker hat," "sexy blonde Patsy Kensit" and "zebra couch sucks."

After every Monthly vote, the Weekly has to account for two weeks of pics instead of one. Mainly because I'm too lazy to run a Weekly and a Monthly in the same week. That usually means an extra special serving of hott/scrote for your perusal and judgment, and this week's finalists don't disappoint. Each offer their own pungent smell of wrong.

So, without further apoo, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Prince of Pud

This is a classic anger-inducing combo. Sure, the Prince of Pud isn't as cartoonishly spectacle as some of the more extreme 'bags. But he's got all the factors of wrong in one greased up package of what I term "reality douche." He's real. And that's what hurts.

And then there's blonde Susan Winterbottom, descendant of the Mayflower, daughter of the revolution, getting back at her waspy parents and aristocratic life by partying with Tony Florencio here.

The brunette kissing Pud looks to be delectable. And there's a red cup and Prince Caspian in the background. All taking place in what appears to be a neo-Nazi bunker. Yikes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dog

Dog is one of those unbalanced hottie/douchey pics where the douchery is so intense but the hott isn't up to snuff, so that the question becomes if it's enough to carry the pic through to victory based on imbalance.

As we know, a truly superior HCwDB pic has a zen totality to it. A wrongness and a rightness that cancel each other out and offer the contradiction of life that brings us truth.

But can the imbalance that is Dog carry a Weekly?

All I know is that Dog is a scholar and a man of peace.

He is polite and of classy breed.

He really shouldn't hunt me down and beat me like a goiter infested 13th century mule in Scotland.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Turd Flush

Turd Flush also ranks high on the rage factor.

Rare is the douche who actually features his sunglasses on top of his mandana.

Toss in the beads and the two bar slut hotts, and the fact it's all taking place on the deck of the Titanic means a sinking ship of wrong.

Alls I know is I need to scrub my eyes out with bleach.

So them's your three. Three pics enter. Only one can reign douchepreme. Which one? That, my friends, is up to you.

Cast your vote, as ever, in the comments thread.

Quentin Tarantino is a douche.

I can't deny it any longer.

I looked the other way for years. I made excuses when he launched his Broadway "acting" career. I chalked up his self-reflexive babbling and guest directing gigs on E.R. to the indulgence of creative eccentricity.

But then he showed up as a guest judge on American Idol.

Verdict: Douche.

When you choose to be that close to The Seacrest, your essence is transformed into mass culture backwash.

Yes, Dogs was a seminal movement. A rupture event of self referencing filmic pastiche, Hong Kong coolness writ large. But that was long ago. Today, douchedom surrounds the Q.T. like a glowing ball of rectal itch.

So we need to face facts. Q.T., ass kicking filmic revolutionary of the 1990s, is now tool. Lets not get a taco.

It's like trying to convince yourself that that girl you had a crush on in high school didn't gain sixty pounds, pop out some kids, and is sitting in a trailer somewhere, reading In-Style while watching TMZ and living off disability checks. Sometimes all you're clinging to is the faded memory of former glory. The perfect ripe cleavage of long ago. Boobies that exist only in recollection. In nostalgic hues long past.

But the past is the past. It has to be said. Quentin Tarantino is an inglorious douchetard.

And Fergie, I know the masses mock you as not that hott, but to me, you're still a juicy little boob eyed pea.

I can't even begin to comprehend this one.

T.A.'s morphed into Jed from the Beverly Hillbillies, his mandana has somehow migrated down to his thigh, and Brunette J-Lo Hott on the right is saying "peekaboo!" with the most fantastic bumper this side of pre-bloat Kardashian.

So Tighty A, put down them barbells and get to work on those spindly-ass legs. I'll take J-Kard out for unlimited Miller Lites at Flanagan's, just across from the Freshman dorm.

Not much overt douchery on Pimp Daddy, but he is still the Pimp Daddy.

No seriously.

I think he's one of their dads.

This is way too greasy a lineup for a Saturday morning.

I can't tell whether this is a group of Jerseyboys trying to look "arty" for their night out in lower Manhattan, or if a giant blender attacked the sale rack down at The Limited.

Poor, sweet Nicole in the middle. Catholic Girls start much too late.

And I see you too, sweet little overbite Winona Ryder Veronica hott. Come to papa.

It's almost Friday evening, and you know what that means.

Somewhere, in a moldy smelling suburban Long Island basement, Tighty Armani's ready to throw some doucheballs at "the ladiezzz".

He might even snap their necks through the sheer scrotal pull of his hat tilt.

What are you gonna do about it? Just sit there?

Well, yeah. Probably.

But there's lots else you can do. Get out there. If you're a guy, offer to buy blondie a neck-brace and a beer. If you're a girl, trip up T.A. by sticking out your foot when he heads to the bathroom to make sure his hairspike is still perky.

And so I ruminate on cute girls with neck problems. I contemplate another smoggy afternoon in smoggy-ass Los Angeles. I sip my cheap bum wine and I ponder our collective presentational displays of name-brand merit. Armani's social construction embedded within our notions of "self." Cultural capital in our market-based competitive mating pools of urban wanderlust.

And I realize the douchescrotes still haven't learned. Collars still pop. And hotts are still confused.

But then there's the flip. The reassurance whispered in my ear, tinged by alcohol and sugar rush. This too shall pass.

Or, at least, the power of cheap wine and boobie staring to soothe another week's sand grains slipping past.

I like sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette. She's got the arching back posture of a 19th Century aristocratic British housewife by way of trampy Jazz Age 1920s bootlegger parties.

And then there's Ken. Currently performing nightly as "Dancer #2" and "The Tiki Love God" in the Don Ho Dinner Theater Tribute Extravaganza at the Ribs n' Dibs Buffet off Kokoa Avenue.

Somewhere in this pic of a sno-cone cupcake candy corn melted twix bar of almond joy, I've carefully hidden a...

Oh who cares about that Waldouche.

I love you, blonde eros of blank stare and vague sense of confusion. I would tie crickets to a paper airplane and toss it over Macho Grande just for the chance to jump after it without a parachute and plummet to my likely death while pausing in mid-air to breathe a whiff of your perfume drifting on the breeze.

I would compose sonnets of free verse in Farsi if it meant I could Salman your Rushdies for a fortnight while fighting off Fezzik by sword, left-handed, near the pit of despair.

You are my snowflake, no one could ever stain. Come to me. Nuzzle me. Then yell at me when I inquire, innocently, if your best friend Shelly might just happen to be bi.

Pierced tool annoys, while
Three Parisian basement hotts,
Check tongues for choad germs

freddy will never
be the same after his ex
stapled tongue to lip

-- johnny scrotten

a rose is a rose,
but it could be a penis
in this photograph.

-- pfah

A Clockwork Douchebag
an isolated Yazik
pleased fuzzy Yarbels

-- the 'bag apple

sideways peace sign, brah
electric douche cap stylin'!
hotts fellate flower

-- 'bag lanta

Lea writes in:

----
p.s: i would send a pic to be a candidate as your future ex wife but: :-( my fiancee is a loyal reader and he wouldn't appreciate either the story or pics!
----

Oh Lea, my Lea, it's my pleasure to mock and expose the douchescrotery of your ex.

