Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

A Waft of Yesteryear

Reader Sir Doinksalot sends in this pic as a faint echo of all that was once hottie/douchey but is perhaps no more.

I do not know if this pic is recent. Or circa HCwDB’s 2009 heyday.

But it not matter.

For this brief snapshot of toxic toe fung rejoinders to remind us.

Even in these dark choady days of Great Orange Blight sucking the oxygen from the marrow of joy like a pekid pecan pecked by a toucan, there are still the regular hottie/choadey couplings circulating the drain of cultural flush.

Thanks for the reminder S.D.

This site may be no more, but I leave it up as an uncanny relic of time past and oft forgotten. For we do not go gentle into that good internight. We rage, rage, against the orange of the blight.

Boom Siss Boom Siss

boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss…

eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah —

The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness. As our memory shifts and grows more distant. From factual present to recent past. And then again. Into the distance.

Abstraction. And then, once again, another shift to only the vaguest sliver, the barest of thread left to tie us to what was once the real and present now rendered blurry, foreign. We say goodbye to that which we once abhorred but now we recall with nostalgia tinged affection and bemusement. What once horrified. Once a toxic smell of withered sweatsock recontextualized as the simple signifier of a more innocent and ultimately harmless memory. What once was and can never be again. Dayenu.

Spy on Vegas: The Muted Mutation

So where did all those rank stench pics that fueled the HCwDB run (2006-2014) actually come from?

A question I used to get a lot. The short answer: submissions. I was (and am) far too lazy to do any real work on the internets. So I relied on the kindness of douche mocking strangers to fill my site with mock fuel.

However, in a loaf pinch, there was one main go-to source if a pic of toxic cohabit was needed on short notice. The always hot-or-twatriffic Spy on Vegas.

That weekly smorgasboard of professionally photographed flop sweat and overpriced bottle service fueled many a rant on this humble corner of pop culture detritus oh so many moons ago.

Sadly for Douche Mock, happy for real life, a recent visit to Spy on Vegas shows how much things have changed. When Douches became sentient, sometime around late 2011 (my working theory is that Cyberdyne installed social media filtration behavior modification nanobots in their Axe hair-gel), douche face, ‘bag hand gesture, and all remaining simian asswafflery receded to the memories of a simpler, more mock-worthy era.

Today, modern Day ‘bags have learned to blend when camera is present. For example: Smile politely. Dress only in black. Make no hand gestures. Display only minimal peacockery to signal the females of the species that their alpha dog status remains hugamabob and grindular.

In checking my old stomping grounds, the Vegas Wonkery is still present.

But far more muted than in its hair spike heyday.

And so it goes in the age of post-postbaggery.

Gwarface

“You go to gwar with the doucheface you have, not the doucheface you might want or wish to have at a later time.”

This shminky rends the space-time continuum with Spielbergian aplomb and apoop. All is wrong in Sheboygan, said the calico cat as it upchucked a half eaten squirrel outside Decatur.

Douchey/Happy Holidays from HCwDB!!

May you and yours cuddle by the fire and enjoy a hearty cup of Egg Noggin, or whatever it is the Christians are drinking these days. Judging by the news, I’m guessing it’s Kool-aid.

But I am not here to rant about the current angry, white Christo-douchepocalpyse that has taken hold in our country. Or even the Orange Douchepocalpyse of yesteryear. No, not even the unholy Star Wars alien teat milk that is Crissmas Angel.

For this site would be a mere flicker in the darkness of the storm that soon must rage to restore a more balanced and equinimical world not only betwixt ‘bag and hott but human and fellow human. Or Human and Dharma ‘Bag.

I am here to wish you a Happy Holidays, a Happy Hannukah, a Merry Christmas, and a Scientology Xenu Day.

Do not dispair, fellow hotts, ‘bag hunters, and those that traverse the socially constructed gender binaries therein. A better world is not that far off. Hold out hope. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. And the mock never truly dies.

This Month in HCwDB History: 10 Years Ago,The Oompa Prompas

Holy guacamole!

Has it really been a decade?

‘Tis true.

All ye glorious ‘bag hunters and hott lusters of yesteryear, it’s been an entire ten sun circles since we first discovered the legendary Hottie/Douchey suburban Jerz High School melted orange Julius that was the Oompa Prompas.

Those legendary crust warriors of Jersey Prom infamy live on today on internet search engines and in the hearts and stomachs of millions.

A decade.

Just as this humble website was reaching its ascendant heights in those halcyon days of the mid aughts, along came the crystalline distillation of all that had gone poo-licious in a rotting, fetid societal dump on the face of good taste and decorum.

We tried to warn the world of the dangers the Oompa Prompas represented. Even when off for some private quality bro time. As one does. Even if one is orange and spikey.

We did our best to sound the alarm.

We saw the signs of imminent decay all around us, fraying, shredding at all that we had built up in the latter decades of the twentieth century. We cried like canaries in the fist pumping club mines, screaming our warnings of the toxic man-children of privilege raging, raging, against the dying of their birthright. They were a danger to all that is good and holy. And we knew it.

And lo, the Trumpocalpyse struck back. Did it ever. Holy crap.

But I am not here to talk about our gawdawful present. Let just say Vegas is in my heart today. And I am here to reminisce about a more playful era.

