I'm almost inclined to give Jordy a nottadouche pass. But the tucked in jeans with hightops? Is that really necessary?

As to pale sultry curly brunette, Sara Hottowitz, I would take her for a ritual holy bath using only Sabbath candles, my own drool, a small sponge and a Romanian masseuse named Gastu to assist with the toweling.

By now, some of you may have noticed that Bra!! has made it into the hallowed Hall of Scrote. No need for a vote, any douche innovating a dual bicep tatt move, appearing shirtless in six different locations while rubbing his crotch into sorority hotts and enjoying a plethora of cola beverages, deserves honoring. And by honoring, I mean broheiming, bra.

But will he win the Monthly?

Ah. To answer that, will find out on Monday.

Somewhere in this towel lineup of Vegas Tramp Hotts, I've carefully hidden a buffoonish Waldouche wearing my grammy Thelma's sunglasses she got in Boca.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

I think it's kind of sweet that Catherine spends her weekends helping out 'tards down at the 'Tard Center, 'Tards 'R Us.

I know I shouldn't call them 'tards. I should use words like "friends of the short bus," or "intellectually challenged."

But since I'd like to rub peanut butter on Catherine's childhood teddy bear, Shmooky, before I beg her startled grandmother not to call the police, I'll go with 'tards.

Guillermo heard that if you suck out the poison from a herp sore it can help cure the infection.

Nature of Orange: As a warm color, orange is a stimulant — stimulating the emotions and even the appetite. Orange can be found in nature in the changing leaves of fall, the setting sun, and the skin and meat of citrus fruit.

Lesser known trip-hop funk group The Grillzas take a break after opening for the Ratt/Poison tribute band Roison in Bismark, North Dakota.

You tools may be big in Belgium and France, but please leave the cheerleader alone.

Because I need to take her backstage, where I will paint her fingernails with sparkle and glitter while she complained about her older sister totally not giving her like a ride this morning, and then salivate on her kneecaps like a plug pulled quadriplegic.

Watching the love-child of Matt Damon, Luis Guzman and a retro-Battlestar cylon mack on Hippie Mylie Cyrus by way of Diane Keaton's wardrobe is enough to make Prince's doves cry.

The previous pop-culture infused jam band sentence brought to you by Jiffy Lube.

Jiffy Lube. Why take your car anywhere else?

Yeah, I'm making no sense. But neither do their clothes. And sometimes the only rational response to an irrational world is a free plug for Jiffy Lube.

And while you're mulling your vote in the Weekly, here's a delicate, sweet, honeysuckle Desert Flower planted next to a smelly-ass Cactus Pud.

The good news is that the Cactus Pud only has to water his hair every six months. The bad news is his pits smell like a mixture of salmon, canola sunflower oil, and a Brazilian cabana hut used to store donkey ass.

Not even a rare appearance by Unambiquitous Blue Cup can save this unhealthy desert scene.

But note that Ubiquitous Red Cup waits in the background, watching ominously. Ubiquitous Red Cup knows what's up.

Somewhere in this Spring Break cacaphony of bouncy state-schoolettes and Floridian beachdouche, I've carefully hidden Bra!!

Look closely. He's switched from Coke and Pepsi to Dr. Pepper. Because bitches and cola are a way of life, but brand name loyalty is for sissies.

Can you find him?

This is the last Weekly before the Monthly. But, unlike last week, this was a tougher week to cull down to three finalists, as Orange Color Space, M&Ms and even tiny little Diff'rent Scrotes were in the mix.

But I had to pick three, because thems the rules. Each of these three have strengths and weaknesses within their hott/douche polarity. But only one can triumph. So, without further abra, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Canker Twins

For overwhelming stench of douchosity, as well as surreal double vision, this pic would win hands down.

But where it suffers is on the female side of the equation.

A truly ascendant HCwDB pic should inspire diachronic rage. Polar axis of contradiction. It should make both male and female 'bag hunters want to intervene with a fire hose on behalf of civilization.

These Bleeths are so far gone, it's hard to want to intervene at all. More like walk away and slam one's head into a stop sign.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Preppy 'Bag

This pic grows on you.

Like a foot fungus. Or alien spores on Steven King in Creepshow.

At first you think Argylebag isn't so bad.

But then you note the fauxhawk. The velvet shirt. The sneer and hint of facial pube. Then you notice Nadja, so sweet, so drunk, so Au Pair Swedish. And the stew is stenchy.

The wrongness consumes into a vortex of turd puddle.

But is Argylebag douchey enough to win the week? Still to be seen.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Still Life with Coors Light

While I considered naming this pic after Hieronymous Dousch's The Garden of Scrotey Delights in honor of its absurdist and surreal art overtones, instead I will name it after Georges Braque's Fruitdouche, Ace of Clubs.

This prom-like hottie/douchey absurdity is just too genius not to be allowed to fight for HCwDB of the Week Honors, even if the hott may be sporting a surprise package down below.

The composition is like surreal dada art. We have z-axis spatiality mixing with the blank negative space aesthetics of late 18th century Japanese printmaking.