I like to think of myself as a benevolent humanitarian. Doing my part for the larger good, all while mocking the scrote and lusting after the boobie hotts. It's like a win/win for all. All except for John Mayer. That guy sucks.

PIC DELETED

Boy, life hasn't been kind to David Schwimmer since Friends went off the air. Then again, judging by the quality of the high class hott, maybe it has.

And, in a related story following his continuing journey to the douche-side, uberscrotal faux-emo John Mayerbag has now apparently gotten sleeve tatts. Someone needs to shove the Staff of Ra six kadems up Mayerbag's guitar hero exhaust pipe.

This looks like one of those mythical 1980s Bret Easton Ellis scripted coke parties on the upper west side.

Some "live fast, die young" parable about Stockbroker Teddy (played by Robert Downey Jr.) out of control in the clubs, bringing in a bunch of Manhattan hotts to tantalize an Arabian billionaire who just arrived in New York to "finance movies."

Speaking of 80s drug culture, the greatest cult song of the 1980s, by far, was Laid Back's White Horse. That genius was about fifteen years ahead of it's time.

No Laid Back, no Fatboy Slim.

It's important to note that blondie here is demonstrating what noted German philosopher Jurgen Habermas describes as the "slutt/hott duality."

The S/H Duality, emerging in the late 1980s within post-Derridean deconstruction, simply states that one can simultaneously be repelled by the trashiness while also desiring to grab onto and possess the boobie.

It is a form of double consciousness rooted in gender performance, the sex drive and witnessing really fantastic ta-tas.

She is desirable, yet the pink pokey bra thing is all that is bar trashy. This state of double-think emerges from fragmentation, as culture and subculture collide around the boobie.

He, of course, remains indisputably and singularly poo. A pure ubermensch of poo.

Anonymous writes in:

----
I think your a f@#king idiot. If we saw you in a pic with some chicks you'd probably find yourself on your own site. who the f@#k are you to hide behind a laptop and some pics you got from some haterz? I need to create a site called haterzthatdrinkfromdouchebags.com ................ did you not get enough attention in highschool? did all the other guys get all the cute boys you liked? oops. i mean girls. its so funny what people try to make a living off of. now we have f@#king idiots like you talking s@#t about other guys because you have no talent and nothing better to do. You f@#kn clown. hope your site and CPU crash.

truly yours,
-----

Mom? Is that you?

Son, you got a ferret on your head.

Every month Criss Angel ratchets up the douche factor like a spectral Harry Houdini by way of Rico Suave's Gerardo. In perhaps his most amazing illusion of all, yesterday he made our merits as a society disappear.

Poof!

Gone in a cloud of Axe Bodyspray. Where's Sigfried and Roy's white tiger when you need it?

Yet Crissbag continues to pull the highest quality Vegas hooch.

I got a trick, Criss.

Wave the red scarf over the bottle. Wuula wuula wuula. Now look inside.

It's your mom.

Reader Amy writes in:

----
Heyyyy DB1....I saw these doucheBAGS from across the sidewalk and I just could not resist the urging temptation to get a picture with him AND lumber jack douche.

Can you do anything creative with it?????

Please don't tell me it was all for nothing!!!!!!!!

-Amy (on the right)
----

It's not bad for your first capture, Amy, but tagging the stage 1 douche is easier than the higher up game (stages 3 and 4). Note no hand gestures and only minimal shirt douchage. Forehead grease is toxic, though. However you may have to throw these two back. State Douching Licenses dictate at least a stage-2 level for true 'bag tagging.

There's a backstory here involving six bottles of peroxide, a bank heist gone wrong, and a midget named Pepe who can burp the Star Spangled Banner.

Later, Brazilian Clowns will drive up in a Mini with cotton candy for all, while the Princess of Denmark cries over the banishment of her crippled Aztec llama "Steve," to the Island of Long.

That's about as much sense as I can make of this travesty of a mockery of a sham of a travesty.

I'm leaning towards giving Red a pass, even as he's found himself in the Land of Strangely Shaped Boob.

The Redfro isn't too bad. More like the lost member of The Real World: Ireland who took the wrong exit at the Palms and ended up in the showgirl's dressing room.

I say nottadouche and go in peace, Red.

EDIT: Whoops, looks like that was bodypaint, and a bit too much nudity. Thankfully Xenu was available with some SFW nip-help.

There was an alien warlord so weak,
With an oblique, late Greek, physique,
He search out Tom Cruise,
to find a new muse,
While the brunette let out a sweet little squeak.

A tough and spirited debate, but the chin strap + smirk face + sexy long-necked blonde was too much to overcome. Tighty Armani takes the prize. As joe explains:

tough call between tightee and turtle boy. and by tough, i mean one more chew of the proverbial steak of deliberation. pink poppeds are wrong in any country. but wearing an armani t-shirt that stretches your budget and your HGH addled arms? well, that's wrong in any galaxy.

tighty by one lick of greasy well done skirt steak

The great Russian, douchetoevsky agrees, predicting where Tighty Armani will be in ten years:

T/A: 2 kids by different bleeths, 3 restraining orders, big saggy man boobs, giant gut. daily wardrobe consists of wifebeater T, oversized nylon basketball shorts and shower sandals with socks. still at the club however, working the door.

You overestimate his chances, D. In second, with a strong showing, was The Pancake. ashfish lays down a crossing pattern of frog flamethrower and makes the case:

I'm going to have to toss my vote to the pancake. He's ruined one of my favorite breakfast foods and one of the best hotts I've seen come across these hallowed halls. This pair carry the same fascination and revulsion factor of a pile up of elementary school buses and an oil truck.

Very interesting analogy there, ashfish, well put. 92bpms agrees:

I see a perpetual tattoo artist trainee, a South China Sea pirate costume by way of Johnny Depp and a Cheap Trick cover band bassist. I see a barnet the likes of which can be had for $50 at Vidal Sassoon Cosmotologist Academy. I see chin pubes sculpted by a Braun Pulsonic. I see middle finger protruding in a defiant cock and balls phallus directed at posterity complete with black nail polish applied by the Vidal Sassoon Academy for an additional $25. It's quite clear that all these factors cannot be reduced.

Bringing the deconstructions nicely, 92. Coming in a respectable third, The Small Package. khorpo argues for the tiny dancing elf:

You recognize a douche by a lot of aspects. By their look, their hands, popped collar etc. But, to be sure that the person is a real douchie, you have to see how he behaves. However, you can CLEARLY see in a picture how Small Package acts, talk and climb his way to the top of the scrote. My vote goes to him and his t-shirt.

