Thursday, November 10, 2016

Apocalypse ‘Bag

trump-719299And so the nightmare is real.

Like some crusty psychological remnant from the deepest darkest orbs of the inner ear crawling outward, Trek II style, to reveal itself.

All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future.

The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeance, to suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful.

Ten years ago I started Hot Chicks with Douchebags to mock the accelerated development of exaggerated hyper-masculinity. I hoped to highlight the absurdities of performing “maleness” by showing what it had really become: a toxic spectacle brought about by the increasing emphasis on visual stimulation in the internet age.

Faced with scrambling of traditional gender roles and a growing multicultural world, I watched in horror as young, suburban white men of privilege were rendered apathetic and clueless by self-indulgent crap parenting, too much disposable income, and an ethos of amoral narcissism. The pleasures of Cheetos and Chill polluted and infected the mind, replaced by primal sexual urges masquerading as identity. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy.

I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Identity lost. Like beads of sweat underneath a spray-tan rain.

It had to be mocked. Ridiculed. As Foucault taught us, only humiliation can break through the constructed prism of false consciousness and really stupid doucheface.

You elected to join me. And for years, there was push-back. Here at HCwDB we mocked thousands of ‘bags, choads, scrotes and Bleeths that transformed themselves into cartoon paper tiger road warriors and spectacles.

Their con was absurdist theater and brand name spectacle. Their bodies were their stage. And like some toilet-paper creature brought to life from 1970s-era hippie dance troupe Mummenshantz, they unspooled into nothingness.

From unholy groin tendons to sheeny shades of orange to inflatable cloud-men that barely look human to stupid tatts and sideways neck-glasses , the stench of modern douchebaggery was a product of the digital media carnival.

All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick.

Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. Proof of natural selection. Evidence of self worth.

I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. Surreal efforts and externalization of value that previously privileged suburban masculinity had undertaken to make up for their loss of assumed cultural birthright.

For ten years, I thought we were winning the war.

And then the douchebags struck back. Their primal scream took collective form. And here we stand. As witness to the victorious summoning of their most absurdist douche Svengali.

And so enter President Orange Buffoon.

Ridiculed on HCwDB as early as 2009 as the personification of hottie/douchebaggery pollution in all its amoral narcissism. Then codified with a Douchebag of the Month in 2011.

That was five years ago.

We thought we’d won. We thought he was a crimson turd born from reality television and cartoonish lunacy. A silly-string piece of pop culture flotsam.

Boy howdy were we wrong.

HCwDB’s goal was to never underestimate the toxic dangers of raging white, masculine privilege when threatened or wounded. And yet it happened.

Turns out it was but one small step from fist pumping Vegas Red Bull choadwanks to a festering global implosion led by an orange rhesus monkey. And so here we are. The douchebags are triumphant. Electing the One Douche to ‘Bag Them All. An amoral, whiny man-child fascist clown has become their King.

The douchebags have won.

We did not mock hard enough.

# posted by douchebag1
Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Game Review: Tony Hawk’s Bro-Skater 5

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Because we here at HCwDB are nothing but timely with our three-times-a-year updates, here’s our review of the recent Playstation game Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5:

——
Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5 occasionally flirts with the joy of choadwankery and attitude that made the original four douche classics, but the gel quickly comes off.

There are a disappointing number of design and technical problems that range from inappropriate burping to flat-out untreatable STDs, making this attempt at returning the series to glory a non-starter.

Developer AsswanksOfFlorida started with a good idea: paring Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater back down to the basics of inappropriate thigh fondle of Kelly-Anne in presence of a professional photographer. You won’t be hopping off your Red Cup, exploring open clubs, or standing on a weird piece of body grease. Instead, Bro Skater 5 leaves you to test your ability to chain together monosyllabic grunts, overpriced shots, and large hair spike, much like classic Hawk. It almost works. At times, I found myself getting back into that familiar choadal rhythm that made me fall in love with the original ‘baggery. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.

But any of that nostalgia was quickly erased by Bro Skater 5’s frustrating job prospects, bland personality, and over-reliance on a trust fund. For example, the one major addition to your arsenal is a physically impossible grope move that sends your ‘bagger rocketing down to the hotts at the press of a button. The problem here is that grope is mapped to the same button as grind, and it can’t be changed. I can’t count the number of times I intended on continuing a grope with a grind, only to accidentally slam down to the ground and end the being prosecuted for roofies. Frustrating moments pulled me out of my groove far too often.

