Oh Tiny Dancer Hott, with your dual Ubiquitous Red Cup action, your New Wave Tie and your hint of pokey red satin bra.

Be warned.

What lurks in the night is not a monster from your darkest childhood fears.

What lurks in the night is actually some goofy-ass white suburban fratchoad wearing the douchiest manifest of all -- the 2-Pac Shirt underneath the partially removed football jersey.

I repeat: White Guys in 2-Pac shirts with partially removed football jerseys. Douche 4 Eva.

And with tumbler in wristdanna'd hand, One-Pac will come for you. So beware his chin-pubes, Tiny Dancer. For they are very tickley.

Oh yeah, and his friend Frank came, too. But no one pays attention to Frank.

Does anyone have an eye-gouger and a retroactive memory erasure device on them? My corneas and psyche have both been irreparably singed.

And while you mull your vote in the Weekly, here's a small advance sample from HCwDB poet emeritus He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks' upcoming poetry book, "I Once Had a Thing For Brunettes":

(cue bongos)

----
Bad kissers turn me off.

I once had a thing for brunettes but over the years I lost it. You can find it at Bed, Bath & Beyond

I pretty much like to have girls eat out the palm of my hand cuz I'm god's gift to women. What can you offer me besides sex? .....Dam Gurl

Pretty much I'm the f@#king man and if you hear other wise it's cuz they jealous I'm doin my thang while they suckin that d@#k of envy.
----

There was much to choose from over the past two weeks while culling down the finalists. But this was also a breakthrough week for multimedia HCwDB.

There was both the brilliant I'm a Big Douche at the Scottsdale Bars YouTube, as well as the audio grease that is the Legendary Pickup Artist Scrotebag, Dimitri.

Methinks both are in line for 2008 Douchie Awards at the Douchies in December. It's Monday morning, and while the DB1 nurses a nasty hangover, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Gunter and Klaus

These two European chest shavers suggest all that is wrong in Bratwurst, while Sister Christian suggests all that is future Soccer Mom Hott in Scottsdale.

But for G&K, something in their smug expression just reeks of prune.

And the daring attempt by Gunter to affect the Patented Peaches Point deserves an additional serving of powdered scorn.

At fist I was worried that the Hott was a bit too nice girl to inspire lustful thoughts, but the more I stare, the more I'd gnaw some beef chaw just for the chance to spittoon some gak in the Old West near her great grandmother's former cattle ranch.

Or something like that.

Hey, it's Monday morning. My brain's still a bit foggy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Droopy McScrote

A classic in hott/douche wrongness.

Yes, I could elaborate further on those who sagg and cling to hip-hop wigga glory.

But do I need to?

You got the Droop.

You got the bling, tatts and hand gestures, complete with nerd-glasses and Houston Astros (?) hat tilt.

Then you've got Surfer Kelly, with the rock-hard abs and the strangest swatch of bikini bottom this side of Logan Five's Sanctuary.

But what pushes this pic into greatness is that tiny swatch of red underwear above the cargo pants.

Stay classy, Droopy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Preppiebags

Something about being transported back to a 1980s teen comedy, in which Teddy Beckerstead is teaming up with Ken from Bachelor Party was enough to set off our collective psyche douche-alarms.

Then there's two lucious little cutes, and the wrongness is complete.

Irono-scrotery?

This issue comes up a lot.

But as many in the comments thread observed, even the ironic "Bar Golf" gag still requires the purchasing of aqua sweaters and tight pink pants that suggest the Alpha-Betas are planning another attack on the Tri-Lambda house.

But are the Golfbag Twins and their sweet suburban bar hotts enough to take the Weekly?

That, my friends, fellow 'bag hunters and choice hotts, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

And for indulging my DJ rant, lets play another round of Where's Waldouche: Butts Edition.

Somewhere in this picture of six cheeks of firm yet pouty goodness, I've carefully hidden a Miami Beachchoad Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Here's the problem.

DJs can play a great role in the club experience. Being a DJ is not auto-douche, and many are extremely good at what they do. DJs are entertainers. DJs can create and facilitate a great club vibe.

What DJs are not, however, are musicians. They are a trade. And the problem lies when they try to confuse the two.

I'm talking to you, trust fund ecstasy taking DJ pseudo-artist. Learn what a seventh chord is. Learn what the "circle of fifths" is. Learn to play an actual instrument. Until then, you are no more a musician than a printing press is an author.

You are a facilitator. A middle man. A bureaucrat in creative drag. An intermediary disguised as producer.

Even the great postmodern artists learned how to produce traditional classically trained art. Warhol was a graphic designer. Picasso and Dali learned classical realism before experimenting with form. DJs desire to tap into the societal myth of "rock star" without having to bother with learning the chords or put in the creative energy in coming up with any music on their own.

And I understand that.

Who wouldn't want the benefits of being rock-star famous without having to have the musical talent or creativity to back it up? It's auto-fame without merit. Like characters out of Vonnegut's Harrison Bergeron, they give hope to the talentless by spreading the wealth equally, no matter one's innate abilities. They offer a gateway to fame through random egalitarian lottery.

Get the right haircut and hold a set of retro 80s headphone to one ear and you too can stand on a pedestal and play the star.

But therein lies the problem. They want to roll out of bed with perfectly tussled hair at 1pm, turn on their iPod turntable with the retro-analog speakers and call themselves an artist. But no amount of carefully placed tribal tatts and stubble will turn you into a genuine production point, sample-boy. You are an empty vessel set to other people's beats. A shell of human form emulating the authentic under the rubric of postmodern refraction and reinvention. Because you're not willing to put in the work that will lead to genuine inspiration.

I'm not saying you DJs don't have your place. You're like my aural waiter. You bring me the sonics, and I appreciate it. If I could tip, I'd definitely go over 15%. Provided you play some Fishbone and De La Soul.

Know your place, sonic proletariat, and all will be well in the witching hour.

Put on delusions of grandeur, claim the role of creator instead of what you really are, an ambulatory iPod with a stupid haircut and no health insurance, and God will keep you out of Israel forever.

It's Saturday evening.

Do you know where your shirt is?

File this one under "Captain Obvious."

Chef, TGI Friday's spokesman and TV personality Guy Fieri is a heaping serving of fried douche sandwich served in a greasy ashtray.

And since he keeps interrupting my TiVo'd Battlestar Gallactica episodes with his ridiculous first-person date advice ads for TGI Friday's, I'm giving him a well deserved Honorary Douche of the Month.

I know you already knew that Guy Fieri was a huge douche. But it needed to be said.

Now Rachel Ray is one extra plump but very tasty serving of steak tar-tar that I would dip in wasabe, soufflé her Napoleons, and then continue making food references that were really euphemisms for sexual deviancy. She is all sorts of Young Martha Stewart raunch.

Mullets.

Do they ever really go out of style?

Vegas says no.

EDIT: And if you missed the genius of pickup-artist voicemail leaving Dimitri, Here's the link again. Enjoy the audio scrotitude.

When the first pic of Sneery McBoat-tatt ran on the site as a Friday Haiku a few weeks ago, many of you thought to yourselves one of two thoughts:

1. bleeeeechhhhhhhh.

2. I wonder if this smug, flexing boat douche really does have spindly-ass legs to go with his trampy Long Island hott?

The answers to both questions have now been answered.

We also might need to consider a 2008 Douchie Nom for innovating a consistent 'bag hand gesture in multiple pics ala Peaches in 2007.

un·can·ny

un·can·ni·ly, adverb
un·can·ni·ness, noun

1. having or seeming to have a supernatural or inexplicable basis; beyond the ordinary or normal; extraordinary: uncanny accuracy; an uncanny knack of foreseeing trouble.

2.mysterious; arousing superstitious fear or dread; uncomfortably strange: Uncanny sounds filled the house.

3. Two creepy-ass douchescrotes macking on Ally and Kristen.

Surrender Dorothy,
Wizard of Scrozz is lime green,
And Toto's on his chin.

mandana fruit fly
hott pink boobie tattoo bleeth
watermelon poo

-- the 'baggernaut

Crystal Meth hottness
Douchebaggery is alive
The male purse strap screams

-- el doucherino

paris on crack is
caught with green Brundle fly
screw hiaku i'm scared

-- douchetoevsky

Douche, jump off a cliff
Smokin’ hott makes, how you say,
Trousal arousal?

-- crucial head

How's about some classic Lawn Giland hott/douche to go with a Thursday evening?

Here's a pic of 2007 HCwDB of the Year Douchie Winner Joey Porsche kickin' it by the pool, old-school style.

And while I'm clearing out the virtual attic, take a listen to Dimitri, the scrotiest pickup artist assbag this side of Mystery.

Rare is it that we can smell uberwank through phone voicemails. This is one of those times.

Dimitri, you are a psychotic ass.

Just Another Bleeth writes in with a 'bag tag from Vegas:

----
DB1,

My girlfriends and I were in Vegas a couple of weeks ago for my birthday and ran into these awesomely douchetastic individuals. We were so impressed that we had to take pictures for you. I was amazed at how many douches there are in that town!!

~Just Another Bleeth (hah - yes I rip on myself too)
----

Nicely done, JAB. Vegas is the Heart of Doucheness, and you and your friends should watch out. And by watch out, I mean pillow fight.

But I can save you.

And by save you, I mean rub Hersheys syrup on your pinkie toes while dressed in a giant Wally Moose costume and humming the theme song to The Young Ones.

Until you tell me that my riff grows tiresome. Which it does. But only when I haven't had enough Vitamin A.

Authentobaggery? Or Fakedouchery?

I honestly can't tell if these clowns are mugging it up as a joke, or are authentic Jerz poo.

What say you? Real scrote? Or imitation crab?

However I do subscribe to the belief that even ironic-douchery is still authento-scrotewankery. Thus, they still suck.

And Brunette would munch on my clavicle with deep spiritual repose.

I quote the great Picasso, who sat at his easel one morning and asked himself this simple question: Orange?

He chose blue.

It's like 2008 collided with 1970 to form some bizarro time-travel mix of a hippie commune, an Israeli kibbutz, a nudist colony and a giant vat of Axe body grease.

I half expect Ken Kesey and Tom Wolfe to drive up on a day-glo school bus with Richard Grieco, Brian Bosworth and the Axe Bodyspray girls doing shots of Grey Goose.

It's socialist collectivism by way of Miami Beach chest shave. Vintage 1920s Lenin manifestos by way of vintage 1980s Donnie Wahlberg free verse.