He was a worthy finalist, KH. Turtleman came in a distant forth, very sad for a superhero, but The Mighty Mighty Douchetones does lay out a strong case for Turtledouchery:

Turtleman, and here's why. Popped collar. Cum receptacle necklace. Two diamond stud earrings. Chain wallet on an emo kid. Pink shirt with rolled up arms, check. The "hair". The hott with the miniskirt. When she bends over to pick up her PBR bottlecap at the kegger, you'll see the black thong she's sporting. The vacant "too cool for these f@#king kitchen pictures" look.

Turtleman FTW.

But Tighty Wipey takes the douching cake and a spot in the Yearly in December's Douchie Awards. As Ol' Bagnanimous puts it:

At first I was going to go for the Pancake.....and, while he is infuriating, and his hott perhaps the hottest,(it too close to call with T/A's hott), in the end, I had to go for Armani.... his Hott is young Valerie Bertinelli with Paris Hilton's hair, and, his arrogant, I am superior to you down the nose look makes me want to kill him with an empty 'Goose bottle, and his snaky lookin' friend, as well

Love the Valerie Bertinelli hair. And as douchebagus maximus aptly sums it up:

I hate everything about Tighty. He represents everything that just plain sucks.

Yes. Yes he does. Give the Armani Tight and Blonde Doe their victory. And by victory, I mean seven more months of mocking until the Douchies.

Is that?... Could it be?... the legendary insta-Hall-of-Scrote legend that is Xenu? I'd recognize that chest tat pentagram anywhere. My grandmother used to have the exact same one.

What's great isn't just the cluster of tatts, but that, in both pictures, Xenu keeps shirt unbuttoned to display them at all times.

Like the Brazilian Tree Frog's colorful pouch, displayed only during mating season, whom are we to judge the unique mating rituals of the Xenu?

PIC DELETED

Chin Strap has appeared previously on the site somewheres, but your humble narrator in all things boobies/chinstrappy, The DB1, can't find his socks again. I've generally located them to the living room area.

So while I look for my socks, I will only reiterate my desire for all chin strap facial hair configurations of the world to simultaneously burst into flame like flickering lighters when 80s metal powergroup White Lion finally slows things down and plays When the Children Cry.

That's right. I just made a White Lion reference.

I blame the chin strap. It's inhibited my cognitive synapses. But ambiguously Persian Hott is all that is soothing and calming. So there's that.

That reminds me. Must add one more thing to today's "To Do List":

Set New Jersey on fire

There. All set.

Cathy liked to hang out with the two most "gangsta" guys in her Freshman class in Witchita, Kansas.

Another Brundlefly genetic splicing between Buddy Hackett and Olaf from Clerks.

His love for Poutasian is like a truck. Berserker.

Here's the proper reaction any young hott should have when the emerging 'bagling attempts a snog.

Meanwhile, King D is celebrating his enshrinement in the HoS by forcing the ladies to get drunk. Which has a certain logic to it.

Like many primitive language systems that emerge organically, the douche uses hand configurations to symbolize his role in the cultural hierarchy.

In this case, The Middle Finger states, "I superficially reject societal convention because I have the store purchased mass produced identity of 'rebel.' It was on sale at Urban Outfitters."

Very rebellious, wanker twins.

As to the fake boobied Bleeth in the middle of this Armani Exchange, note her tongue and middle finger gestures. A clear sign that she is too far gone to save.

But while we can't save her, we can stare at those ginormous life-rafts.

Megods, they could save a drowning elephant caught in a Balisian rainstorm mudslide.

One of the first sexy bar hotts to capture the imagination of both male and female 'bag hunters here on the site, seen here and here, The Holy Blue Triangle, wanted to stop by and wish all four contestant couples luck in the Monthly.

Sadly, her first appearance, in which she revealed just a hint of blue panty, was lost to douchal request.

No peek of Holy Blueness.

But a delightful smile as always. And also, tragically, a standard issue stage-2 douchescrote in tow.

While this may not have the epic smackdown feel of last month's HCwDB of the Month (which produced three, count 'em three, Hall of Scrote members) there's still much to be said for this Month's battle.

However, I'm gonna mix it up.

I've decided to bump the standard rocker douche that was Kid Scrote. That coupling of Rocker Trash and Barbie Hott was a runner-up anyway, who stepped in when the genius Yo-Yo dropped out due to general pussitude.

Instead, I'm going with the Pancake. Yes, that's right. Straight to the Monthly. Controversial decision? Maybe. Lets see what happens. Here's your finalists for HCwDB of the Month:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Pancake

Yes, this coupling of innocent sweetness and rocker douche didn't yet win a Weekly. But he would have.

This combo has that thoroughbred HCwDB combo quality. All the bases covered of that truly odious attractive female with heaping Dave Navarro douche-face wrongness.

Facial pubes? Check.

The Ubiquitous Black Fingernail polish of post-"Mystery" inspired clownshow spectacle?

Check.

An innocent doe that would curl up with me at 2am while I worried about who the last cylon is?

That, too. Her hint of cleavite is majestic.

But enough to win a Monthly without a Weekly win to pad their resumes? Hard to say.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Tighty Armani

Like dainty facial hair forming into a global chin strap that stretches from sideburn to sideburn, Tighty Armani grows on you.

Or perhaps like a fetid fungus. Growing on rotting wormwood.

At first you don't think he's so bad. Then you want to lay down a line of frogs on fire with your patented frog flamethrower.

Also this blonde continue to dazzle me with high cheekbones and sweet eyes of mannequin youth.

Toss in the punchable face on the right and the massive swarm of hand gesture, and Tighty Armani's covers the spectrum of all that is douche.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Turtleman

Rarely do we get douche superheroes competing in a Monthly.

Turtleman first impressd with the single spot of blond locks, the popped pinkness, and the dirty rural kitchen that looks like Jeffrey Dahmer's workspace.

His slightly confused girl-next-door brings an added punch to the mix.

Watch as Turtleman fights crime in Marvel Comics latest release:

Turtleman Meets the Scrote Fungus

It's an action packed extravaganza.

Yeah, Turtleman probably doesn't have much chance in the Monthly.

But dig those bleach stains on the pants.

They're beyond cool. I'm talking George Michael cool. Which is to say not.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Small Package

Perhaps the highest on the "needs to have his ass kicked" scale among our four Monthly candidates (although Pancake puts up a good argument), The Small Package infuriates with annoying shirt, douche-face, and vacant Norwegian blonde on his arm.

There's a surreal aesthetic to this framing, mise-en-scene and general grease face that evokes early Edward Steichen phographs.

Yes, art.

But by art, I mean dada poo.

Mmm... amazonian blondes in wifebeaters and choke collars.

So them's your four.

Four enter. Only one can triumph.

I need to hear from you. Which of these four couples most deserves to win the HCwDB of the Month and have their shot at the coveted HCwDB of the Year at December's Douchie Awards?

Remember to weigh both douche and hott. Hott and douche. In Yin-Yang polarity. In contrast. In dialogue.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Sure, your Sunday might be enjoyable, relaxing and filled with red cups and boobs.

But is it on the Joey Porsche level of jogging tracksuit?