But the most glaring thing that consistently thwarted my attempts to enjoy Bro Skater 5 were the rampant performance issues. It’s appallingly rife with alcoholism, bouts of inchoate rage, and a deep rooted hatred for one’s father, which are particularly noticeable in a game that’s primarily about how the human douchebag interacts with the hotts when traveling at high speeds. Far too often, I witnessed my character pass through academia instead of slamming into it, fly straight up into the air as though he’d stepped on a French midget named Herve, or fall on the ground for no apparent reason.

** 1/2
———–

# posted by admin
Friday, August 12, 2016

Assmodious Von Shmegmoid Drinks Victoria’s Soul

asda

 

Completing my half-assed, mailed in, one-post-a-month “Shmegma” trilogy here at Hot Chicks with Douchebags, please enjoy this creepy emo tattmodel scrotechoad using alien superpowers to drain the purity of Victoria’s dropped-out-of-Bennington-just-moved-to-the-city-like-OMG soul.

Scientific name:  Twatmondious assmodious

This puke-onymous genetic hybrid splicing is equal parts generic model dude from Sex and the City, the overly constructed pseudo-outrageousness of overpaid hack screenwriter and post-Nerdist nepotist-beneficiary douchewank Max Landis, and the neo-pointilist postmodern abstract art of Jon Thompson. This idiocratic lizard stain fart punches llama poop with the joie de vivre of Airplane’s Robert Hays passively raping Mork & Mindy’s Pam Dawber in a TV movie from 1980.

Too many embedded links in a run-on sentence on a badly dated blog that hasn’t been relevant in five years?

Okay then, how about Douche Baby?.

Or Douche Fanny Pack?

Look, man, I know I haven’t updated in awhile but I got fi’ kids to feed! Ah yes, classic action movies. When men were men. And racist stereotypes served as delightful comic relief.

# posted by douchebag1
Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Politics Got You Down? Shmegma McWankpuddle and Clarissa Might Have Your Cure

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Depressed?

Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives?

You are not alone.

Take solace, my friends.

For this strange odyssey we call 2016 can at least be ameliorated by the shared experience. The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not?

And so here it is. My humble offering of digital solace.

A moment that bridges the divide. An experience writ communal through the bonds of empathy, communication, and tasty snack cake products made by underpaid and unamused assembly line workers.

Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality.

And so I give you Shmegma McWankpuddle commingling holistically with Pert Clarissa. For within this toxic cohabit, each of us can experience a communal revulsion. Her soft talcum booty sullied by tatted up upchuckery. Together, it becomes a collective illogic beyond comprehension. But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. For if you and I can both comprehend this neon titty twister of inanity then surely there is shared experience in this dark journey of life.

Let that collective revulsion be your soothing balm in a hottie/douchey world gone increasingly cray cray. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis. But at least it’s something.

# posted by douchebag1
Friday, June 17, 2016

Shemga McSaxomophone’s Jazz Hands Violate Sophia

Saxamaphone

If toxic hottie/doucheybaggery were jazz, this would be Billie Holliday’s first performance of “Strange Fruit” crossed with Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” and finished off by a Django Reinhardt flamenco riff.

Which is to say a unique amalgam of improvisational choadnuttery.

From Shemga’s chumptastic head tilt to Sophia’s doe eyed vaguely 80s-era Laura San Giacomo luscious Mayan Eye of Coitus, the dialectics of choadal dissonance innovate tonal patterns beyond the everyday fungorgia. For the stench of hair spike semi-employed wank-tool pawing pooch suckle thigh innocence rends the power chords, riffs into dissonance, and transcends into the sublime.

And by sublime, I mean Billy from St. Elmo’s fire sublime.

Which is to say, not.

# posted by douchebag1
Saturday, May 28, 2016

Little Manbun FuFu

MegaManBun

Little Manbun FuFu, hoppin’ through the party, scooping up the field hotts and roofyin’ them in the head…

This is our world.