I don't know whether to read some Ayn Rand, bomb the Bay of Pigs, or slurp some jello shots while staring at boobies.

Bob-O writes in with a concert head shave 'bag tag:

----
DB1-

I was at a concert this past Friday night and saw this smoking hottie in front of me.

A few minutes later her boyfriend comes down to the seats and I don't think much of him, but it's pretty dark in Radio City and the lights are flashing so you can't really get a good look. That's when I noticed, the pattern shaved into the back of his head!

Is that paisley? What the f@#k is going on on his head? So I had to take a picture.

I realize it is from behind and that lessens the hottness of the chick, but trust me, I think you see enough to see she was pretty hot. Plus, if I didn't snap a picture from behind, you wouldn't be able to see just how much of a douche bag he actually is. Hope you and your readers enjoy!

-Bob-O
---

If by "enjoy," you mean bust out the clippers and shave ancient curses in Gaelic on a nearby flock of sheep, you'd be correct.

But this brings up a good point. An experienced Hott Hunter needs only a 10-15 degree rotation from the back of the head to determine hottness in a young female boobie hottie. So yes, I can tell she's hott.

Granmama always said to make sure you wear clean underwear, as you never know when you'll get in a douchecident.

Kelly, your only hope is to jump overboard. Maybe a dolphin will save you.

The great Chinese philosopher and father of Taoism, Lao Tzu once asked us the following:

What is man's life for? What pleasure is there in it? Is it for beauty and riches? Is it for sound and colour? But there comes a time when beauty and riches no longer answer the needs of the heart, and when a surfeit of sound and colour becomes a weariness to the eyes and a ringing in the ears.

The men of old knew that life comes without warning, and as suddenly goes. They denied none of their natural inclinations, and repressed none of their bodily desires. They never felt the spur of fame. They sauntered through life gathering its pleasures as the impulse moved them. Since they cared nothing for fame after death, they were beyond the law. For name and praise, sooner or later, a long life or short one, they cared not at all.

As I contemplate those words, two thoughts come to me.

One, I want to party with Lao. That dude must be off the hook.

And two, did Lao Tzu anticipate the emergence of douche-scrote in a media saturated global simulacrum? And would Lao approve of the Yin-Yang polarity of authentic meaning found in the illogic of douche-hott dialectic that forces deconstruction by the very nature of its wrongness?

I'd argue that he would.

Somewhere in this pic of Sophomore Year "Just Experimenting" Sorority Hotts, I've carefully hidden the worst form of Waldouche, the Hoverbag.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

From this moment this coupling first appeared on the site, there could be only one response to this heaping uberdouche and sweet Italian hott:

Collective mocking, sarcasm and witty repartee from a safe distance. So I turn it over to the 'bag hunting collective to make the case:

hairy prodder:

Metaphysical Hooligan FTW. He is all that is scrote, and his hott pulled through in the clutch during the Thugmani Exchange.

II e-dog:

Metaphysical Hooligan, most definitely. I'm waiting for him to quickly jerk his head and catch his nipple ring with his fake dog tags so I can console Carly Hott in her distress.

jonezy:

MetaHouliDouche is repugnant. He is HoS. Will he take home the 2008 Douchie???

ac/dc bag:

The Metaphysical Hooligan. I've never seen a face so clearly deserving of a large helping of Fist. Not to mention the hot's smile melts me like midday sun on new fallen snow. Oh and skullboobies. how can you not love skullboobies?

The everpresent anonymous:

Hooligan, star-childe of douchebaggery, scrot of the cosmos, ftw. You can tell from his other pic that he practices his Derek Zoolander 'look' in the mirror for his next photo-op.

grumpy llama:

The Metaphysical Hooligan simply has to win. The case I made for the weekly still holds true. Yes, Truman or Smearkat might have a chance if it weren't for the Hooligan. But Zippy, while infuriating, isn't fit to carry the Hooligan's (douche)bags. Not only does Hooligan win the monthly, but I feel compelled to invoke Kant's notion of the "moral imperative" and insist the Hooligan be fast-tracked for the Hall of Scrote.

Anyone who invokes Kant to explain douchery is on the right track. Hos may very well be in MH's future, GL. But bananaphone bucks the tide, reminding people to consider all that is poo about Truman Coyote and Reese Hotterspoon:

I have to go with Truman Coyote hands down. The gangsta tats combined with the upturned hat that makes him look like he's 12 years old and wearing daddy's baseball cap is just too much for the hooligan to overturn.

He reminds me too much of the WB cartoon of the two dogs. the bulldog and the terrier. Truman would be the little dog bouncing around saying, "Whaddayawannadoo, Spike? You wanna chase cars? You wanna get the cat? Huh, Spike? Huh? Hey Spike, you wanna bone?"

Excellent classic WB reference, BP. And champagne douchernova reminds us of the understated douchery of Zippy and Lacy Underalls:

In closing...Zippy FTW. His pale, muscle free body is an attempt to circumvent the obvious bag avoidance routines. He is the Stealth bag that ends up turning your sister into the Oompa Lady.

Again, I say Zippy FTW. And he, more than any other of the monthly hopefuls, needs to be monkey stomped so I can console sultry next door Lacy Underalls.

I've been there, CD. She is delectable. The cleverly monikered abbroham lincoln agrees:

It's got to be Zippy. He meets all the qualifications for douchedom, and his hott easily blows all the others out of the water. Sure he wins on the power of the hott, but I just don't give a damn.

And grady bagmore honors the legendary George Carlin, by voting for the Smearkat and saying one word: "Boobies."

since this month is dedicated to George Carlin, i must vote for smearkat, because Carlin loved the boobies.

I think I'm still stunned about the passing of Carlin. It's impossible to overstate just how vital, important and hilarious he was. One of the great Americans of our lifetime.

But enough memorializing, back to the douche. The shaved star-head was too much to overcome. The Hooligan is like the Ace Frehly of Kissbaggery. As jed the avenger explains it:

Metaphysical Hooligan is so douche-tastic that I stopped eating processed food, strongly considered becoming an atheist, and began a life-long vow to be celibate.

Indeed, J the A. And so we honor the legend of George Carlin in the only way we can. By telling douchebags to kiss our ass and lusting after their hotts along the way.

Book The Metaphyiscal Hooligan and Carly Hott in the Yearly, where we'll see them take on Bra!!, Tighty Armani, and the other Monthly winners for HCwDB of the Year in the Douchie Awards.

And props to everyone who voted in yet another brilliant and hilarious comments thread.

You people are part of the collective push-back to change this world for the better. And stare at boobs along the way.

I'm normally not a fan of the homemade video remix thing, but this is some hilarious stuff. Excellent use of a hose image, as well as the Big movie poster. Well done, Anonymous YouTube Editor Guy.

The story we broke here at HCwDB last month about the Oompa Tribe discovered in the Amazon may be a fake:

----
Group denies misleading media over Amazon tribe
Tue Jun 24, 2008 2:16pm EDT

RIO DE JANEIRO (Reuters) - A group that campaigns for tribal peoples' rights denied on Tuesday that it and the Brazilian government had misled the media over photographs of an uncontacted Indian tribe in the Amazon last month.

Britain's Observer newspaper reported on Sunday that the tribe, rather than being "undiscovered", had been known by the Brazilian government for nearly 100 years and the photos were an attempt to publicize the risk it faced from logging.

Its story prompted some other media to call the photographs a hoax.
----

However, if you click on the photo above, you'll realize there is no fakery involved. It's just another day off the Jerz Turnpike.

Ah yes, the Preppiebag. How we've missed you.

Rare do we capture such a classic category of schlorterscrote in action.

Lest you think this is ironic douchery, think again. These two are very sincere in their prepster assedness, and blondie wants to bake me a cake.

And yes, "schloterscrote" is a word. I just wrote it down and read it, so that makes it a word. And if Websters has a problem, I'll send Willis and Arnold over to kick his ass.

I get a lot of email from readers about a deep scrotal problem occuring in Colorado. One wouldn't picture the skeeze plague reaching that far, but this pic comes to us from Boulder as evidence.

I can't tell if this is a costume party or not (costume parties are generally exempt from douche/hott mocking), but since I loves me some healthy teethed volleyball playing Jennifers, I had to run it.

And seriously, Brad.

Gold bowtie? Is that a slice of Fruit Stripe gum on your wrist, or are you just glad to see me?

Mia writes in:

----
DB1-

How many wristbands do YOU see???

This idiot at a pool party was nasty, and my and friend and I had to take a picture for you.

Love,
Mia
----

I love it when my female readers tag a 'bag, send it in, and don't write too much.

Now alls I need is for Mia to bring me a microwaved Hungry Man Chicken Dinner, a PBR, and a first edition copy of Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition so I can contemplate the negative ramifications of modernity while staring at Mia's curvy legs, and I'd be in hog heaven.

When Jackie went to the local fish store to grab the "Catch of the Day," little did she know it would be the Guidofish.

Yes, it's true. Whenever in doubt for a HCwDB pic, party couples from the Hard Rock in Vegas provide the perfect dose of hottie/douchey joltertainment.

And by dose, I mean cultural infection. Schlorty turds with beads licking on perfectly formed tomato paste pizza in a can.

Porcelain Hott writes in with a roommate 'bag tag:

----
DB1,

First I'd like to start off by saying my boyfriend and I are big fans of your site. If I'm in need of a good laugh quick I know right where to go.

But on to the meat of this email, I was browsing my soon-to-be-roommate's Facebook and came upon a rather douchetastic photo that would perhaps be to your liking. The douche not only sports a douchey hand gesture, but uses it to lift his shirt and expose his man nip and wannabe six pack. The little hott is my future roommate, and I find her to be rather adorable. If you choose to show it on the site I would be very honored, but if not I completely understand your overwhelming supply of choad images. Either way, enjoy!

Your admirer,

Porcelain Hott
----

I had something articulate to say, P.H., but I lost it right around the time you wrote The little hott is my future roommate, and I find her to be rather adorable.

Pillow fights and oil massages are a wonderful way to relax after a long day, P.H. Trust me, I know. I'm pretty sure that's how every female roommate situation ends up.

Here's another pic of Lonely 'Bag Hunter's asian hott from Saturday's Ask DB1.

Here, she looks remarkably less Bleethed out than in Saturday's pic. She's pure like snowflakes, no douche could ever stain. Yet her choice of choad remains stenchy.

I'm going to revise my judgment and say that she can still be redeemed from a life of douchebaguette.

And by redeemed, I mean my giving her collection of Barbies a steam cleaning just for the chance to pass within fifty yards of her fifth grade teacher's proctologist.