Methinks not.

Look at these two ass cheeks. And that girl has a fantastic butt as well.

Yup, went for the obvious joke.

She is shaped like a blossoming rose of feminine perfection, but is a bit too skinny to achieve it just yet. But add about eight pounds and I'd cut off a toe just to prevent Karl Hungus from micterating on her rug.

As to The Gator pic that I had up this morning and pulled because people felt it was too disturbing for the site, judge for yourself here.

Ah, Natalie. My Natalie.

My beautiful, wholesome Semitic American Princess. My tiny ball of kosher for Passover jelly rings of hott.

How could you do this? How could you (allegedly) be dating a smelly yeti of emo-douche?

After all we've virtually been through. You have shattered my world. Rendered my entire paradigm off kilter.

Natalie, you are my little ball of Hollywood perfection. My future ex-wife of many fights and passionate makeups. Yes, you'd make me sign a pre-nup. And yes, I'd get nothing when you eventually left me for Dave Grohl in 2010.

But I would sign that pre-nup. After only briefly checking with my lawyer. Because you are my vision. My cherubic dreamgirl of endless fantasy, only occasionally involving kitchenware and rubber.

We would read Gershom Scholem and Moses Maimonides by Israeli candlelight. Then I would rub Crisco on your toes while humming the theme to Silver Spoons.

We would dance on my rooftop sipping Chablais, then you would yell at me for getting freaky with your bathrobe while you were at the gym. And I'd apologize.

Ah, Portman, my Portman. Drop the cycle of endless Hollydouche and join me for chianti by the pool, you in a sexy red bikini, and me scratching myself and wondering if I smelled like onions.

Make my fantasies come true, Natalie my Natalie. Put on librarian glasses and spank me with a pool cue. Make me smell your glove and yell at me for misinterpreting the Talmud. Because I've been so very, very naughty.

(Pic, and shout-out back to Egotastic.)

You know what, waitress?

I'll have the eggs and bacon instead, a coffee, and some kerosene to burn out my eyes.

Please take away the pancake and hazmat it in the back.

But definitely leave the brunette cinebon. She is sugary.

Here's a classic case of what happens when cuties commingle in the presence of faux-punk suburban wanks.

First come the hand gestures. Then the giant sunglasses.

Then they're greased up with one boob hanging out as they stumble around at 2am clutching a bottle of Goose like a phallus substitute.

That's the path of Bleeth.

And it's up to you to stop it.

So I sit, dazed and bemused, I sip my PBR and enjoy a tasty Hostess apple pie, and I bask in the sun. The douches grow, but so does societal consciousness about the plague of scrotal wrong. So there's that.

Once, when I was seven or eight years old, I crapped a turd that had a face on it.

No, seriously.

I looked down into the bowl, and my turd had a weird little face on it, staring up at me.

In the lunch room the next day, I told everyone about the turd face I'd seen the previous evening. But the other kids just laughed. They didn't believe me that I'd crapped out a turd with a face on it.

But now I have proof. My childhood turd grew up to be a club going slut-hott fondling log of fecal matter formed into Golem-like human corporeal form.

I'm still figuring out how it survived the flushing process, though. Maybe it's like that old b-movie Alligator. Flush it away, only to have it return to haunt us all.

Sorry, world. I had no idea it would survive the flush.

Who knew The Gator's Dad was into the whole S&M thing?

It's one thing when young douches sport the sunglasses at night Corey Hart wrongness. But when the old 'bags start sporting their late 1970s heyday aviator shades, it's time to call in the Ghost of Burt Reynolds to Cannonball Run this monstrosity once and for all.

And yes, little pouty bikini hott, I see you too, you naughty little daddy hating girl.

Your winsome smile suggests that of a 19th century Charles Dickens Liverpudlian bar wench. Fetch me some mead-wine before I call in the bobbies.

(for those who need more to work with)

Red Riding Hood, no!
The Big Bad Douche Wolf , danger!
What big hair he has.

I miss basement shows
So many reasons to fight
God bless punk rock girls

-- clementine of cappadoucha

Matching hair patches
New strain of Greico Virus
Immunize: pointless

-- don choadle

Racing stripes look fast,
Aerodynamics are key,
To catch fleeing hott.

the alpha douche

This hott is sporting
A rack to cool grandma pies.
Nicely framed in grey.

-- "old 'bag eyes" frank scrotnatra

PIC DELETED

Don't Look Now, Vinny,
But ants are climbing your chin.
Sister Hott too close.

Not-a-bag status
was one razor swipe away
clean that chin ass-wipe

-- anonymous

Hunting for douche-prey:
young Werewolf Angelina.
Porsche-friend wears more blush.

-- john edward(s)

Spikes grow, hair recedes
Cannot hide plucked unibrow
Hott's eyes cry for help.

-- Whitebread

Guido with Will Smith's
College girlfriend from Fresh Prince
Oh, how she's fallen.

-- massengill

Persian Princess seeks
Douchebag with Chinstrap buttchin
Buckle up smiley

- husker douche

K-Mart Western shirt?
The Far East meets the Old West:
It's BrokeBack Kharma.

- darksock

Da Boyz are clearly back in town.

Buy why are they crushing Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle?

What? You'd prefer a reference to Maria de Medeiros in Henry and June?

As to our mystery "Name that 'Bag" pic below, it is none other than Weekly winner Tighty Armani.

Fresh from Spring Break. And by fresh, I mean stanky. Congrats to readers burnsy, charles bagkowski, anonymous johnson, and the everpresent anonymous for getting it right.

The votes have been counted. The arguments made. And while there were ample arguments on both sides, and by ample, I mean lots of boobies, The King is In. Long Mock the King.

In spite of his generally friendly demeanor, and a likely "pro-douche" status (club promoter, DJ, etc.), The King was not to be denied.

The everpresent anonymous makes the case:

kind of a cross between don king and the burger king. and that chin pube looks like some kind of scientific test, like try one conditioner on one side, something else on the other.

Nicely played, anon, Don King and the Burger King pretty much sums it up. But runaway douche makes the argument for amateur hott/douche combos to pack the true societal gut-punch:

I gotta give a thumbs down; the HoS should be, much like the olympics used to, for the purest of competitors: the amateur. Once a bag turns pro, the grace, majesty and pure competitive bag spirit withers under the harsh sun of sponsorship.

But dunkterdouche retorts:

Absolutely he should be in the Hall of Scrote. He is an absolute douchebag. Closely cropped and manicured chin pubes, studded belt, mandana. And every hott is smokin hott.

The hott factor must be included in any HCwDB pic, and what puts King D over the top is his quality of hott pull. Yes, he's goofy and generally unthreatening. And I'd probably want to have a beer with him. But douche is douche. And it cannot be denied.

Prince Choadstool agrees:

This is very hard. I do hate him enough to get Medieval on his ass, yet he's a pro... But, in the words of author Frank Herbert, "The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand." Just because we don't understand the pro-douche we like to call King Douchuous IV, doesn't mean we should count him out. After all, someone who chooses to do this for a living can be argued to be just as hateable and worthy of a good poo-flinging than someone who knows not what he does. Hall of Scrote for KDIV.

