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DB1,

I'm submitting to you a picture of a girl I used to date on a regular basis until she started to take trips to Sarasota where she met up with “friends” and took their daddy’s boat into the Gulf of Mexico.

This is how she met this vinegar scented creature pictured before you.

Do I go out and ink a tribal tattoo across my chest? Do I buy 3-D goggle douche-specs? Will I attract her then? Maybe I should have built her a boat made of Ubiquitous Red Cups?

The questions overwhelm me. Guide me to the path of righteousness. Please be quick for I have this irresistible need to buy self-tanner.

Stranded,
Tom
----

I dunno, Tom, that tool is only a stage-1 or a stage-2 scrote. A partially inked tatt and 1960s That Girl glasses aren't really the brand-name culture spectacle of the higher douchal vortex.

Although boatbags do have a certain annoyance factor that goes beyond the bling. As we all remember in last year's legendary pic, The 'Bag Islander. Man, that pic still makes me want to thigh punch a cactus.

But back to your question. As Ubiquitous Red Cup knows, sometimes we gotta cut bait and let the boobies go. No matter how bouncy they remain in our memory. Turning into a Boatbag will solve nothing, Tom. And then I will have to mock you in digital form on this site.

Don't do it. Conquer the 'Bag Within and let the boobies go, and only then will the hiney return.

Many readers have emailed to ask why I don't focus more on the Douchebaguette, aka "The Bleeth."

The interesting thing about female douchedom is that when you do stumble across a pic of a female uberscrote (like here), she's usually posing with a guy who takes the douche to a level far beyond the gum snapping stage-4 Bleethdom that Carmen Douchelectra has ascended.

Apparently Douchebaguettes can't even mate on their own level. They require next-generation douche. Perhaps something to aspire to.

Which makes sense if you think about it. Grieco-to-Bleeth virus transmission would naturally result in lag-time between choad and subsequent hott descent into toxicity.

But, on the plus side, at least she took a nip out of his nose.

Some 'Bag Hunters who have only recently entered training ask me, "DB1, how will I be able to differentiate the Oldbag in pursuit of the Hott from Grandpas with their Granddaughters?"

And I respond simply:

"Grasshopper. You will know the Oldbag by the scent of Mothballs and Old Spice.

You will know the Oldbag by the uncomfortable wrongness evoked as he slides the arm down the back of the Hott for picture posing purposes. A wrongness that emerges from the depths of daddy issue traumas and middle aged crises.

And you will know the Oldbag by silly-ass bling.

Tai-Chia responds in the comments thread:

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this is him speaking its clearly ur a loser who put me ont his site but im proud bc use are all haters and cannot get as many grls as meim honored that u wanna be like me thanks so much for goign out of your way to do thi thanks alot no wu realize i get hot girls and you dont
----

And here I used to think those spam emails with the randomly generated text accompanying them were written by computer.

Your unshaven narrator on all things hott/douche, The DB1, had to get up at 5:30 and do a three minute interview with a radio program based out of Chicago called Mancow, so I'm a little groggy. I think the quasi-interview (was I even asked a question?) was taped during a commercial break, so I'm not sure it even aired, and I didn't get to say much.

But it did come, in a Heathers moment of cleansing synchronicity, just after Mr. Mancow interviewed the actor who played "Billy" from Predator, who apparently is running for office in Kentucky on the "racist loon" ticket. Billy was going on about how we need to "kill all Arabs," and other such classiness. Because if there's anything talk radio needs, it's more hatred.

But since Predatorbag won the Weekly, and Billy was interviewed before me, it's all preordained.

City of Brotherly Scrote makes the case:

My vote goes to Predatorbag. His abs reek of Preparation H, he's got the look of smug arrogance on his face, there's really no reason for his shirt to be off, and lets face it, the hott is eye-humping the camera like it's nobody's business and we can all enjoy that. You suck Predatorbag. I hate you.

Predatorbag FTW.

CoBS, you have hit the nail on the shirtless head. doucheous nero expands on the theory:

Predator FTW. The hallmark of scrotal achievement is when the douche, being human, makes himself look not-human. When the faux that is douche manifests itself physically and beyond mere adornment. The marquee example of this would be the millennium bag. The Predator has achieved such a manifestation, setting himself apart from his competitors.

"The Post-Human in the Age of the Spectacle" in the title of my next Cultural Studies book. I plan to use Critical Race Theory and Post-Feminist Gender Theory in my thesis. Or maybe not. And Sir Douchey reminds us not to forget the core douche factors:

I vote for Predatorbag. Out of context shirtlessness is a big factor in my decision making

Well said, S.D. And ufo destroyers:

I vote Predatorbag due to the fact that he is one of the malformed Jerz Guidos dancing in the middle of the street in the video. Or at least he had withing 15 minutes of taking this pic. And she has tresses like Athena and mounds like Vesuvius coming out of the clamshell with Venus. Also both of them don't rate to a bag of mulch on the IQ scale -- combined.