While you're mulling your vote in the Monthly, I thought I've give you one of the hardest Waldouche hunts we've had.

Somewhere, in this pic of four drunk sorority girls, I've carefully hidden a douched up Aqua DJ Waldouche with dorky stripey cap.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Last month's winner was the mighty Bra!!, who rode a bevy of hotts and tasty cola beverages to victory. Who will win this month's Monthly and take their slot in the Yearly during the 2008 Douchies in December?

That, fellow 'bags, hotts, 'bag hunters and albino midgets, is up to you.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Smearkcat

Now you might say a vote for the Smearkat is a vote for large succulent tatas that could feed a small army of hungry babies.

And you'd be right.

But lets not discount the power of grease-scrote at work in the simultaneous kissy face, exploding grease hair and stupid-ass tie.

The douche is high in this one.

As with every Monthly winner, the hott and choad must commingle in a noxious stench of wrong. A steaming poo-pile of all that rots our collective soul from within.

The Smearkat accomplishes this on all fronts.

And by fronts, I mean "look between the two giant melons."

Hug me.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Zippy The Scrotehead

Zippy clearly won the HCwDB of the Week on the power of sultry aristocratic upper west side Lacy Underalls Hottness.

But, as with the Smearkat, Zippy's scroteyness can't be understated.

While he first appeared to be a hippie Bennington ultimate frisbee playing tool, the signs of a deeper douchosity are unmistakable.

The star tatts.

The hair fro.

The wristdanna.

And Jr. Ubiquitous Red Cup.

Note her hand on his stomach. This is real deal hottie/douchey wrongness, no PTP (Paid to Pose) artificiality. Thus, it is stomach punch wrong.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Truman Coyote

This pic grows on my soul like a fetid pollen.

It hurts.

At first the pic kind of appeared on the site, but didn't make a huge ripple. But this dude with a weaker chin than Ed Norton has grown with every subsequent viewing.

And while I'm not a fan of the Reese Witherspoon uber-wasp hotts, blonde is delightful.

Her curves are fantastic.

His tatt + underwear is pollutant.

The EPA just called. They're declaring this a something something... you get where I'm going with that one.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Metaphysical Hooligan

The strongest candidate, and the odds on favorite to win the Monthly.

But is the hott enough? Yesterday's pic argues absolutely. I find spitfire Italians who would scream at me and embarrass me in restaurants to be all sorts of exciting.

But can Carly compete with Lacy Underalls, Reese Hotterspoon or Boobsy McBoobs?

Or does the stench of shirtless nipple-pierce more than compensate?

That, my friends, is up to you.

This is the HCwDB of the Month.

Choose wisely. And lets dedicate this Monthly to the late, brilliant and irreplaceable George Carlin, who died yesterday at the age of 71. You will be missed.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Nothing says "Thug" like lime green matching shirt/mandana and carefully sculpted facial hair.

If only Kubrick had known that the real droogs of the future would be designer name-brand douchewanks. A Clockwork Orange would've been a whole different experience.

She is mint oreo love. In fact I'm almost sure these two have appeared on the site before. But either way, I would dip her in chocolate and make egg cremes.

I can't tell which is more upsetting, this pic, or the The Oompa Lady someone sent me.

Yikes.

EDIT: Yup, it's The Metaphysical Hooligan and Carly Hott, looking mighty fine. I almost missed it, that's what I get for a weekend of Night Train cocktails. Props to Don't Wheeze the Douche! for catching it so quickly.

Could it be?...

Is this?...

The Ab Lobster himself???

Pointing. At. A. Hott??...

My whole paradigm has been disrupted. The finger has moved towards another. It's one small step for douche, one giant leap for douche-kind.

Oh William Katt, how I loved you in The Greatest American Hero. How low you've fallen.

What?

I can't make William Katt references? Would you prefer Spencer Pratt?

And on an unrelated note, here's the takedown email for The Mourning Fathers:

can you please take down the morning of fathers pic my girlfriend and i dont want us up there

Lonely 'Bag Hunter writes in:

----
Dear DB1,

Help!! I went to high school with a sweet sweet Asian girl who rocked my world when it came to trigonometry and could balance a complex chemical equation like a Ukrainian acrobat balancing a high wire.

We had lost touch over the past 6 years though, until she added me to facebook. I was excited to see what had become of my sweet friend so I checked out her pictures and was shocked to find this girl at the edge of bleethdom, surrounded by all sorts of douche! How do I save her and in the process reclaim what's rightfully mine?!?! Help!

- Lonely 'Bag Hunter
----

The process of saving The Bleethed Out Hott is a complex one that requires patience and dedication to process. It is covered extensively in my book, being released on July 8th, but available for pre-order on Amazon.

The first step is to mock her choice of douchewankery with ironic sarcasm delivered from a safe distance. The second is to help reveal what is already in front of her -- to make visible the douchery. What Heidegger describes as the philosophical effort towards the phenomenological.

In other words, render the structure of name-brand validation visible, and it will be like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard. She will see that what she desires is cultural capital rather than authentic, and the douche-poo will become seen.

However, with any late-stage Bleeth, we must also know when to walk away. When the douchebaguette can no longer be saved, and should instead be scourned. Judging by the pic you sent of her, she may sadly be lost.

No 'bags in this pic.

Just Hott Bubble Soup. And more URC's than you can count.

It's Friday, and after the unloading of saggy shirtless greasechoads on this site over the past few days, I thought we all needed a break.

So for the guys, jump on in and do a shot of Jager with Vanessa in the Bubble Bath. For the lady readers, hop on in, there's plenty of room in there.

It's Friday Night. And this pic is 'bag free.

Except that dolphin looks suspicious. Is he making a douche-face? And is that Flipper Gesture #23?

The hott side of the equation in this pic can and should be debated. Her expression is scary. But I'm going to be generous and go with its a very unflattering pose on an otherwise decent Scandinavian au pair.

The douche side of this equation?

Uhm,...

Yes.

Somewhere, buried deep in this performative circus of Moulin Rouge upper stomach areas, I've carefully hidden a douched up hat tilt Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

PIC DELETED

Somewhere, in the distance, there is a mournful wail. And then another. They join in mutual pain.

The plaintive cries echoes over the dark streets of Mobile, Alabama. It sounds like two wounded dogs, howling together.

But it is not the noise of dogs.

It is the wail of both girl's fathers. Joined in the mutual pain of having their daughers fondled by a greased up ur-scrote.

Each father thinks back and wonders to himself. "Where did I go wrong?"

It's not your fault, fathers. The douche virus is too strong, even for the best of us.

However I will rescue your daughters. And treat them with the respect they deserve. While fondling their ankles and juggling hamsters.

"What went wrong?" she asked.
And I pointed her to this.
"Douche poo." I replied.

bag light, allsack bright
first 'bag that I've seen tonight
fun-bags, boobies...Sproing!

-- 'ol bagnanimous

Summer Solstice come
Baio-Dome contemplates tribe
Join, get tatt', bag hott.

-- baio-dome

Poppin Fresh Dough Girl
A Rebel Without A Clue
Please Oh Please Don't Breed

-- douchenozzle

Douche smell all around,
Yet stripper girlfriend smiles on.
The Bleething: complete.

-- blair

tron glasses hottie
poses with travis barker
blink 180 poo

-- bcs

Douche Super Heroes
Devastating POO Powers
Summons his Power AXE

-- vacuum cleaner bagg

Np amount of tatts, hand gestures, rings, low slung army pants, earrings or hipster glasses will hide the saggy fact of aging poorly as you hit 40, Droopy.

The kids don't think you're like that "cool uncle" they always wanted. They just think you're gross.

And no, Surfer Kelly is not into you.

She's just being polite.

A great philosopher, I think it may have been Archibald Leech, once observed that even in a barren concrete wasteland, a flower can grow.

In this case, that flower has a great tan, fantastic legs, a beautiful peroxide smile and a less attractive best friend. I want to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her while greased up with chicken-fat.

Conversely, the wasteland is trashy, smells like pledge, and has a creepy guy in the background who may or may not spend lots of money buying products from late night infomercials.

Ever thought to yourself, Gee, I wonder what would it look like if a cheesy metrosexual club scrote with giant gelled up hair who looks like Alan Cumming pawed a Germanic Fraulein in a psychedelic wind tunnel?

Well now you have an answer.

Congrats to my hometown Boston Celtics on their 17th Championship, and I'm pleased to see Ubiquitous Red Cup and Cavedouche merged into one singularity at the post-game celebration.

And while I'm doing an off-topic post, I want to take a moment to honor the late, great creature and effects artist Stan Winston, who died a few days ago at the age of 62. There was probably no one who greater impacted my childhood than the designer of the creatures in The Terminator, Predator and Aliens.

I had the pleasure of meeting Stan Winston at Comicon last year and he was a class act. Rest in Peace, Stan.

I woke up feeling refreshed this morning.

Maybe it was the bizarre cocktail of Patron and Mr. Pibb I came up with at 2am last night that destroyed all bacteria in my lower intestine, but I felt strangely cleansed.

I got out of bed and stretched.

I fed last night's leftovers to the British street urchins I keep locked up in the basement to amuse people at parties, and put out some granola on the porch for the Lemurs.

I watered down the petunias in my garden and gargled some windex to cleanse the palette. Then I went inside to the study.

Lighting up a stogie and pouring a shot of rum for Jobu, I contemplated the famous words of 16th Century astronomer Tyco Brahe, who stared up at the Prague skyline one night and casually remarked, "I have to pee."

So I peed.

Then I contemplated Pierre Bourdieu's concept of "Social capital." How it informs the erotics of the douche/hott through the markers of name-brand validation (Armani/Exchange, etc.). How we flatter ourselves into thinking our sexuality is innate, when it's actually guided by complex social forces that profit from ennabling cultural anxieties in the social sphere.

Then I stared at pictures of boobies. Boobies make lil' head very happy.

I reached no grand conclusions, neither from Bourdieu, nor from boobies. But it's Thursday morning and the sun is shining, and I'm still in New York. The book comes out in a few weeks. There's a whole new crop of scrotes and hotts in my in-box this morning to go through and mock.

So there is still hope to save the boobie hotties from the wrongness of douchescrotery. And if we can drink along the journey, then all the better.

It is rare when we name a douche after oil itself.

This is that time.

At first I was going to give the Carmen Electra fan a nottadouche pass, a hearty handshake, then a kick out of the picture so I can stare at some inflated celebuboobs.