For as HCwDB is a now an inter-relic, I can look back fondly from my retiree chair, take a bite of a HoHo, a sip of ‘Train, and marvel at all the glorious mock that was done back when actual websites were a thing and the world wasn’t hyper-controlled by the Twitbookle Borg.

So let us reflect on October of 2007.

Consider: In that one month alone we saw numerous legends of Hottie/Schlongy cohabit that went on to internet fame and (no)fortune.

In addition to the legends that are the Prompas, there was The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars, who made a second, less famous appearance here. There was Batbag. And, of course, the condenced ballsackian mildew of Long Island: The ‘Bag Islander.

There were stench art legends like Douche or Dali, The Leprechaun, Captain Jack Spackle, The Armpit of America, The Ass Pimples and Aqua Brunette, Tony with the Car Dealership, Night of the Living Bed-Head, Vince Vaughnbag, Queen Bee and the Power Chord, Willy Wanker, The Velvet Helmet, Cuisinart Carl, The Olive Loaf and Yellow Dress Hott, and the brilliantly named Thornton Mellon Stewie Head.

Holy Sweet Jebus on a Corpus Christi Cracker. That’s alotta douche/hott legends. One month with enough scrotal display to keep a hundred pop culture historians unpacking inter-gender dynamics for a millennium and a fortnight.

IF you were there with me back then, I salute you. Holy crap it’s been a decade. Sadly, all the comments in the message boards from that era were accidentally deleted when the site was upgraded to its new servers. But trust me in saying, the Mockers back then were glorious in their savagery and wit.

HCwDB may be finished, but the mock will never die. We need it now more than ever.

And I still plan to see all of you when my genius is finally acknowledged at the HCwDB Art Show at the Guggenheim in 2023.

The Starblazer Uvulates the Life Force from Kelly-Lynn

Going through the ole’ HCwDB archives one day and I stumbled into an assortment of unholy steaming ferret load of a toad pimple from way back in the dark days of Hottie/Douchey defenestration in 2010.

This simmering simpering simian shreds any sense of societal dignity and post-Nietzschean respek by pretending he doesn’t care about the very optic gaze for whom he seeks refractive corporeal validation.

By not giving a canary fling, he flings his canary. He bops his Bopeep. An inversion of a mystery wrapped in a riddle, surrounded by Enigma, all not changing the delightful life force that is Kelly-Lynn after Pilates class.

Megods, me-pantaloons, this buffonic douchetool chews scenery worse than Richard Crenna in First Blood.

Ask not for whom the billy goat pukes. It pukes for thee.

But wait, there’s more!

The Starblazer seeks sustenance

The Starblazer orange-u-tans Kelly-Lynne’s tonsils

And, going solo, the Starblazer wears zebra pants and poses like a crispy mirrored twigwaffle.

Yup. It’s like an X-Games Windex gargle in the clogged arteries of life.

Mr. Champ Spreads the Herp

Well hello there, ye fellow ‘bag hunters, hott enthusiasts, and lovers of the mock!

It has been awhile, has it not?

I am honored, humbled, and filled with the tingliest of shmeg tickle to see that this ole’ web relic of the late aughts and early 10s still gets a little foot traffic in the age of internet Borg control and hive mind Chris Hardwick faux nerd blankness.

If, at any point, you found the hottie/douchey mock to entertain, enlighten, enrage, or another adjective that begins with “e,” I am grateful.

So let me say “Hello!”

HCwDB wrapped up in 2013 (or maybe early 2014?). I’ve been spending so much time practicing nerd chants in school cafeterias I haven’t been able to summon much strength to keep posts up these days. Certainly not as we enter the political douchepocalypse that has enveloped.

Kinda hard to find joy in the assinine foibles and bad taste of youth dating when the world is toking a shmeg pipe filled with rat poop and pumpkin seed.

But your humbs narrator is still kicking his ubiquitous red cup o’ Night Train, munching on tasty Hostess products whenever possible, raising two little HCs, and staring at the world cockeyed and bemused, or maybe more bleary eyed and vaguely nauseous. But still keepin’ on as best I can in a world of too many Aryan crypto-Nazi movie stars named Chris and not nearly enough Madchen Amick.

Perhaps obvious douchewanks with hot chicks in tow have vanished like Rollo Tomase chasing Keyser Soze.

But I’m still here.

And so is this ass tomato.

So I’ll be watching.

The mock is never dead. It just takes on new forms.

Charles Von Cankersore Gives Ninotchka the Doucheface

You might presume that a faux tanned Ed Hardy disciple inappropriately cuddle-macking Svetlana is uberdouche precisely because of douche face.

Not so fast, you cracker!

Even devoid of doucheface, Charles Von Cankersore retains a high degree of smelly poo.

Thus proving my theorem that even in the age of Trumpocalypse, douche aura permeates beyond the performative signifiers.

Now that that’s settled, who wants an Orange Whip?

Bro Zach Nation

What a flaming Slouvakian dumpster fire. I don’t just mean this pic of Zach and his Bro, K-Whizz greasing up on Marissa as if her derriere is hosting a bake sale featuring a trenbolone sandwich. I’m talking bigger ‘bags to fry. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads.

In four days a tangerine uvula will spittle across our collective national identity like an angry, castrated llama gnawing on a Jolly Rancher.

For shame, America.

You have given in to the dark forces of greasy pec butt fondle spikewank.

HCwDB may be no more.

But the time for mock has never been more important.