Furry mustachio twipples wander our post-‘bag landscape like so many brain eating culture zombies. As if millions of Coachella Snapchats cried out at once and were suddenly silenced. This skeezy hairstrosity must not stand. And by stand, I mean allowed to carry an iPhone and almond milk in the same hand.

“Hark!“, you cry. “Who arst thou to criticize? Why hast thou forsaken the mock?”

‘Tis true. I have forsaken the mock to pursue other pursuits. After years of Hottie/Douchey deconstruction I have headed out on other vision quests. Like obsessively complaining that brilliant b-movie thespian Debra Blee, star of “Malibu Bikini Shop” and “The Beach Girls” does not automatically appear in polls of hottest 1980s actresses. This is a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a Travis Barker. It cannot abide. Debra Blee’s luscious lasciviousness must be worshiped by a new generation. Or John McCain died in vain.

But that does not mean that someone still does not need to put their foot down about hottie/douchey conflation in our post-hipster manbunned landscape. Nor that that foot is not me. Because two negatives make a positive. And too many positives means you’re Chris Hardwick.

Wait, what was I saying?

Oh, right. Johnny?

# posted by douchebag1
Monday, March 14, 2016

DJ Hand Palzee Rocks Au Pair Krista

DJ MS Fingers

Don’t judge.

Sometimes Sammy Markowitz needs a break from his middle management job at Glen Cove Key Foods.

So he takes that volunteer DJ job at the Westchester YMCA on Tuesdays from 8-10. He calls himself ‘DJ Hand PAlzee.’ Because his hands. They have the palsy. And because, hey, free hot wings.

Besides. Sammy never knows. Maybe he’ll get lucky and meet one of those wayward European au pairs being exploited by upper middle class Port Washington two income families under the guise of ‘education internships.’

And so, on this Tuesday, Sammy gets lucky. He meets Krista.

It’s her one day off after another 80 hour week providing childcare for ‘Brynn,’ ‘Kaelynn,’ and ‘Dylan-Hunterr.’ She’s entitled to a drink.

Sammy’s just finished spinning a song by the Weeknd. It turns out the Weeknd can’t feel his face. It’s about cocaine. So it’s edgy.

The song ends and Sammy pays for Krista’s Bud Light Lime.

“Danke!” she says.

He says “What’sup, Bae? You lookin’ fine!”

She doesn’t speak much English and so ignores his awkward, quasi-racist appropriation of hip hop culture. But Krista smiles politely anyway. Like Homer Simpson when he met the Smashing Pumpkins.

And all is copacetic in the echo chambers of suburban youth confusion.

# posted by admin
Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Footbag A.J. McCarron and his Wife Confirm The Existential Vortex of a Soulless Universe

AJMcCarronAndWife

Proving the old Knute Rockne adage that the harder you play the game the more your douchey-ass tatts make nearby ferrets upchuck their partially digested acorn seed, Footbag A.J. McCarron is currently married to this delightful slice of Key Lime Hottpie.

Bro Ted in the background does not deserve to be caught in the photographic crossfire of this missmatched coupling atrocity.

Throw the flag! Ten yard holding penalty! And various other sundry football euphemisms involving tight ends and penetration draw plays that should be readily apparent to even the most novice ‘bag hunter or huntress.

But your humble narrator will not resort to such lazy verbiage. For ours is a classy website replete with only original humor.

So let me merely say that this A.J. is the douchiest A.J. since O.J. D.J’d for Jay-Z by playing the Beatles’ Blue Jay Way.

Yeah.

Okay then.

Now you know why I update HCwDB less frequently than a Hugh Hefner bowel movement.

Uhm.

Yeah.

Wanna play cards?

# posted by douchebag1
Saturday, January 23, 2016

In Russia, Douchebag Stop You…

It was the bro-est of times. It was the woo-est of times.

# posted by douchebag1
Thursday, January 7, 2016

Phineas Squarechinneus Shows Model Melanie His Finger Point Game

One Douchey Mutha

Lest one think the days of HCwDB are a thing of the past, I give you…

Toxic Groin Shave Reveal, 2016 Style.

Let’s hope ritualistic shorn testes isn’t a foreboding sign for the new year.

# posted by douchebag1
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