But then I noticed the dual ant-pattern facial pube config. Annoying. Stupid.

But enough to stamp "'bag" on his forehead? That's where I need you to weigh in.

'Bag? Or Not a 'Bag?

This is classic punch-in-the-gut "There is no God" Hottie/Douchey wrongness.

Three delightful suburban girls who want to get back at daddy, commingling with Suburban poseur-punk Opie Ron Howard Douche, all while two Ubiquitous Red Cups monitor the situation.

Middle Brunette wants me to tickle her pet ferret with a pigeon feather I fished out of the Hudson. Which I would. Because her pet ferret needs tickling.

And by pet ferret, I mean a literal pet ferret. His name is "Ralph." What'd you think I meant? Perv.

Sweet Veronica went for a Vegas Vacation,
She hoped for transcendent elation,
She walked to the pool,
And got mugged by two tools,
Whose gesticulations were of a castration vocation.

That doesn't even make sense. I need a coffee. Surely you can do better than that in the comments thread.

Was there any doubt?

In the last Weekly before next week's Monthly, there was no stopping the dominance of the Metaphysical Hooligan and Italian Ice Hott, Carly. Mr. Bungle makes the case:

This is a clear win by The Metaphysical Hooligan. Not only does he sport the starscrote action, but the Vanilla Ice pout and the spike-mullet combo put it over the top for me.

And she is a lovely plate of delicious canoli that I hope would melt in my mouth and not in my hand.

Well put, Mr. B. Grumpy Llama agrees:

Gotta be The Metaphysical Hooligan. While I'd like to thank the other contestants for playing, this really was over before it began. Italian Pastry Hott is not quite up to par with the others, but Hooligan, with the star and the sneer and the soul patch, is just a barbed-wire arm band tattoo away from being the Grand Poobah of Douches. With what he's got going for him, he could be snuggling Rosie O'Donnell and still be a contender.

And that, my friends, makes him something special.

That's exactly it, GL, and thank you for the "snuggling Rosie O'Donnell" image so early in the morning. As the everpresent anonymous puts it:

Metaphysical Hooligan, for the deep carnal rage against humanity that he inspires in me.

Heh. "Carnal rage against humanity." However the sheer power of the douching trough for Butterday Night Fever also made a strong case. our fragile griecosystem explains:

Butterday Night Fever due to the corey(hart)ography involved and the 2.5/1 nerdvana of hotness/douche ratio. Also the spray-on tans and the way the Last of the Scrotehicans presides over the whole affair.

Dr. McDouchie agrees, arguing for the pool-hott butt lineup for Weekly:

Butterday Night Fever is the suckle buns/grease muscle dichotomy amplified to 60mph and wedged under our collective fingernails. Those beautiful watercolors could inspire a Maurice Prendergast masterpiece, while those choads resemble beer poo. Bunnday Morning Hangover FTW.

Well said Doctor, and the Trough will have serious consideration for a 2008 Douchie. But clear a well earned spot for the sneering wrongness of the Hooligan. Pappa's Got a Brand New Bagg explains:

The Hooligan deserves his landslide victory. He might as well be running against the green party.

And Massengill:

Metaphysical Hooligan FTW. The sneer, the star, the stare, the chin hair...he's the total package. And by package I mean douche. I suspect his hott is a notary public.

Indeed, Mass. Crucial Head makes the final exclamation point on MH and Carly's win, and by win, I mean douche-poo:

He makes me want to fondle a grizzly cub in front of its mother so she would swiftly put me out of my misery. She makes me want to take a warm shower while fondling a water balloon.

Dust off the shelf and elevate the MH for a well deserved Weekly, and the final spot in the Monthly smack-off.

Lauren writes in:

----
Hey DB1-

So I just spent the weekend in South Beach, FL for a bachelorette party.

I was going through my pictures just now with my friend Kyle who is an avid HCwDB.com visitor and he asked if there were any HCwDB's in any of our pics. I assumed there surely must be some, so we started keeping our eyes peeled while flipping through the chronicles of the Final Freedom Flight. When this one popped up, we both started cracking up so I felt obliged to send it to you.

At first glance, he's a total Waldouche...but I don't know, something about the helmet head makes me want to say 'Speed Racerbag'...yet, the deer-in-headlights facial expression also forced me to consider 'Bambibag.' Anyway, figured I'd send it along and see if you had monikers that might be a little more clever and fitting.

I'm still going through the pictures, so if I find anything else with such 'bagtacular qualities, I'll be sure to send them along.

Happy 'baghunting...
Lauren
----

I see him more like the "Thank you God!" kid in Animal House. He just fell into a pile of giggle-hotts, and they're way more ambulatory and three dimensional than when he secretly goes through his dad's Playboys in the garage.

So for that, I give him a pass.

As to your group of Bachelorette Friends, I would help them brew Malaysian coffee while fondling their inner thighs with a quart of Quaker State and some large ball bearings. Because I'm classy like that.

Gunter and Klaus want you.

Yes, you.

To try their new musky perfume, Arschloch. Available at fine stores everywhere, like Macy's.

Oh Sister Christian, you're not overly sexy, but you are very sweet. You still deserved to be rescued from that shaved chest 'bag sandwich.

Angry Girl writes in:

----
DB1-

If there's anything or anyone I hate more than Dane Cook, it's someone who actually aspires to be him. Dane Cook is this guy's hero; He considers himself a local celebrity in F@#ING TENNESSEE.

He's always talking on his iphone (for which he never paid my friend back) saying things like, "ya beautiful" and "oh, i'll catch ya lata babe. ya know i loves ya." you wanna read the rap he wrote? let me know.

his repuation only exists at some townie bar, and yet he's deluded enough to think he's ballin'. for christ's sake, he constantly uses "hollywood" and "vegas" as ADJECTIVES to describe his pathetic mundane life. this guy SUMS UP douche.

- Angry Girl
----

Yikes. I almost feel bad for the guy after that verbal whiplashing. But not bad enough not to post his ass to the site.

Do I want to read the rap he wrote?

Yes. Yes I do.

When Suzie's therapist advised her to look closely to read the signs about her relationship with Thad, Suzie took it a bit too literally.

Remember Clarence, every time you grab a girl by the butt, a Tatt Angel gets his wings.

Scoliosis is a medical condition in which a person's spine is curved from side to side, and may also be rotated. On an x-ray, the spine of an individual with a typical scoliosis may look more like an "S" or a "C" than a straight line.

It is typically classified as congenital (caused by vertebral anomalies present at birth), idiopathic (sub-classified as infantile, juvenile, adolescent, or adult according to when onset occurred) or as having developed as a secondary symptom of another condition, such as cerebral palsy or spinal muscular doucheyness.

In case you ever wondered how Young M.C. Escher stores his alcohol when busting a move.

People Magazine reports on Aniston dating Mayerbag, aka Lumbergh:

----
Jennifer Aniston had a late private lunch with musician John Mayer in a Miami restaurant that opened Friday afternoon just for them, and then the couple spent a lengthy dinner together Friday night.

When it came to lunch, "I was happy to accommodate them," says Charles Bell, general manager of Michael's Genuine Food & Drink in the Miami Design District, which opened its doors for the pair early at 3:30 p.m. for the 90-minute meal.

Aniston, in Miami shooting the movie Marley & Me with Owen Wilson, ordered a chopped chicken salad, while Mayer had a Serrano ham sandwich which "Jen ate some of," says Bell. For dessert, they shared a chocolate-and-peanut-butter layered treat.

Sitting across from each other in a booth, their heads were close together, and they were engaged in a private conversation, says Bell.

"I can't speculate on what kind of meeting it was but they looked happy and seemed to have a great time," he says.
----

Sure, they shared a "chocolate-and-peanut-butter layered treat." But did he show her his sleeve tatts and attempts to retroactively rewrite his musical legacy as something other than pop-pablum record label corporate designed genericism?

Whiny Beyoch writes in:

----
You have taken a picture that belongs to my company and events, please take "Brothabag Leon" down immediately or further action will be taken. Thank you!!!!
----

And here I was trying to do my part to prove that douchebaggery cuts across all racial and ethnic lines.

Ya know, you try to do a good deed, you try to advance the cause of human rights and equal opportunity mocking of douchescrotery, and this is the thanks you get.

So your humble commentator on all things curvy/Preparation-H, The DB1, is in New York.

I'm reviewing the first hot off the presses copies of my book, and it looks amazing. Full color, 90% all new pics, and the design team did an amazing job. A coffee table memento of our cultural pushback against the douchescrote. Buy your copy here, and yes there will be more shameless pimping to come.

I'm also planning the book party in Las Vegas on July 19th, as well as some book signings where you can come out and see if the Ab Lobster shows up to kick my ass.

Welcome to the first installment of Big Head / Lil' Head, where the heads collide over the wrongness of a Hottie/Douchey pic:

Lil' Head: Boobies!!

Big Head: C'mon, Lil' Head, there are no reeming qualities to this hott. Look at the giant turd floating in front of her!

Lil' Head: I don't care. I see boobies and I want boobies. Boobies!!

Big Head: He's got "grillz," lil' head!! Surely the company she keeps reflects on her relative worth as a viable sexual partner.

Lil' Head: Shut the hell up Big Head and go get me a chicken pot pie. I'm starin' at boobies. And suckle worthy thighs.

Big Head: Alls I'm saying lil' head is that your desire for the curvy thigh keeps getting us in trouble!

Lil' Head: That's not my problem, Big Head. That's for you to figure out.

Big Head: Which is why I'm explaining that her choice in tatted up hand gesturing grillz wearing freakdouche should be enough to at least temper your desire for the humpity hump.

Lil' Head: You don't get out much, do you?

Big Head: I get out as much as you do, we're the same person.

Lil' Head: No we aren't. If we were, you'd want to nuzzle in the boobie hills and smack the douche with a soggy rye.

Big Head: I do. I'm just trying to show you that the boobie hotts often devalue themselves by cohabitating with douchewank. This should affect your desire.

Lil' Head: Well it don't. Now shut your gob, I want the flesh pillows, and her two best friends, Kimmy and Kelly!!

Big Head: (sigh)

and.... scene.

Happy birthday, gorgeous.

Butt soft, what ass through yonder window breaks?

Oh glutteous maximus buttocks of butt crunching delight. How dost though line up in front of so greasy a group of choadbuckets?

Six glorious butts.
Four greasy bungs.

Twelve award winning cheeks.
Four muscle bound freaks.

I would partake of those Butts I Am.