Heh, he said Vesuvius. But ned's atomic douchebin reminds us that hott/choad dialectic is where true enlightenment is found:

Predatorbag is the biggest douche. Ice Man's hott is the hottest. Did anybody mention them hindquarters? But these two are not coupled together resulting in a cancel out. So, I'll go with Pimpit for the win.

And Jean Claude Van Douche agrees on casting in with Pimpit and his Stage-4 Bleeth:

I have to vote for Pimpit and Paris. Their combined douche/bleethness has me wanting to take a cold shower using said skin-wrapped flatulence, whilst cursing the gods for allowing the existence of such undeniably moronic "hey look at us" scrotal ovulatory filth to inhabit space in this dimension. Pimpit FTW!

That was a glorious sentence, JCvD. While the perfectly formed assedness of the hott pictured in Ice Man came in third, it did so with a core group of hiney worship, as The Cantaloupe Pharalope explains:

I would train hippopotamae to play the banjo, the fiddle, the jug bass, the jug itself, a tin triangle and other redneck instruments and then throw cantaloupes at them as they drove by on the Clampett's truck playing Ride of the Valkyries if someone told me that her mean big sister didn't like melons or self-conscious travelling bovine musicians.

Genius, C.P.

Both Scare-A-Douche and blondiedouche provide eloquent treatises in the comments thread too long to cut-n-paste here, but I highly recommend reading the full thread. It is top quality 'bag discourse, as always.

But this was Predatorbag's week to fill the fourth and final slot in Monday's Monthly. douche diggler brings it home:

the Predator Bag has an evil face, like Chucky, but it is made that more terrifying due to its primordial shininess ... then there is the weirdly shaped torso that I am pretty sure he crafted by attempting to mirror my shirtless Sgt. Slaughter figurine from 1986 ... he is Douchemary's Baby.

It must be him.

Chalk up the Predatorbag and Gum Snapping Hott for the win, and we'll see them on Monday in the Monthly.

Freud was wrong.

It isn't primal traumas from our childhood that haunt our unconscious and inform our anxieties.

It isn't issues with our mother and father during those first years we form our sense of self that inform our adult personas and haunt our dreams.

It's Chia Pets.

Chia Pets in the Unconscious.

Giant Chia Pets.

Like Emerson, Thoreau and Andrew "Dice" Clay before him, the eloquent and poetic lyricism of He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks has moved the human soul with the longing and pathos of our collective existential journey. While macking on the honeys at the same time.

HJBB&D does so once again, with this short, poetic verse:

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Status: HJBB&D has to make a few more fone calls and within 12-14 months my net worth will be $4.2 Million.

I dropped outta college...big waste of time

hmm what should I get first a porsche? jaguar? lamborghini? how about all 3 within a year? Exactly.
----

Exactly, HJBB&D.

Exactly.

Morgan writes in with a stage-2 Fratbag 'tag:

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DB1-

I was at the Wavehouse yesterday in Mission Beach and saw this tool dancing with a super hotty.

This place is known for its bleached out coked out chicks running around half naked so I feel it is my duty as an American to go... where of course many douches will follow.

-- Morgan
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He's standard issue scrote, Morgan, nothing too exceptional, but still a legitimate 'bag tag. Although the vintage 2004 Kutcher-hat and gino-shades are itchy. Speaking of, 2003-2004 Ashton Kutcher is an often overlooked nexus point for celebubag infection.

As to Party Hott, she clearly has a healthy spleen and chewable clavicles. I would partake like a greedy blowfish after a Brazilian monsoon.

Your humble narrator on all things boobie/poopie,The DB1, will be doing a book reading and signing this Sunday, July 27th, at the Virgin Megastore in San Francisco (2 Stockton St) at 4pm.

Come by, share a Ho-Ho and a red plastic cup of the 'Train and listen to me pontificate on the unholy dialectic of hott/douche commingling.

In trying to imagine what would be uniquely Franciscan Douchescrotery, this couple was all I could come up with. Am I off-base in pinning down the S.F. hott/scrote in pic form?

Come say hi on Sunday, San Franciscan HCwDB Fans. Represent.

In addition, I will be interviewed on tomorrow's (Wednesday's) Mancow radio show. And if you'd like to hear my July 10th appearance on KROQ's Kevin & Bean check it out (starts almost halfway in).

Somewhere in this swirling mix of multicultural douchery, I've carefully hidden a doe eyed hott. Can you survive the choverwhelm enough to find her?

And while you're cozying up to the bar to recover, Who ordered the 'Orange Russian'? (warning, no hott chaser with that poison)

Maybe Joey Lawrence can help sort this out... WHOA!!

Kendra began to wonder if Tony and Pierre really were casting directors for "Harry Potter and the Curse of Repressed British Alcoholism Later in Life," or if they just wanted to get in her pants.

So I'm sitting on my carpet, only minimally hung over, when it occurs to me. She is rural Boston gum snapping sexy/trashy cute. And this guy sucks.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "DB1, why is that an epiphany? That should've been obvious from the moment their pixelated visages first reached and registered on your synapses." And yes, that's true.

But there's another point that emerges from his suckage.