And Mahatma Gandouche quotes scripture in voting "yea":

In the matter of HOS for the King I vote yes,and refer you to the following passage in the royal chronicles of his father Doucheous III written in 87 B.A.(before axe) by Pliney the Elder:" Behold a pale horse comes and upon him rides one who shall be known by his crown of grease and mandana and will be called King by some and Scrote by the rest"

For consistency of assclownery, the King of Douchetown, who wears his crown of hair gel proudly, has earned his place in the Hall.

I also bumped the Future Ex-Mrs. DB1, as my obsession with brunettes in librarian glasses need not take up space in the HoS.

Proving that the spew of a sexy girl on the arm of an uberdouche is more rage inducing than the 28 Days Later virus, here's Vegas Kurt.

He's finally found a girl to appreciate his puka shells. And he wants the world to know.

Or, at least the guy working the 2am concession stand shift at the Glitter Gulch.

Somewhere in this lineup of mostly firm and luscious coed hindquarters (there's always one saggy pear in the bunch), I've carefully hidden not one, not two, but five Jersey Douche.

Can you find all of them?

This is a pic of a recent, highly regarded, scrotal infection posted to the site. And by highly regarded I mean caused a collective desire to stick our tongues into a lightsocket while singing the Nepalese national anthem.

Can you figure out which hott/douche couple this is?

The critical question our society must ask is not to be found in the grand philosophical treatises of history. It is not a question found in ancient Greece. Nor in the Romantic period. It is not found when ordering pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment in Vegas.

I do not know the exact wording of the critical question facing our culture as it slides into a global mish-mash of mass media spectacle, convergence and incoherence. The shouting bobbleheads. Ryan freaking Seacrest. The depressing nonsense of American Idol counterpointed with the premature cancelation of the genius that was Freaks and Geeks.

I know only that the question of our times involves two conflicting concepts. Really hott women. And their proximity to really, really freaking douchey black nailpolished uberscrotes.

Within counterpoint, within dialectic, the answers will come in glowing neon bursts of multicolored enlightenment. The message, the medium, the digital and the analog will compel us, silently, to mock the douche and lust after the hott.

Men, women, boys, girls, everyone. People from all over the world.

And we will.

Because douchebags are asswipes. And hotties are soft.

Dog appears to be a very large gang member, so I will simply remark that he is a scholar and an erudite intellectual with great acumen, and his facial hair configuration bespeaks a wise and jovial humanity.

His snake tatt is not douchey, and implies strength and boldness of vision. His tiny ambiguously Latina hott demonstrates modest, classic feminine dress and groin tatt that is not slutty at all.

Please do not break my spine in sixteen places like you're flicking a bug off a maple leaf, Dog. I mean you no harm.

Instead, lets share a Red Bull and cigarette while we discuss Proust, Balzac, Kafka and the radness of Buckcherry.

PIC DELETED

Nothing Runs with the Goose Hotts quite like four alien antennae sticking off your douched up head.

I was going to make a Twilek reference, but thanks to George Lucas's genius decision to unleash three steaming turds of overhyped, nonsensical toy ads on the American public over the past decade, Star Wars references have been demoted. They're now ranked directly below allusions to post Funny Farm Chevy Chase movies, but still above anything involving Pokemon or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

It's a complex pop-culture graph. Involves charting historical time, random evocation, general obscurity, mass culture resonance and subculture currency in intersecting matrices of overlap. Would take too long to explain.

So I'll simply note that drunk strippers running with the Goose almost make up for Greedo firing first.

I'm pulling that last pic, and rebooting the Limerick. This one's more fun:

Black Fingernails for Skier McCool,
Doesn't hide the fact he's a total tool,
But Sally's can't hear it,
A Sumerian Spirit,
Has taken over. It's Gozer and Zoul.

Yup. The DB1's hangover is killing the creative buzz. I need a coffee.

At first it looked like this was The Yak's week to puke on some boobies, but the sheer strength of Tighty Armani's innovative shirt/bicep douche move, and utterly angelic blonde that he's decided to headlock, were too much to overcome.

frozen orange douche lets loose with the primal id-scream:

Tighty Armani: DIE DOUCHEBAG DIE!!! YOU MUST BE DESTROYED!!!! DEATH BY A THOUSAND ICEPICKS!!!! ARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Tighty Armani FTW.

First reactions, especially ones like this, are often a good barometer of a winning hott/douche pic. Or, as the everpresent anonymous tunes in:

Tighty Armani shows a disturbing new trend. With biceps like that, there's a new sub-genre of Doucheroidbags pawing (and likely crushing) the hotts. Bad enough when spindly hair-spiked orange-skinned eels grope the perfect female flesh. This is way scarier.

The biceps + tight designer shirt is indeed a new sign of the coming douchepocalpyse, and we should all be very scared. And Senn invokes the Holy Pumpy, in casting in with T.A.:

My vote goes to Tighty Armani, because beeing a huge fan of holy pumpy I always had something for Inflatadouches , that something beeing a urge to facestab , right between the tasteful chinstrap and the insulting grin.

Well said, Senn. But The Yak was a very close second, finding lots of support, and by support I mean hint of cleavite. As Johnny Scrotten puts it:

the yak.

this guy embodies a great quote from the irish playwright, george bernard shaw; "youth is wasted on the young"

GB Shaw should've added, "and boobies are wasted on the young hotts who choose douchefaces to hook up with." At least, that's how I would've written it. Because I'm like a GB Shaw echo.

Agreeing about the Yak is Idaho's own idahohottpotato:

I vote for The Yak.

She is hot enough to make straight women consider a lesbian fling, and he is... poo.

Indeed, hottP. And the ever present anonymous hits the core of The Yak's appeal:

I must vote for The Yak for 2 reasons. DB1's Theory of the Hottie-Scrote Yin-Yang Polarity is put to the limits in this photo. He may not exhibit the highest amount of douche, but appears to be more of a Joe Six-pack who was infected with the Grieco. The fact that such a low-level douche can nestle between such voluptuous blond sweater cows makes me contemplate infecting myself with the Douche virus. And for that, I hate him.

Very well argued, Anon.

2001 lost out due to professional douchebaggery, and probably rightly so. I think I was distracted by the uberhotts and couldn't resist giving those four oranges a chance in the finals.

As to my logic for disqualifying The Blowfish, the potential for gaybaggery is one disqualifier as the essence of every great HCwDB pic is the rage of douche/hott cohabitation. But it was also that The Blowfish's mouth was just creeping me the hell out. That thing + the facial pubes, was just plain too disturbing to look at.

However, something tells me The Blowfish may just be in line for a 2008 Douchie Award. So don't fret, 'Fish fans. You'll get additional mocking time down the road.