I've gone from Shakespeare riffs to Dr. Suess rhymes, all in less time then it would take me to hop across those butts like James Bond escaping from the crocodile pit in Live and Let Die.

Random assorted pics that didn't get a fully entry, as I clean out the digital attic on this Friday afternoon:

Brothabag Leon goes for a drive, all by his lonesome self, with only his new facial patterns to comfort him.

Facebook Poet He's Alwayz Down For Wuteva gets his groove on in Wood Paneling White-Trashdom.

William Scrotespeare's As You Spike It finds another Lady MacBeth.

The Gator ditches the chicks and finds love.

And then there's the luckiest dude with a girl next door hott I've seen in weeks. I couldn't even run 'Bag / Not a 'Bag on that guy. Instead, I just want to buy him a beer.

Speaking of beer, it's time to crack open a PBR, toast all of you for joining me on this week's journey, give props to all who submitted, and sail on into the Friday Evening blood red sunset like a 19th Century pirate vessel on the pixelated digital highway...

Loved you in Indiana Jones and The Chest Fungus of Doom.

He who make double hand gesture and pouty lips attract double hott quartasians with lippy pouts.

Man. I'm completely ashamed of myself for making this joke.

Accomplished Douche Hunter, friend of the site and absolutely lucious hott, K Hottie is back with another 'bag tag:

----
Hey DB1-

it's been a long time . . . there's really no worthy excuse for my absence. there is plenty of douche-baggery to be found and exposed. my deepest and most sincere apologies.

On to the good stuff. I met up with an old friend saturday night and to my surprise rekindled the old flame with 'bag hunting. I hope that you enjoy this complete douchebag giving the shocker. One of the most obvious signs a DB can put out there . . .

with all my heart,

Boat choad flexes tatts,
Ubiquitous Red Cup knows,
Shark attack needed.

Corey Haim tat bag.
Asphyxiates with poo smell
Throat cut too shallow.

-- vacuum cleaner bagg

Douchey Prince Colwyn
Childhood memory ruined
Krull glaive once was cool

-- mitch meats

Hairline receding
Boat has A thirty year lease
Bald douche in eight months

-- Ragnar Danneskjöld

He found a townie
At his dad's cabin up north
Sailing Lake Flaccid

-- clementine of cappadoucha

What Tribe Would Have You
Bimbo Boat will Soon Sail,
Dont Cry Lost Sailor

-- douchenozzle

Uhm... yeah.

Where to begin.

Ya know, instead of listing the many cultural violations of this atrocity, perhaps we should simply hose him down with bleach and call it a day.

Brunette is giving me what I like to call "The Sexy Stare of Wrong." Because it's sexy, it's a stare, and what follows afterwards is all sorts of wrong. Even illegal in many southern states.

Brunette Hott also looks like the high school actress that Michael J. Fox snags in Teen Wolf.

Ah, Teen Wolf. Was there any life lesson you didn't impart?

Joyce (not in the picture) writes in:

----
Hey, DB1.

Okay. After a long day at work, I just like to go home, relax, check my e-mail, and catch up on TiVo. What I DO NOT WANT, however, is a creepy messages on MySpace. I get them all the time (who doesn't?), mostly from crazy freakishly muscular dudes (who are apparently into Asian chicks. Who knew?).

Anyway, I knew this one was different. It was a message from a random scrote saying only, "You are amazing[.]" Ugh, bad opening. His profile picture intrigued me, though, and I went to his profile to further investigate.

Lo and behold, utter douchebaggery! And some pretty hot chicks! I was so excited to catch one in the wild that I thought of you immediately. I can only hope that the douchescrote/hottie ratio is high enough to grace the pages of your website.

Hoping you'll defend my honor and with all my love,
-- joyce
----

Joyce, I will of course defend your honor from the online douchescrote Myspace attack. But first, send pics. Of yourself. With librarian glasses, a can of PBR in your left hand, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a Q-tip.

Because I'm freaky like that.

Is Frank from the Inland Empire 'bag? Or should we give him a nottadouche pass?

He's got the hand gesture, the chinstrap and the bizarre tanning goggles on, but something isn't quite congealing into scrotal reality here.

I'm on the fence, so I figured I'd open it up to debate.

What say you?

And what about cross-eyed young Britney? Would you lick her ankles like an anteater on no-doze?

Somewhere in this pic of curvy body Slip-n-Slide adult playground amusement park Six Flags Boob Adventure, I've carefully hidden a greased up aquabag Waldouche in Inverted Shocker Attack Position.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Well it may be a day late and a boobie short, thanks to yesterday's software freeze, but the votes are cast and the winner of a tough three-way competition was Truman Coyote and Legally Blonde Hott. ol' dirty douchebag explains:

It's all about the scrote this week so I can't get distracted by the meatballs' hott and by distracted I mean pink steel. It's Truman over Dewey FTW. He is literally the scum of the earth.

Well put ODD. the bag queen agrees:

Coyote all the way. The swedouche meatballs are just pathetic, and the wheatstalk just isn't all that full on himself. Coyote on the other hand is posing like he's really something. And by something I mean bubonic-plagued rat vomit. I really dislike this guy. Like alot. And the hott is pure sweetness. This level of contrast is creating a rift in my psyche and I don't know if I will ever be the same again.

Hang in there BQ. Collectively we will work through the trauma. And Vernon Clampett:

Truman, however, is all douches to all people. Though he's curiously run-of-the-mill for a douche with a huge tattoo on his torso, his douchiness is pure, uncorrupted by the vanities of, say, wit, grace, charm, consideration. He is the Super Ego with no Id.

Well said, V.C. Coming in second, the Swedish Meatballs found their fans, as the Everpresent Anonymous casts in:

The Meatballs! Any penis-carrying man's man would never combine armband, mullet, and DIOR! And what is up with that amazingly boring tat - it looks like a tile design from a swimming pool.

Right you are, unnamed comment thread person.

But grumpy llama makes the case for the spectacular hair of Wheatstalks:

But Wheatstalks is something special. Perhaps I shouldn't vote for him because the stress of being a douche has accelerated his Male Pattern Baldness, and for us to add to that the ignominy of being HCwDB of the Week would be like kicking a puppy. Ah, f@#k it, some puppies need a good kicking. Wheatstalks it is.

The Wheatstalks is definitely a spectacle, and I would guess that hair will be in the running for a 2008 Douchie Award in December. shia ladouche explains:

Wheatstalks, if only because he has lost more of amber waves of grain to male-pattern baldness since the last time he graced the site.

And by graced, I mean pooed all over our faces with his ridiculous haircut.

For those wondering why I left Friday Follicle off the list, the brunette hott was grumbling in the comments thread and I couldn't risk the odds on a take-down request. But I agree, that pic should've been a finalist. And we will definitely see Wuteva in the 2008 Douchies, so worry not, his poetic verse will find recognition.

But give it up to Truman Coyote for the grease-stained win. don't wheeze the douche! explains:

I think I'll go with Truman Coychoade simply because he looks to suffer the Napoleon Syndrome as well as a severe case of jackassery. And dieter agrees:

The meatballs' hott is one of the finest we've seen, but I am voting for Truman Coyote in cold blood. He is the scrotiest, and his hott is wonderful.

david scroterfield: agrees, offering up this argument:

Truman FTW. I can't quite read his tat, but it looks like it might say "IPECAC", and he certainly has that effect on me. Also impressive: a second chin on an otherwise skinny scrote. How does that happen, exactly?

And, finally, samantha puts Coyote in New York historical douchespective:

Capote's got it all...the hand gesture, the hat tilt, the horrible tats, the square of chin pubes, and the adorable hatted hott hanging on him like Edie Sedgwick hung on Andy Warhol. The resemblance is uncanny.

Anyone busting the Warhol/Sedgwick reference earns points in my book. And by points, I mean boobies.

Give it up to The Coyote, and we'll see them in the Monthly.

Miami Mice Hunter writes in:

----
Mr. DB1-

Attached is a picture of a close relative of mine (in the blue dress) and her friends. The Miami douche has been well-documented on your site, but this time it has hit close to home.

Living in the city and going out here always feels like a safari -- you look at the scrotes (i.e. Miami douche) from a safe distance and you can always get away when the action gets too close. But not anymore. The scrotes have taken one of my own.

I come to you a broken and bewildered man seeking advice. My close relative has already been sucked into the douche wilderness, but how do I keep her from getting bleethed out? And is there any hope she can escape the ugly clutch of these douches one day?

Sincerely,
Miami Mice Hunter
----

MMH, to gauge the rescuability of any hott on her way to Bleeth, one must look for signs of Douche Virus Infection (DVI). Is she busting sideways peace sign hand gestures? Wearing stupid-ass sunglasses indoors and at night? Etc.

In the case of your "close relative," she remains smiling, unpolluted and innocent, with highly suckable inner thighs. This would mark her only a stage-1 Bleeth, and therefore highly saveable.

The de-Bleething process is simple. Just whisk her away to a safehouse where you can huddle in the cement basement playing Connect Four until getting her drunk on mead, then pawing through her purse and suckling on her used kleenex like an arthritic otter from Bangladesh.

Okay, a cleaned up Yeti. But still a Yeti.

And sure, maybe he's not that bag. But Natalie is my little Hebraic librarian princess whom I would lather her shoulders with fabric softener then quietly nose-butt her agent's cell phone.

So, to honor the hypothetical lathered shoulders of Ms. Portman, I mock the bearded prophet with annoying bling, man-purse and scary jean short-shorts. For he is scrote.

PIC DELETED

I continue to get complaints that I don't post enough brothabags on the site.

I can't tell if it's because so much of douchebaggery involves suburban white-boys trying to "front" a gangsta toughness, or if the Brothas simply look more badass and less poseury in general.

Then again, it's hard to find a douchey brothabag like Leon here. What with the Frank Gehry designed facial hair and requisite East Asian Hott on his arm. He is power scrote.

So, in the medical interests of continuing to demonstrate that douchebaggery cuts across all racial, ethnic and stupid tatt lines, here's Leon.

Who could bench press my spine like a licorice whip.

I came over to help you with your math homework.

If you're seeing this pic then two things have occurred.

1) Google has finally fixed its crappy-ass Blogger publishing software, and I can update the site again, although updates will be spotty today and the HCwDB Winner will be tomorrow.

2) Asian hott's grease sandwich has many tiny microbe life forms in it that are yet to be discovered by scientists.

But I do dig the little hint of pale hip poking out above her panty-line. It's like the hip equivalent of Cleavite. "Hipite"?