We've covered many of the douchier scrotewankeries locked in perpetual yin-yang dialectic with the hottie boobie. But sometimes we catch douche aura in action. The emergence of a spectral scrotosity. Ethereal, like a ghost. Yet quantifiable, like a titmouse.

Because if anything is quantifiable, it's titmeese.

This is a perfect example of douche aura. Yes he sucks for the unworthiness of the Plissken t-shirt and the mug of punchable muguousness. But the primal gut reaction of this coupling is greater than the physical factors at play.

It is douche aura rendered corporeal. And as such, he, uhm, sucks alpaca balls.

Two happy soccer mom blondes.

Two orange clowns competing with the dancing chicken for coin at the traveling fair in Tallahassee.

One "that guy" dude in the background whom no one ever notices and lives in the periphery of the collective unconscious.

I'd add 'em up but I'm so damaged by that aqua blue collar pop that I'm about to head into room 101 and loudly proclaim that 2+2=5.

I love you, blonde, perfectly formed Alba carbon copy genetic reproduction.

I would learn to chant rhythmically in Spanish just so I could charm the housekeeper into letting me come in and hump your teddy bear while you're out buying groceries at Mayfair Market.

I would spend years slavishly painting great works of art using only acrylic paint, small lumps of coal and pieces of broken glass, just so you would ignore my paintings as you strolled through a museum whilst texting on your iphone.

You inspire me to take showers thrice daily in the hopes that one particle of the shower water might someday reach the ocean while you're bodysurfing with your personal trainer, Karl, and find its way under your taught, yet oh so firm, spandex bikini. At which point my particle of shower water would shout "Booya!!"

Which is very odd. Because shower water doesn't usually talk.

Oh, and 1994 is a douche. Because... uhm... because he just is.

Here it is, fellow 'bag hunters. The final HCwDB of the Week to select the fourth slot for next week's HCwDB of the Month Scrote-Off.

This week's cuts of hott/choad have a strange sort of symmetry. Each coupling seems to be in nearly the same position as the others. As if the gods are saying, See the patterns... mock the scrotewanks... for we are all one...

I talk to the gods a lot. Especially Poseidon. That dude cracks me up.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Predatorbag

For bringing back nostalgic memories of jungle-hiding aliens who can take out Bill Duke and Action Jackson with a single blast, Predatorbag has to get a nom.

And besides. I never get tired of screaming get to the choppah!!

Screamed it once during a safari at an elephant in my pajamas. How an elephant got into my pajamas, I'll never know.

The blonde is girl-next-door cute. Not model-hott overwhelming, but sexy enough that you'd sneak out during your parents pool party during spring break just to catch a glimpse of her in a bikini. At which point you'd soil yourself.

Which is embarrassing. Who soils themselves in their 20s?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Pimpit

There's much to be said for the colliding wrong of the hott/choad in this pic.

Pimpit brings the brand-name douchal infection to new heights, while blondie invokes the power of the Douchadox -- the moment when 'bag hunter is simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by the Bleethed out hott.

Her curves are fine.

His lip-ring harkons the ethos of herp sore metaphor.

Together, they make a douchal peanut butter cup.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Ice Man

As with Pimpit, Ice Man didn't immediately jump out at me as a Weekly Finalist.

But then the truth and beauty of Ice Man's Ass Woman sunk in. As Chowda So Good You'll Lick Your Bowls put it:

I bet when sweet Jenny's delicious salad shooter produces a dainty little movement, it comes out in a cute little jewelry box wrapped in gold foil complete with a bow right before an angel gently glides by to whisk it away from her magnificent bottom.

Jenny's ass does not poop. It creates harmonic symphonies that vibrate across the universe and inspire imperfections in expanding universes that create planets who can only dream of cooling enough in billions of years to produce organic matter with as curvy an ass as Jenny's ass.

And Ice Man is the everybag. Douchey enough to inspire rage, even without the bling and hand gestures. But enough to take the Weekly?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Honorable mention to The Boobie Epiphany and The Weatherhead, both of whom just missed the cut.

Them's your three. Which coupling combines the best/worst of the thighs/scrote to merit a win? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Facebook poet and visionary He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks has an important warning for the ladiez on this Sunday:

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If you suck at kissing..it'll end right there...I'm not desperate and I'm not that kind of guy
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You've been warned.

Man, that chinstrap is thinner than Miley Cyrus on Benzedrine.

Up.

The driving force of the human race. To conquest. To control. To rise above and go beyond the bounds and limits of space.

Leif Ericson. Christopher Columbus. Neil Armstrong. Each took that leap forward to a new land of discovery. When George Mallory was asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, he responded simply, "because it was there."

The Weatherhead follows this same primal human drive. The Weatherhead knows that to wear glasses, headband and still have one's hair spike up six inches can first occur only as a dream. To balance a Bud Light on top of a coke, while awkwardly embracing a pool hott must first be drawn up on graph paper.

It takes months, maybe years of planning. But The Weatherhead has a dream. And The Weatherhead triumphs.

Let us all learn the lessons of risk and reward that Weatherhead offers us. And by learn the lesson, I mean stare at skinny bikini girl's firm yet soft yet firm yet soft butt bongos.