This week, it's T.A. BaDouchus as our last entry for the Monthly. It is well deserved. As mary puts it:

Tighty Armani. Just for his dumb f@#king t shirt. Blondie is not looking at him, she's doing her best to not inhale his Axe stink.

Exactly, Mary. And don't forget: Chin strap. Megods, we live in a world with facial hair chinstraps. And sexy blondes who like them. If that ain't hott/douche, I don't know what is.

Yeah it's late. But reading the excellent deconstructions of our own King D the IV for the HoS, I couldn't help but genuflect.

And when I genuflect, I need some scrote to mock and some hotts, even milfy ones, to keep me company.

This means you, alien tough guy doucheface.

Your mom is hott. So's your sister. Now get the hell out of the pic before I grab your designer 'tags and yank.

In other good news, the site won a Webby in the Culture/Personal blog category.

As part of my acceptance speech, I'd like to thank The Gator. No really. For being the heaping Britdouche primal force of greased up wrongness that drives me on a daily basis to save the hott women from their clutches, he deserves my thanks. And by thanks, I mean a cracked up rhesus monkey flinging week old poo.

Alas, alack, it's late at night. Time to celebrate The Webby with a tasty plastic cup of Thunderbird.

And a HoHo.

Because HoHos are good.

Some Hall of Scrote legends get there through instantly brilliant hottie/douchey wrongness. A singularity of absurdity. A corporeal manifestation of all that is superdouche and hott, together and wrong.

Others get there through longevity. A body of work.

And by body, I mean in the presence of hott ass boobies with stupid-ass hair.

Witness the King's run here, here, here, here, here, here, and here,

King Douchuous the IV first appeared on the site last summer, bringing a Brothabag into the mix. He won a Weekly, but just seemed too darn goofy and professional to induce much rage.

Holding him back, arguing against inclusion, is the "pro-douche" factor. The club promotion thing. Pro douchebaggery never quite rankles like the amateurs do.

But a call has been made to nominate him for our hallowed Hall of Scrote. And so I put it to the floor.

King D for the HoS?

Wherever there's a suburban sorority kegger party, he'll be there.

Wherever there's a Ubiquitous Red Cup, he'll be there.

Wherever there's a need to shave the top part of a chest to go with the shirtless rosary bead look, he'll be there.

He's The Prince of Pud. And he's coming... for you.

After the club lets out, watch the doucheclowns gather as the coital mating dance begins...

"She loves my chin eye, so who are you to judge?"

Is 'Bag Hand Gesture #73 (The Middle Finger) the 2008 version of 'Bag Hand Gesture #118 (The Shocker)?

And are 10 Degree Designer Yankee Hat Tilts the 2008 version of 10 Degree Designer Yankee Hat Tilts?

But most importantly, can somebody kick Vincent D'ouchenofrio in the nads so I can buy Jenny a Long Island Iced Tea?

PIC DELETED

Throw me the Hott, I'll throw you the Bodyspray!!

Yeah, I've made that joke before. And I'll make it again.

Especially now that Short Round is a delightful female cocktail waitress.

Many of those training in the 'bag hunting arts keep asking me, is this one of Joey Porsche's crew? Or simply an anonymous orange oompa guido douche?

The answer, grasshoppers, is that this is the wrong question to ask.

A great parable for you to meditate on is what I like to call the "Police Academy Conundrum." First posed in 1987, it is a classic example of false choice.

The debate centers around who was a sexier love interest for Steve Guttenberg's Mahoney, Kim Cattrall in Police Academy, or Sharon Stone in Police Academy IV: Citizens on Patrol.

Each actress brought specific and unique thespian qualities to their performances as Cadet Karen Thompson and Claire Mattson, respectively.

To pick one is to create false choice, and thus false consciousness.

Remember the Police Academy Hott conundrum when contemplating the pursuit of meaning in examining the orange doucheface.

Whether this is a Porsche Disciple or not is the wrong question to ask. For it creates binary. It creates an inherent competitiveness within a framework of elimination that is not needed for enlightenment.

Old 'Bag River,
He just keeps scrotin',
He just keeps scrotin',
He just keeps scrotin',
He just keeps scrotin', along.

While you're considering your vote in the Weekly, I thought I'd present the greatest asschin this side of young Kirk Douglas.

And yes, I would risk the mouth herp to make out with Pout Blond on the right.

This was a tough week to cull down into three finalists, and I'm sure some won't agree with the choices. But this ain't based on alchemy, it's based on alchy. Yes, that was a horrible joke. I'm now going to do penance by eating another bowl of Frosted Flakes.

But I have an excuse for lame puns. I'm sitting on my floor, scratching myself, hungover after karaoke and PBRs last night. So, without further ado, here's your finalists for the last Weekly winner before next week's Monthly:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Yak

Gorgeous blonde ball of hott. Ass pimple.

As with every great hottie/douchey pic, it is the Yin/Yang polarity between scrotal assface and lusty boobage that creates aesthetic revelation and intellectual revolution. And tasty fruit roll-ups.

On the basis of these counts, The Yak has a very delicate and nuanced balance.

For those who argue that The Yak's doucheyness isn't matched by the hottness, I give you one factor:

Spiked hair + sideburns.

Very, very lame.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Tighty Armani

Tighty Armani, which would've had a cleverer name if I wasn't already tipsy last Friday, matches The Yak for perfect wrongness of uberhott and uberdouche.

That's two hot blondes in a row, and I'm more of a brunette fan. But they are both delicious.

T.A. brings a punchable friend, on the right, and a girl who appears to be making the dual upside down middle finger hand gesture, or what I like to call, The "Can you hear this? Maybe I should turn it up?" Breakfast Club maneuver.

And then there's the chinstrap.

All chinstrap facial configurations should be shaved with a rusty shank spoon found in the dirt outside Shawshank.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: 2001: A Space Douche

I struggled with whether to give this space/time traveling astronaut of ass and his two uberhotts a shot, as the "pro" nature of the pic makes me wary.

Yet Lime Green Astronaut Hitler makes me want to punch a ferret in the lower intestine. Plus, as perfect counterweight, the model hotts are milkshakes of straw sucking delight.

So I had to give it a shot, "pro douche" or not.

That watch. How am I supposed to live in a world where assfaces wear giant wristwatches on their arm making the sideways peace sign, and mandana on the other?

Club promoter? More like DOUCHE promoter.

Heh. I'm clever today.

Honorable mention to the Exxon Valdouche oil spill and The Blowfish, who both missed the cut by thismuch.

Yes, it was a tough week. And these finalists are all quite worthy.

But which one will it be?

That's up to you, the 'bag hunters. Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

It's made out of douchebags!!

RIP, Charlton Heston. From Touch of Evil to Moses, yours was a great career. I dedicate this greased up scrote in your honor.

Which doesn't really make sense in any tributorial way, but since I write about douchebags, it's all I can offer.

I... uhm... yeah.

And since I can't take The Weasel at the top of the page for that long, here's another pic of Finland douche/hott taken by reader Finnbag.

Eric the Viking needs to have his Greenlands Icelanded, while I take Nordinary Hott for a ride on my Helsinkis.