I was pleased as Night Train spiked punch to learn last month that HCwDB will receive an "Official Honoree" award in the Culture/Personal Blog category at the 2008 Webby Awards.

Check me out, I'm right between National Public Radio and Wired Media. I would like to commend the judges for realizing that, with the power of a single hottie/douchey mocking blog, I'm saving the world.

Oh sure, some may see what we do here is trivial. As simply the collective philosophical musings engendered by the dialectics of boobie lust and douche mock.

But do not let the scrotal rantings hide the larger cultural transformation. Because when you mock a single hott/douche, you pay it forward globally. Next month the book comes out, and from there, we take over the world.

We are the real Climate Change. And if we get to stare at boobies along the way, then all the better.

The show is tonight in New York, but since I'm half drunk and stumbling around my apartment trying to find my socks and wondering if Preparation H can shrink tribal tatts, I won't be able to attend in person. Which kills me, because David Byrne is one of my heroes, and he's gonna be there. No word on if the giant suit will make an appearance.

But if anyone is there tonight and hears a mention of HCwDB, drop me a line and let me know. Or if someone can get a pic of Arianna Huffington with some raging douche like Ryan Seacrest, send it along. She's quite the tasty cougar.

As we learned from last week's science article, New Jersey barnyard swallows can radically increase their testosterone with only the help of a $5.99 magic marker.

Although in this case, saline may also play a role.

I would still love cherubic plunging neckline hott with a clipboard and Thomas Dolby glasses on until she quietly asked me to leave, and to take my limited edition Doctor Who model Zygon from Terror of the Zygons with me.

Sure, the smart kids went to real schools and we got into The Ronkonkoma Institute for Hair and Makeup Studies, but who's laughing now?

I'm a little cranky today.

I can't tell if it's because I switched my usual four bowls of Frosted Flakes nutritious breakfast to two bowls of Frosted Flakes, two bowls of Trix, and a large chocolate Hostess cupcake (for vitamins).

But then I remembered a hypothetical exercise I like to practice when I'm feeling cranky. I imagine something that would annoy me taking place. Then I think to myself, "Well, at least ____ didn't happen."

Well, at least a tiny lawnmower didn't shave off the top of my head.

There. All better.

Cuz he's once... twice... three times... an ab displaying greased up putzclown....

...nah.

No need to finish that sentence. Too obvious. It's like shooting Wheaties in a barrel.

But his Hollywood Hott Du Jour (who would love him just as much even if he wasn't a rich, vacuous layabout with nothing to say and no purpose for consuming food and oxygen other than to produce waste), is very curvy.

h/t The Superficial.

Eh, I'll yank that last prom pic because I kind of feel bad for the kid. Instead, I'll post the Metaphysical Hooligan.

Because every so often a HCwDB pic comes along that's like having your soul mugged by metaphysical hooligans.

You know metaphysical hooligans. Those unemployed slacker spirits who hang out by the ethereal bus stop near the corner where abstract thought meets conceptual space-time.

That place beyond matter, light and energy, where pure electromagnetic waves come together to form the universal spirit.

And then get bitch-slapped by the utter, undeniable reality of this pic's huge douche with pierced nipples.

Carly has an unconventional sexyness. Some may complain, but to me, she is that Laura San Giacomo Italian seductress that twinkles my oscillating electrons.

But what vibrates the rhythmic "Om" of the Universal Harmonic Resonance is one simple fact:

The Metaphysical Hooligan sucks alpaca balls.

When your parents are out of town at an insurance convention and there was a 50% off sale on headbands at the Gap, what time is it?

Zima time.

Watch out, Sharon, Linda and Kelly.

The Zima Boyz are gettin' frisky.

Dundee's Jazzy Aussie Hott writes in:

----
I’d appreciate it if you removed the ‘Crackodile Dundee’ photo/profile. Although I do find your site amusing, and your little spiel about me and my partner – I do find some of the comments a little slack, and I guess I am kind of offended.

As you said on your homepage – if your emailed and asked to remove a picture – you will. So please do.

P.s. You can let all our online buddies know that my tits are well and truly real. Just thought you’d like to know.
----

If there's anything about my comments thread regulars that can be noted, it's their damn slack. Slackers.

So, to make up for it, here's a pic of a girl with The Fresh Prince of Bel Air's Carlton. Who isn't douchey. But he is Carlton.

An incredibly pungent week pf pics last week (props to all who submitted), leads me to turn to my trusty arbiter of all that needs arbiting, alcohol, to select the final three.

My post-sugar-rush haze after two packets of Twizzlers, a half a bag of Fiddle Faddles, and fourteen Pabst Blue Ribbons out of my special issue limited edition Ubiquitous Plaid Cup led me to the following three HCwDB of the Week Finalists. Vote wisely:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Wheatstalks

Hells, might as well give this uberscrote another shot at a Weekly.

With hair that hilarious, and a chiquita that bouncy, he's got the goods to go all the way.

And by all the way, I mean really stupid ass hair.

The only thing holding back Wheatstalks is that he's so clownish he almost inverts the douche paradigm of obnoxiousness.

He also has no real hand gestures, no annoying bling, and no tribal tatts.

Even his face isn't very douche-facey.

But that hair. That shirt. She is Mediterranean sweat hott. And he is poo.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Meatballs

Rare is the Swedish Delight so snowflake clean in the middle of a classic Eurobag sandwich of scrote.

I put it to you, Greg.

Yellow armband. Mullet. Dior Sunglasses.

She is a roots showing curvy non-scoliosis suffering arched back of skin lick.

I am in pain. I loves me some milky jean short-shorts.

I would castrate a peruvian wolf without Novocaine just for the chance to smack her grandmother's corpse with a bottle of Absinthe.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Truman Coyote

This Wednesday Limerick combo of classic Vegas Choad and sexy mamacita hott deserves a shot in the finals, if for no other reason than that tatt.

Also, since it was limerick time, the Reese Witherspoon Legally Hott did not get remotely that proper attention that she deserves.

And by proper attention, I mean my hiding behind her Kia Sport at 2am dressed as a giant marshmallow.

Every classic HCwDB pic must have that proper balance between sweet innocent boobie hottie and utterly rank choad.

Which of these three pics rises to winner status?

That, my fellow 'bag hunters, is up to you.

Vote for your winner, as always, in the comments thread.

Honorable mention to Trainwreckin' in Rehab, the Friday Follicles Haiku and the toughest omission of all, He's Alwayz Down for Wuteva, whose poetic verse wasn't enough to compensate for a mediocre douche-pose.

Sometimes, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, you just gotta put on your best checkered tablecloth vest, blow-dry your mullet, and be the ball.

.... but what you can do for your country.

By now, pretty much everyone knows Dane Cook is a huge douche.

But how many people have explained exactly why is Dane Cook a huge bag of douche?

That is the question.

Here is a media concocted pseudo-comedian with less talent than a stuttering Screech and whiter teeth than Tony Robbins bursting onto the scene in one giant toxic swirl of unfunny. Then, in no time, amplifying from 0 to 60 up the multimedia stratus of accomplishment in a blazing hail of lame frat jokes and physical hand gestures.

Headlining tour. HBO special. Late night appearances. Each media outlet carefully built to feed off the others, package together, and launch "Dane Cook" into the mass consciousness as the next "comedy superstar."

We were told we liked him. We were told other people liked him. Which meant we must like him, too. Because they liked him. And they are we.

Only unlike the organic and legit accomplishment of, say, the talented Steve Carrell, who actually earned his place at the top by being funny, Cook's force-fed limelight down all of our collective throats has caused the collective regurgitating response. The clarion call to focus all this noise around something, anything real: A begging we are all making of his sorry, generic ass: DO SOMETHING REAL.

Say something authentic. Express a genuine emotion. Have an opinion. Offer a joke that actually might piss someone off.

Because simply being unfunny isn't enough of an offense by Cook. If simply being "unfunny "meant you were a douche, mid 1990s Robin Williams would've grown a rubber bag out of his ass and cleansed women's private hoohoos from here to Bangledesh.

Which, come to think of it, may have actually happened.

No, what makes Dane Cook a huge douche is his carefully softened "injury free" safe ride of genericism. His media constructed "regular guy" persona. His genericized jokes of pure pablum, meant to vaguely invoke nostalgic memories of your drunk college best friend while carefully designed to offend absolutely no one.

Cook is the sackless tamper-proof Hollywood creation of genericized un-humor sold as pseudo-humor and operating as placebo effect. An opinion-free puddle of blandified "good looks" carefully designed and set up to sell across multiple medium platforms. Dane Cook isn't a human being, he's a focus tested brand. A career built soft-drink. Selling out every ounce of originality in the hope of suckling from the mass processed cookie cutter rewards offered by the 24/7 media age.

I'm not saying every comedian has to take on the edge of genius that the late, great Bill Hicks and brilliant Mitch Hedberg brought on stage with them. Jerry Seinfeld isn't exactly cutting edge, but no one's calling Jerry Seinfeld a huge douche.

Because Seinfeld was who he was.

Dane Cook wouldn't know what he was if you asked him to look for it. The self has no place when the image transcends all, and the rewards justify the vacuity.

Dane Cook is a focus tested girl scout cookie. A packaged "best friend drinking buddy" for guys, "sweet former boyfriend who listens and cares" for girls. He has one and only one role in his theater of the self -- ingratiate all, offend none. The "superfinger" his carefully constructed "naughty" bit to extend just to the margins of PG-13 ratings. Just enough to earn his "cred," before Cook runs off to above-the-title the next Jessica Simpson uncomedy.

For that, and those stupid-ass hairdos, you, Dane Cook, are elevated into the pantheon of celebridouche.

Now get off the stage, assface.

There was some doubt about whether April's Chippy was a douche or just the luckiest Eric Estrada CHiPs looking mofo to cross the site in some time.

This pic answers that query.

Chippy is rank.

Last summer's spiky haired corn harvest douche, Wheatstalks, is back, although as bouncy as Chiquita is, with a bit of a hott downgrade.

Unfortunately it looks like this year's crop is getting a little thinner there, 'Stalkboy.

Did Kevin Costner build a baseball field up there?

Today's Neo-Modernist Facebook Poetry selection comes from He's Always Down for Wuteva:

---
~~ Lets see...IM ALWAYZ DOWN FOR WUTEVA, AND IF U KNOW ME THEN U KNOW THATZ THE TRUTH. Im an animal at partyz, i live it up for the memories and when i cant remember s@#t the next day i just smile and knew it wuz a good night....No matter what comes my way i take it and roll wit it, cuz "YA'LL NIGGAZ CANT TAKE MUH PRIDE, YA'LL NIGGAZ CANT HOOOLD ME DOWN, OH NO I GOT TO KEEP ON MOVINNN."