And Coors Light. And a stupid-ass belt.

Lets just assume that the dress is simply curved in a strange direction and go with it.

But can a hott offering a potential John Holmesian surprise carry the dada aesthetic onward to triumph in the Weekly?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Which of these three gets a slot in the Monthly? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Nothing says "kickin' it" like taking out a boat in the swamplands of North Dakota, with a gorgeous view of what they call "Rock Point."

Hard to tell how douchey Flabby McGee really is, but sagg tatts and hint of 10 Degree Hat Tilt suggest "yes."

She is a delightful pirate of curvy softness. I would tractor my trailer throughout the midwest just for the chance to take her to Arbys after staying in a Motel 6.

This is one of the Backstreet Boys. Jordan, I think. Or maybe Donnie.

Note the black fingernails, receding cactus hair and small army of picnic ants on his face.

In the immortal words of Paco the Tijuana Cab Driver: Eh, how you say, duche?

Then again, he's rescued his drowning career by grabbing onto two large flotation devices. So he wants it that way.

Bra!! It's Saturday, broheim!!

And you know what Saturday means, bra. Time to strip down to silk shorts and wristdanas, brosky.

And say hello to the strippers, bra.

Bra!!

As another Friday passes by, Ubiquitous Red Cup comes to me and asks me questions.

How is it that the 'bags we examine each day can cover such a wide variety of shapes, forms and variations, yet they all converge into a single ball of societal douche?

Maybe we're missing the key nexus point where contradiction converges: The spectacle of difference and the structure of sameness.

Maybe the spectacle of douchosity is not how we percieve it. Maybe it informs the erotic by virtue of its meaningless shell of exterior. The hott desires the glinty shell by virtue of its great irony -- that within the visual spectacle of uniqueness, she will actually find the comfort of sameness.

Ours is a culture of cacophonous mutiplicity, mass marketed artifact. Yet, spread across the wasteland, from sea to shining sea, the baubles become devoid of content. Denatured of context. Form without meaning. Shells of Speed Racer mass produced masculinity, store bought Iron Man icons of rebellion reprocessed.

This is why the mohawk has been rendered ridiculous. It has become denatured of originary act, reprocessed as mass culture club going gimmick. Originality sold by the yard in the conceptual chain outlet of mass culture recoding.

Che Guevara club t-shirts. Dog-tags, once the requirement of a soldier's potentially dead body, turned into brand-name trinkets sold at Armani outlets. A shiny metal object rendered as meaningless pseudo-masculine "bling."

There is no meaning, so the spectacle becomes fragment. Strands of an originary cultural sameness.

Thousands of TVs reflect back to the Hott the bauble, the glint. The shifting brand names, the power chord rock song du jour, the follicle length of the month, Seacrest Approved.

These signifiers congeal into the singularity she calls "boyfriend" and validates her desire as cultural net worth. No words needed. Just icons.

We have become walking hyperlinks.

Bodies as intertextual echo of media super-spectacle.

Our physical presence no longer exists. We simply communicate the codes of market set value in the hopes of validating ourselves in the eyes of the collective other.

We trip the wiki fantastic and link across the wastelands, our belt buckles as hypertext, our A/X shirts as link exchanges. We charge our sense of selves on the collective power outlets of quick cut digital flash and the noise of the latest 31 Flavors.

The Hott intuits these values and pursues their market worth. But while the Hott may chase the Douche, she can never catch up to ephemera. It is a digital carrot on a pixelated stick -- always out of reach at 29.97 FPS. A drop-frame simulacrum of structure designed never to resolve itself. Only to perpetuate the chase.

But once we shed the bling, drop the Goose and turn off the turntable, the image dissolves into actuality. The thumpa-thumpa noise fades, and the authentic body reemerges. Fixed. Present. Real.

In the end, they can't buy and sell that online. Our bodies are still here. And the boobie is still firm and succulent.

So we got that going for us.

I always knew we'd find evidence of the lost Bob Fosse musical, All That Scrote.

Rumors had abounded for years. Strange dance sequences involving stripper hotts and lanky Ryan Gossling types with chinstrap facial pubes.

The whole thing a dark commentary on America's lost foray into nihilism in the go-go Wall Street Reagan years.

With snappy orchestral accompaniment. And Ben Vereen as Bill Cosby.

The color orange occurs between red and yellow in the visible spectrum at a wavelength of about 585 – 620, and has a hue of 30° in HSV color space.

The complementary color of orange is azure, a slightly greenish blue. With pigments such as paints or inks, a mixture of the subtractive primary colors in the proportion of 75% yellow and 25% magenta produce the secondary color orange.

Orange pigments are largely in the ochre or cadmium families, and absorb mostly blue light, as well as greasy hair gel.

Douche archaeologist and noted professor of scrotology, Johnny Blaze, is back!! And this time, it's personal.

And by personal, I mean gelly.

Watch Johnny Blaze swing through another wacky adventure involving two club hotts, a bottle of Grey Goose and sixteen Soviet footsoldiers falling off a truck.