But in their honor, I will drink only Amstel Light tonight. Which isn't from Finland, but I'm American, so I can't tell the diff.

It's bad enough the world had to suffer through Pauly Shore's brief comedic ascendancy in that post Dice Clay pre Chris Rock window of "opportunity." The period of the early 1990s, or what I like to call "When Comedy Died Like a Cute Drowned Puppy Tied to a Rock."

But I should cut The Weasel some slack. It's gotta be tough peaking in your early 20s through a lack of any prepared material, a slowed down cadence of delivery, and then to be comedically outclassed by Stephen Baldwin in Biodome.

Still, I'm pleased to see Pauly Shore is keeping busy with the strippers. Gotta do something until the VH1 "I love March 16th-23rd of 1993" special finally airs.

As we drift off into the orange hues of the fake-tanned sunsets on this Friday eve, I can't help but think of the words of Val Kilmer in Real Genius: "Moles and trolls, moles and trolls, work, work, work, work, work."

Indeed, Chris Knight. We work, work, work. But do we stop and smell the boobies? Do we stop and mock the Orange Armani Monsters of our collective Jungian nightmares?

That's the question.

Excellent emails and submissions this week, some of the best we've had in awhile, so a special shout-out to all the 'bag hunters emailing me every day. You people are doing Vishnu's Work. It should be a great final Weekly vote on Monday before the next Monthly contest.

I was going to put King D up for the Hall of Scrote but we'll do that on Monday.

Instead, I sip my red plastic cup of 'Train, and meditate on the Boobie Hotties, while chanting my Sanscrit mantra, "Challabackgirl" with ritualized rhythmic cadence.

It's another Friday. Another week of 'bag mocking and hott lusting successfully completed.

As Antonio Gramsci once remarked, "The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned."

We must live without illusions in the blinding waves of white-noise douched up media spectacle we call mass culture. But the boobies can save us from disillusionment. Suckable hottie thighs. They can save us from ourselves.

On that note, I tip my 'Train to all of you, and head off to pound PBRs at a local watering hole, where I will dream of tiny dancing Purg Hotties in hula skirts and with flowers in their hair. And I will not think of Those Who Just Bang Bitches and Drink. At least not until tomorrow.

Here's the Official "Dear Sweet Jebus, It's Time to Start Drinking on Friday" pic.

Although I do enjoy four free-floating disembodied hand gestures, flailing around doe eyed blond hott as she's mugged by Mani. It looks vaguely like a gallon of sea monkeys, floating in a basement in Bismarck, North Dakota.

Somewhere, from the ashes of late 1970s wood paneling, hot tubs and disco, emerged the seeds that would become Lucky.

The child of formica kitchens and horrible sofa patterns.

The douched up aimless wanderings of Dazed and Confused: The Next Generation.

All while snagging a Marion in Raiders hott.

How'd you do it, Lucky? What's the secret to your pale, hairless, disco chest?

Mildly famous curvy butted Hollywood actress Mena Suvari is apparently now dating what people in the industry generally refer to as "shoe shmeg."

This is the problem right here.

If celeb hotts can't tell the difference between a human being and an underwear poking, smirked up, smack worthy uberdouche who looks like he should be asking for change outside the Gas n' Go, then trickle down theory states that the rest of the InStyle consuming anonyhotts will follow lockstep.

Shame on you, Mena. You could be at my house. I have tasty Frosted Flakes. And Night Train. Unlimited Night Train.

h/t WWTDD.com

Soup dumplings so soft,
Railroad Head makes Buddha weep,
Pray for Kung Fu Monks.

When I said 'roofie'
I didn't mean make me look
Like I have shingles

-- i drink your doucheshake

Nice parallel lines
Proving Euclid on your head
With pointy compass

-- mr. white

lychee nut slurper
wants to ascend mount fuji
bo staff to chin stripes

-- 'bag lanta

you know it's bad when
you take your fashion cues from
home depot paint swatch

-- johnny scrotten

Yao comes to study
Shaves self, scores Hotts, becomes choad
Dad's pissed: no more cash

-- scrotebob douchepants

Who knew that blowfish can move on dry land, dress up as douchenozzles, and take self portraits with digital cameras?

What's next? Elephants painting?

We held a vote a few weeks back for adding Velveeta 'Bag to the Hall of Scrote, and while it was not unanimous, the Melted Cheese of American Cultural Blight has just barely made it in.

Most went back and forth on whether to admit entrance, as pro-douche status is usually a disqualifier for the elite hottie/douchey combos that make it to the top. But Velveeta has three very important factors.

1. He is very very ridiculously douchey
2. He hangs out with the cream of the hott
3. He's a Sleestak.

So, pro or not, he's in.

The votes were about 60%/40% in favor. As Rage Against the Douchine put it:

Big. Time. D. Bag. Must. Enshrine.

Agreeing was Scrotebob Douchepants:

My first consideration for the Hall is always multiple HCwDB appearances. With one showing, any 'bag could prove to be a huge choad, but we can't be sure he can sustain it. After numerous sightings, where the 'baggery continues to out-do itself, then HoS must be considered.

Velveeta here shows no signs of slowing down. The hair, the headband thing, the retarded clothes, the Grade B douche-stare, the constant hott, etc. This guy is a real douche, a ladies douche.

But most of all, current members like the Donkster, the Ab Lobster, and Douchetonic Twins would be happy to have him.

Just say Yes - to the Hall of Scrote.

But there were objections, as this one from Mr White:

I'm going to go against the grain (so far) here and say no on HoS.

The perception of douche is surely subjective, with each of us applying our own metrics to judge how offended/appalled/disgusted we are by a given specimen. I think I look for undeserved cockiness, which is personified by the Peaches Point, the Gator Scowl, or the HJBBAD verbal diarrhea. And for me, Velveeta just isn't giving off that vibe. A blank stare and some very, very questionable wardrobe choices, for sure, but no latent douche hostility.

But as all your douche are belong to us so succinctly puts it:

all his douche are belong to HoS

While the objections were strong, I think we'll all come around to realize that this guy deserves his cheesic cheesitude immortalized.

Tomorrow, another nomination. There's been a call to consider King Douchuous the IV, and so we'll put it to a vote.

It's like astronaut David Bowman from 2001: A Space Odyssey mated with a lime green Adolph Hitler.

I don't know whether to mock his tatts and wristwatch or worry that he's going to invade Poland as part of a master plan for a Thousand Year Douche. While searching for a large black monolith. A monolith with boobies.

This pic reminds me of an old joke. No, not the one about herpes.

What time is it when you have to go see the dentist?

Tooth hurty.

Hello?... Is this thing on?

In Soviet Union, library checks you out... what a country.

The Velveteen Cold Sore is a lesser known children's folktale from 1890s northern Germany. Like other children's tales of the period, The Young Girl Who Expressed Emotion and Was Butchered on a Slab and The Princess and The Sixteen Wolves who Took Sexual Advantage, times were definitely different in terms of imparting moral lessons to youth through parable. Those wacky late 19th century Germans.