Im movin at a fast pace and if u wit me then itz gonna get HECTIC but if u cant keep up ya gonna get left behind......Im just feelin good 24/7 and nothing can phase me at this point, I got mi familia here and thatz all i need. Juss appreciating wut i got....Everythingz goin my way, so when u see me ya gonna see a grin ear to ear. BY THE WAY TRUE PEOPLEZ CALL ME "JP", other than that aint much more to say, ya wanna know more guess ya just gonna have to find out ur damn self....Im
OUTTTYYYYYY.....ONE~~
----
Hmm. Sort of reminds me of another "JP" on this site.

Note how He's Alwayz Down for Wuteva invokes a post-structuralist inversion of power as challenge to authority in his use of "Niggaz" as a pejorative for those who attempt to "take his pride." This meta-commentary on linguistic slippage within ethnic power relations and construction of identity foregrounds the violence of embedded language structures by inverting dominant meaning codes.

Or he just sucks balls.

Blow, blow, thou greasy wind!

Thou are not as unkind as a douche's scrotitude. True it is that we have seen better days. And by better, I mean less douchey.

For all the world is a stage, and all the 'bags and hotts merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one douche smells like poo.

Lithe Rosalind, how dost thou not wear librarian glasses? How now?

For ever and a day, I would hump thy teddybear. For ever and a day...

-- As You Spike It
William Scrotespeare

Follicles erupt.
Audrina Hott confused. "Zonj?"
God kicks a puppy.

implant funbags round
cretinous slime snuggles hott
hairspray pollutes pool

-- 'bag lanta

jimmy neutron douche
asian breasts next to the zonj
rehab. no, no, no.

- bcs

Kick bag in the nuts,
Oh quartasian boobies,
me love you long time

-- douche bigalow

Tia Carrere
and douchebag Zonj McChoadie
star in "The Fly III"

-- k-dog

Balloons 'bout to pop,
Keep away from cactus hair!
Douchebag of the week?

-- blair

----
WASHINGTON (AP) — A little strategically placed makeup quickly turns the wimpiest of male barn swallows into chick magnets, amping up their testosterone and even trimming their weight, new research shows.

It's a "clothes make the man" lesson that — with some caveats — also applies to human males, researchers say.

Using a $5.99 marker, scientists darkened the rust-colored breast feathers of male New Jersey barn swallows, turning lighter birds to the level of those naturally darkest.

They had already found, in a test three years ago, that the marked-up males were more attractive to females and mated more often. This time they found out that the more attractive appearance, at least in the bird world, triggered changes to the animals' body chemistry, increasing testosterone.

"Other females might be looking at them as being a little more sexy, and the birds might be feeling better about themselves in response to that," said study co-author Kevin McGraw, an evolutionary biology professor at Arizona State University.

McGraw said the findings are surprising, in part because the hormonal changes occurred after only one week.

The study was published in Tuesday's edition of the journal Current Biology.

In the 30 male barn swallows who were darkened, testosterone was up 36 percent after one week, during a time of year when levels of that hormone would normally drop.

At the same time, testosterone levels in the 33 birds that didn't get the coloring treatment fell by half, said lead author Rebecca Safran, an evolutionary biology professor at the University of Colorado in Boulder.

"It's the `clothes make the man'" idea, Safran said. "It's like you walk down the street and you're driving a Rolls Royce and people notice. And your physiology accommodates this."

Before you feel superior to these birds, Safran cautioned, people's mating systems are more similar to birds' than we might like to admit.

Barn swallows are "socially monogamous and genetically promiscuous, same as humans," she said. "There are some interesting parallels, but we do need to be careful about making them."

In people, hormonal changes have been observed after changes in behavior. A 1998 study found that loyal male fans of sports teams experienced a 20 percent rise in testosterone when their teams won.

The researchers aren't certain how the testosterone boost happens. It could be that because of the darkened color, the birds mate more often and that changes their testosterone levels.

It could also be that because of the darkened color, other males think the pecking order has changed and that boosts the darker swallows' hormone levels. Or it could be both. The authors said figuring out which theory is right is the next step.

The birds' weight loss is more easily explained, Safran said. The more macho swallows could be spending more time mating than eating or working off the calories, she said.
----

This explains much, but does it explain groin tatts?

article

PIC DELETED

----
DB1-

How do I spot a DB in the work environment if I don't
own a gym? I'm originally from northern Jersey ( the good part ) so I am very comfortable spotting 'bags due to early exposure to their toxic society.

But I feel that unless they are in construction, car sales, or personal trainers you never see them in white collar positions- are they here? If so, where? In the business world, do they disguise themselves?

- J-Vol
----

What you're describing is the tagging of the white collar douche, or what those at the Smithsonian have labeled The Business Scrote.

While tagging a Business Scrote is harder than, say, tagging a Jerz Guid, it can still be done. But very rarely in the work environment itself. One must position one's self in after-work hangouts to capture the Business Scrote in a moment of relaxation, and thus, revelation.

Once you've tagged a Business Scrote, wait until they turn to their buddy "Chet," to discuss a hedge fund, then move in quickly to liberate the hott by casually mentioning your enjoyment of the songs of crooner Michael Bolton (mention you "celebrate his entire catalogue.")

Unless they're reading the Wall Street Journal. At that point, just kick them in the nads.

Somewhere in this gaggle of the worst bar choads this side of Red's Tube Bar in Hoboken, I've carefully hidden an absolutely tasty pre-Bleethed Tara Reid Viva Las Vegas Waldhott.

Look closely.

Can you find her?

Inspired by the Swedish 'bag tag done earlier this week by reader Froggy, Mintz sends us more evidence of scrotebaggery going on in Sweden, this time at an outdoor beer fest.

When the European beer fests are sporting greased up Miami/Jersey clones macking on the automaton hotts, it's time to raze Dresden again.

And yes, I know Dresden's not in Sweden. But I read too much Vonnegut in high school. So lets all poteweet their asses. Maybe drop some Ice-9 in Lake Vanern while we're at it.

In Monday's photoshop call for Prompa date submissions, the pics submitted were alternately hilarious, disturbing, and, well, very orange.

But I had to cull down the best ones, and by best I mean greasy and orange. So here they is.

The natural choice was, of course, to set up our little orange friends with Guidette (or "Gudio"), Brianna Frost. Never have I seen a better match.

Then there's Willy Wonka Prompas. In dresses.

This surreal Prom nightmare comes from legendary 'bag hunter and comments thread samurai, Baron Von Goolo.

Next up, reader Blue Douche Dongle submits a pic of two strange creatures his girlfriend found on his boat. Throw 'em back, BDD.

Legendary Photoshop Wizard and comments thread regular Pfah, goes the orange road for prom dates. And by orange, he means orange.

Another reader finds out that the The Prompas are Orangemen (literally).

Another example shows that The Prompas found a Bleethberry. Love the Yasmine/Violet concept.

And last but not least, Mother of Squirrel Killer creates a dark, genius and disturbing venture into Kafka Prompa. Otherwise known as "Prompamorphosis."

Great work and major props to everyone who submitted. We'll be doing more photoshop contests in the future.

But if you're sick of the Prompas, reader Douche Boyardee's Cheese and Bagaroni sends us this clip of Douchepranks Gone Wrong.

There's any number of wrongs in this pic, from the classic hand gesture to the 175 degree hat pulled down tilt (any guess what logo's on the front of that cap?), the douche face and the confused corn-fed Iowa girl embracing this scrote.

But what's with the figs on the arm?

Is Tony a fan of Mediterranean fruits?

PIC DELETED

My Australian readers are becoming experts at 'bag tagging, and this one comes all the way from Perth.

Meet Mack Dundee. G'day, mate! Pass the ole' teeth grillz, why dontcha.

Here we have further evidence of the Douche Virus gone global. The Yankee cap at proper 10 Degree Hat Tilt. The mysterious cloth-under-Yankee-Cap. Grillz, bling and stupid buckle. Douche face.

And the slutty Aussie party girl digging the grease.

We're sorry, world.

There's a famous 3rd Century Ming Dynasty Chinese proverb. It says, She who drink too many Smirnoff Ice can not wash away night with douchescrote.

At least I think that's how it goes. But I feel like something may have been lost in translation.

There once was a douche named "Coyote,"
He hit the Vegas strip looking scrotey,
He got inked by a pro,
To prove he had dough,
But ended up looking like Truman Capote.

One of the closest three-way votes in a long time.

And by three-way I mean I would rub Upper West Side Lacy Underalls Hott's calves with melted tuscan butter cremes and a light dusting of cinnamon.

In the end the megahott wattage propelled Bennington Ultimate Frisbee Douche Champion Zippy to the win. As Boobla Kahn explains it:

I'm giving it to Zippy. Is that the S and B on his forehead? Even if not, he's got all the other markings.

Mostly, though, I'm in this one for the hott. I'd raise marsupials and smuggle counterfit Chips vhs's from Wellingham to Kookaburra in their pouches for a chance to peel the gum of the bottom of her second grade desk.

Excellent job noting the "Mark of the 'Bag" on Zippy's head, Boobla. For those newbies to the site, the Mark of the 'Bag is when the sheen on a douche's forehead distinctly resembles a dude's Shlong-n-Balls.

scare-a-douche agrees:

It was a tough decision, for Scrote Times has a mighty Bleeth, but my conscious demands that I vote for ninja Zippy and his fine, aged in oaken barrels for eight years Higher Scrote.

It was a wise vote, SaD, for they are deserving. But El-douche-orado disagrees, casting in with Scrote Times at Ridgemont's own Damone:

The guidics just look like normal, stupid, swedish teenagers. Sure, they are the color of Oompa Loompas, but other than that their doucheyness is low. And their hot is the least hot of the bunch. As a comparison, Scrote Times' hot is slutty hot. Sure, you might be taking penicillin for weeks after being with her, but those 60 seconds of glory in the back stall of the club's mensroom will be worth it.

60 Seconds of Glory with a bar hott like that is worth many a price, as we all know from experience. But Uncle Wally reminds us all of the scare factor in casting in for our junior 'baglings, The Guidics:

the guidics. only because the picture scares me. i mean, really scares me.

Scary doesn't begin to explain the merging of Nordic and Guido in a teenage culture clash of wrong.

And Weisenheimer Brainstorm asks:

Can I write-in Jean-Claude Van Douche, on general principles? Life time achievement award? Senior Tour champion? Anything, Anything, Bueller?

Sure you can, WB. That's one vote for JCVD for a year end 2008 Douchie Award. Last year we gave one to Alba and her Spermfriend, so I could see Van Douche picking one up this year.

But Zippy and Madison Ave Hott take the prize. As Don explains:

My vote is for Zippy. First, that chick is smoking hot. Whew. I'm not saying she's the hottest hott that has ever been on this site, but I would not be afraid to put her toe-to-toe with any other hott for the title.

Second, Zippy is the sort of smug pompous ass that I seriously want to punch in the face. Right here through the computer, he is pissing me off and making me angry. Ug.

Third, Zippy's dumbass watch. He's a douche for that alone.

Fourth, that hottie is fantastic! Did you notice that?

Yes. Yes I did, Don.

Zippy and Madison take this week's crown. Book them a frisbee playing herb smoking ticket in the Monthly. And then mock those stupid sunglasses.

Because we're nothing if not news breakers here at HCwDB, here's the first photographic evidence of that previously undiscovered tribe they found yesterday in Brazil.

----
Uncontacted Tribes Discovered In Brazil

The BBC reported last night that an uncontacted tribe had been discovered on the border between Brazil and Peru.

According to the Guardian, there are around 100 uncontacted tribes in the world. "Survival International estimates more than half are in the Brazilian and Peruvian Amazon."

The National Indian Foundation, a government agency in Brazil, took these photos and published them Thursday. According to CNN, "it tracks "uncontacted tribes" -- indigenous groups that are thought to have had no contact with outsiders -- and seeks to protect them from encroachment.
----

Read the rest here.

However what hasn't been reported is what the Tribe really looks like. Click on the picture above for more details, or click here.

Ah yes, The Trainwreck move.

Sometimes known as the Doggie 'Bag Position.

First coined to symbolize any scrote's ability to multitask a butt grind while concentrating on other things (a nearby camera, food, Grey Goose bottle as substitute phallus, etc), The Trainwreck was a go-to douchal innovation in late 2007, and won a Douchie Award for its originality.

As with every Trainwreck, there is far too much going on in this pic for mortal minds to comprehend. But I would direct your attention to the Hott Lick. For her tongue is mighty cute.

Nice to see the Rehab Party at the Vegas Hard Rock (aka "Douche Mecca") is bringing back all the classics in 2008.

Ah, Topanga.

My little melon ball of plump tomato 1990s Boy Meets World jailbait hott.

All grown up, and no longer pretending to like a Savage Brother.

I would douse thee with a firehose, then mop the floor with the sweat from my brow as I worshiped your thighs with pickled jellies and a small bowl of borscht.

As to the goofy-ass clown you've acquired during your 'bag-sweep of the club, please cast him back to Frat Row where he can acquire a Ubiquitous Red Cup in peace. His beads and hat tilt smell like desperation.

As if we needed further proof that clubgoing skeeze-buckets are giant dancing sphincters comes this story from ABC News:

----
Preparation H Finds Place in Club Circuit

Men May Be Clueless About the Real Effects of the Ointment

June 2, 2008

New York bouncer, blogger and author Rob Fitzgerald has noticed a trend among many of the macho young men waiting outside his clubs. He says the guys are slathering up their torsos with the hemorrhoid cream Preparation H to make themselves look "ripped" for the ladies.

Fitzgerald asked one of these guys to describe the practice for his blog, Clublife, "The way you use it is to take your shirt off and rub it all over yourself before you go to the club," a man who gave the alias, Peter Minichiello, says. "If you want to get [lucky], you have to know how to dance, and if you want girls to dance with you, you have to look ripped."

The idea is a bad imitation of a flab spot-treatment secret used by bodybuilders before a competition. But the clubbers who lube up may not like to hear what the medicine in Preparation H actually does to their frame or the real health risks it can pose.

Bodybuilders and Posers

"The bodybuilders I know use it on their obliques -- their love handles -- to take away any lingering water weight before shows," Fitzgerald told ABC News. "The guys in the clubs heard about this, and the use of it spread virally like some kind of Internet meme."

Preparation H contains a medication called phenylephrine HCL that -- when used for the drug's intended purpose -- will shrink the swollen tissues of hemorrhoids. It works by constricting the nearby blood vessels that feed blood and fluid to the area.

But the ingredient doesn't discriminate what kind of tissue it will shrink, hence the underground beauty tips of applying Preparation H under the eyes, on love handles or other places. None of which Wyeth, the makers of Preparation H, support.

"Applying it to one's chest is an off-label use of Preparation H," said Milicent Brooks, a representative of Wyeth Consumer Healthcare. "We don't approve or endorse any off-label uses."
----

Read the rest about the end of civilization on ABC's website here.

Or, if you need a break from giant arseholes rubbing hemorrhoid cream on their abs, enjoy proud "gudio" Brianna Frost taking a face full of floor (NSFW) as she learns the ways of the amateur stripper media whore.

'Eyebrows taste like Taco Bell!' thought Tony before Tonya hit him in the head with a Flowbee.

Emails have been pouring in since the new season of The Real World began that I should feature preening greaseball Jersey beach trash "Joey" on the site.

Is Joey a scrotal fungus of club culture greased up backwash? Let me consult my Magic 8-Ball:

The DB1 shakes his Magic 8-Ball, and no, this is not a euphemism for fondling myself.

DB1: Magic 8-Ball. Is Joey from The Real World Hollywood a huge douche?

Magic 8-Ball: Are you serious? Is this even a question?

DB1: Well, I thought I'd be fair about it and give him a chance.

Magic 8-Ball: Give it up, fondleboy, calling Joey a douche is like predicting tomorrow's weather will include air. Now put me back in the closet next to your stuffed giraffe and let my blue water congeal in peace.

Well, looks like we didn't need Magic 8-Ball after all. Regardless, Joey's mom is hott.

So here he is, Real World fans. Bulgy, spiky, and smelling like a mixture between Axe Bodyspray and foot fungus. Joey from The Real World: Hollywood. Certified Real Douche.

Notice anything missing from this pic?

Yes, it's true. The Oompa Prompas have lost their dates.

Can you help them find a nice girl for prom?

Photoshop yourself or your loved one into this pic and send it along with your prom story to me here at HCwDB.com.

Because no one should be dateless and burnt umber on prom night.

Not even the Oompa Prompas.

It's like The Newscaster from The Muppet Show found The Elfstones of Shannara, got his body shaved like Jim Carrey by Julie Brown in Earth Girls are Easy, pulled on Georgie, Pete and Dim's suspenders from A Clockwork Orange, then fell in love with Lena Olin after wandering through Prague in Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Ouch.

I just pulled a muscle pop-culture referencing beyond the legal speed limit.

I need to stick to American Idol references while I set the cycle on "spin."

YouTube sensation (codeword for "person I've never heard of") and nude something-or-other Brianna Frost wants y'all to like know that like she's a guidette and proud of it. Here she is answering some fan mail:

-----

From: BRIANNA FROST
Date: May 30, 2008 2:56 PM
Subject: dirty jersey

Body: for real, for real..
why do yall HATE dirty jersey guidos and guidettes so much?
did yall know im a guidette?
in my new pic with my boy and his friend witht the blowouts, ive never gotten so many negative mean and jealous comments in my life

may i ask everyone whats with the grudge against dirty jersey and the hot tan muscular men with blowouts?

ill defend my hometown and my boys til the death yall you cant assume all dudes with blowouts that are goodlooking at tan are f@#king guidos

my boyfriend is tan jacked and hot with a blowout and he is not a guido at all, doesnt act or talk like one - just LOOKS LIKE ONE

so why are yall so biased on gudios?
----

Yeah, people. Why all the hate on gudios?

I don't know who Brianna Frost is. I don't even know if she qualifies as hott. In fact, I don't even know why I'm running this picture or her nonsensical emails.

But I do know that I loves me some Chips Ahoy and Mr. Pibb milkshakes. Don't knock it 'till you try it.

Due to a bunch of classic pics and retro-scrotes, we had an eclectic list to whittle down to a final three this week.

But, after struggling with whether or not to leave off Potbelly due a lack of douchuousness in spite of the megahott (he didn't make the cut), here are your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Guidics

Classic orange douche.

Yes, I try not to mock the under 18 'baglings as much as their adult counterparts. But the age of douchesent in Norway is 16, not 18.

So the Guidics are in.

And sure Greta's probably in high school, but in two years she'll be the nanny that ruins Dr. Goldenstein's Upper West Side podiatry practice when he gets caught by his wife chasing her all over the apartment wearing only a speedo.

Damn you, Dr. Goldenstein. Was it worth it over an 18 year old Danish au pair?

Yeah. It probably was.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Scrote Times at Ridgemont High

Poor Mike Damone.

Whatever happens, his toes are still tappin'.

And while I feel guilt for associating one of the greatest teen comedies of all time with this travesty of a mockery of a sham, Mark Ratner would want me to fight this good fight.

So I call out Damone after 25 years for still trying to hang on to the party-boy ethos he left behind in skin follicles so many years ago.

But Stacy has that South American hott thing.

The type that parties with you in Brazil, then steals your Toyota Camry and drives it into the neighbor's swing set at 2am.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Zippy

Technically, Zippy missed the cut last week. But only because last week was such a strong week. And by strong, I mean boobs.

So lets give Zippy and Aristocratic Upper West Side Lacy Underalls Hott a chance this week.

Why?

Because I would scramble eggs for the Sultan under careful watch of his food tasting guard, Erno, just for the chance to be paid in frog turds by the angry Nun who once nursed a sick Upper West Side Lacy Underalls out of a fever dream.

Dig that last sentence.

Who said I couldn't write like Hemmingway?

But back to Zippy. Zippy is a sneakingly subversive douche. At first you think he's not so scrotalicious. Then the signs appear. The tatts. The belt. The hair. The Son of Ubiquitous Red Cup. He is scrote.

But which of these three is enough to call HCwDB of the Week?

Don't be shy.

Step up and vote for your choice for hott/douche superiority/grossery in the comments thread.

Forget the earlier nottadouche considerations, Van Damme. You are an aging smelly cheese of eurodouche.

I will take your blonde friend behind a podium and explain to her why aging wooden movie stars in leopard jackets and stupid-ass sunglasses aren't worth her time.

And by explain, I mean lick her anklets like an alcoholic llama.