As to the two suburban princesses, I would fly to the Comoros Islands and banter in Swahili to buy an ancient doll with magical powers that would conjure up a wacky series of impossible random events leading to my getting buried in a pit of quicksand with only their discarded mascara and a small Ukranian goat for comfort, just for the chance to sniff their discarded mascara.

But then I'd have to figure out what to do with that small Ukranian goat. I think I'll name him Tim.

In the ever increasing list of countries suffering from the global douche plague comes this email and pic, all the way from Finland:

----
Dear DB1,

So, I've been studying your great site for few months now and come to acknowledge the wrongness of the scrote. Somehow you've missed the promised land of doucheness, Finland. It's like a disease here. A disease we no more can control.

It's not the douchiest pic but it sure has all the elements of a real douchebag from the hand gesture to the moustache. And the story behind the guy, Pete, is classic.

In Helsinki nightlife you can't miss him. He's everywhere. And always after chicks. And by chicks I mean girls half his age. Growing up in the same neighbourhood I've witnessed his metamorphose from the beginning. The best, or worst thing about it is that dude's a really nice guy. But with act like this you just can't get away with no consequence. There are pics for days.

Yours truly,

Finnbag
----

Something tells me if this guy had a million dollars, he'd do two chicks at the same time.

I believe the great physicist Robert Oppenheimer once calculated the correlation between greased up forehead, Miller Lite and the douche-face.

A(x/e) + (LA/Looks) / f(r-at) = d/ouche+f(ac)e.

Sorority girls, please exit the premises immediately. Robert Oppenheimer's about to lay the smack down.

I've always had this dream to build and patent a flamethrower that shoots tiny flaming frogs out of it. Little frogs on fire. Bullfrogs, maybe. Or tree frogs. Either way. They'd work like organic napalm, little splats of frog fire that smush into the douche-face like a mixture of spittle, fire and amphibious feet.

Okay, so maybe no one understands my lifelong dream to build a frog flamethrower.

Maybe the patent office kicked me out when I applied for my Frog Flamethrower Patent. And maybe they asked me to take my twelve inch pianist with me.

But if the Flowbee can be patent pending, why not a Frog Flamethrower? That way I could take out this nasty bleethed pair of wrong by laying down a crossing pattern of flaming frog fire.

Yup, The DB1 is drunk on the Mad Dog 20/20. And it ain't even noon.

Other than Skywalkerbag in the front, mugging a delicious Key Lime Pie, I've carefully hidden a giant heaping serving of shirtless uberdouche somewhere in this pic.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Kimmy and Kelly like to read Edith Wharton.
So they went and got a steak dinner at Morton,
Then headed for the bar,
to smoke a cigar,
Where they got fondled by Douchey Bob Thornton.

It was a lesser Weekly this week, but they all can't be Deathtongue. Kind of a surprising win, as I thought Ned's classic Rehab Vegas disaster would've taken the Weekly. But it is Turtleman's power of superdouche that wins this week with ease.

It's always nice to see a douche superhero get recognition. Especially one with his Turtle Call Sign stapled to the wall. It's like Batman, without the gadgets, gear, storyline or rubber nips.

Then again, Turtleman may actually have a set of rubber nips in his closet.

don choadle makes the case:

Turtleman is modern douche. Your college-freshman, frat-pledging, assnoodle. It's all downhill for him from here.

One vote for Turtleman. May a giant tortoise take a dump on his face.

One can only dream of turtle dumpings after this pic. eds "I see douchebags" wood explains in more detail:

What bothers me most is sweet Polly is so girl next door hott and still can be saved from bleethdom. The cute face, a God-given hardbody, a natural tan, and that sexy lace bottom to her shirt.

The sexy lace bottom is definitely quality, EISDW. I'm pleased to see Polly gettin' the girl-next-door luv. schwagle keys in on Turtleman's adoucherements:

His ripped jeans, dogtags, and unbuttoned shirt with popped collar are all signs of douchiness, but his hair is what really takes the cake (and by cake, I mean poo). It reminds me of a friend of mine who has a relatively hairless back, except for one small patch that has hair growing like crazy out of it. Factor in the blank and yet pompous stare, and you have my vote for the weekly.

The poo cake is spot on, schwagle. Still, douchashov throws in with Vegas Ned:

Sorry, got to go with Ned's Fantasy Camp. Turtleman looks like he just stepped out of Speed Racer, which while douchey is also too cute, so don't cut it. Balboabag looks like he's desperately suppressing a grin, leaving him looking awkward and lost--not douche. Ned, though, is unafraid to let the beer belly loose and still show the douche sneer-of-entitlement. Sue Kim IS fine, but Ned's got a twofer. Whassup, Ned!

And kim jong douche agrees that Ned deserves our collective scorn:

Not since watching the changing of the guards at Buckingham palace have I seen a stare so vacant... Almost grasping at the concept of becoming an uber-douche but knowing that the poor choice of tat and addiction to the double-double animal style will lead him to a life of medi-douchity.

But while Ned came in second, and Nighthawk a surprisingly distant third, it was a landslide for the Turtleman. The everpresent anonymous explains why:

Although the other two sport higher quality hott, Turtleman oozes douchosity like an inflamed pustule. His douched-out emo hair, ridiculous popped collar, and unnecessary wallet chain scream toolbag. And what's with the multiple necklaces...Not even the industrial cleaner "The Works", showcased on the table behind him, can clean off the horrid nature of his over the top emo-douchitude.

So lets clear a space for Turtlman and Sweet Polly Stateschool in the Monthly. Sure he'll probably get his ass kicked like Gleek after the Wonder Twins went on a three day meth bender. But for now, they're our Winners.

And by Winners, I mean dirty kitchen.

My slick 'Westside' gives me mad street props at the PTA meetings.

We, the douchebags of the United States, in order to form a more perfect hand gesture, establish light beer drinking, insure douchetastic tranquility, provide for the collar defense, promote the future recipients of welfare, and secure the blessings of scrotery, to ourselves and our posteriors, do ordain and establish finger pointing as a really, really asstastic hand gesture.

Yup. I've been watching too much John Adams on HBO.

Yes, it is not technically breaking news that Sports Illustrated model Marissa Miller is married to a giant paper bag of flaming monkey crap chin pubes asswipe flush.

But it's still like getting a root canal without novocaine after shoving toothpicks into your uvula.

Remnants of the Exxon Valdez spill continue to wash up on shore even all these years later.

Throw it back, Blondie.

That's one ocean creature that's not worth saving.

Last summer's Weekly winner, and crown of gel tool, King Douchuous the IV, wanted to stop by and say Happy April Fools.

And by April, that's April. On the left. Showing off her curvy lil' showers.

Hi there, April. I see you. Yes I do. Smoogums.

And by fools, I mean King D is still a heaping serving of pro-douche. Not amateur enough to really annoy. But clowny enough to entertain on a Tuesday.