Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Dane Cook Singlehandedly Revives Hot Chicks with Douchebags

Seeing this crusty toe fungus of a 50 year old choadbucket announce his engagement to his “long-time” 23 year old girlfriend is just about enough to motivate your hapless narrator to stumble out of a Night Train and HoHos induced nine year coma and post again on HCwDB.

For those that read this site back in the halycon days, Cookwank was a long time source of douchemock.

• An early HCwDB Appearance
• Readers debating Cookbaggery in 2008
• Cookbag mocking ‘the haters’ in 2008
• Even more of this fratmongering rhesus chimp as his career faded in 2010

No surprise to find this bloated simulation of an actual comedian returning to the (un)hallowed halls of mock on this site.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the Studio City Erewhon to oggle Real Housewives and buy a seven dollar cold brew.

Raising Arizona Iced Tea

Sometimes all you need in this crazy, mixed up, muddled up, shook up world is 90 seconds of Crispin Glover, Nicolas Cage, and Jackie Mason making wonderful and glorious music in a convenience store in 1981 to cure all your ills.

Congrats to the Staffordbag on Winning the Superbowl!!

We here hanging out in the moldy archives of Hot Chicks with Douchebags would like to take a moment and honor The Staffordbag, a fratchoadial legend that was mocked here back in 2009.

Congrats on winning that ring, Staffordbag!  We always knew you could do it. 

And by “do it” I mean “drunkenly walk away after a female photographer falls and injures herself at the Superbowl party”.

Because fratwanks instinctively know when to turn heel and Red Cup themselves away.

Looks Like Our Work Here is Not Done After All

The Dao of Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott

Many moons ago, when mocking douchebags and lusting hotts without their consent was still considered an appropriate form of cultural adjudication, an usual thread was born on this website.

A thread that has since become legend.  And by legend, I mean the spikey, yellow and greasy kind.  The kind you never really forget, no matter how many years of therapy your Aunt Sarah pays for.

I speak, of course, of two of the most important icons of early twenty-first century art, philosophy, alchemy, and pedantry, Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott.

Not since Bra!! enjoyed a tasty cola beverage, had the HCwDB mockers found poetic inspiration.

S.S.’s preternatural calm, doucheface, Reservoir Dogs suit and absurd mandana held court in the presence of luscious sequined sunshine perfection.

The toxic cohabit was instantly iconic.

When S.S. and S.S.H. first appeared on this page, he was but a hard partying legion of misplaced cool gone choadally sunglasses tie-on-forehead awkward. She was sweet delightful honeysuckle suckle thigh.

Together, they formed… well… a hot chick with a douchebag.

Dozens of comments in the comments thread gradually became hundreds.  Hundreds became well over a thousand.

People came from across the land and betwixt the seas to sing the mellifluous praises and mock the rank douchechoadery of the ethereal presence of one Mr. Scrote as he stood in Zen-like repose next to the delightfully tasty, if poorly named, Sexy Sequin Hott.

They won HCwDB of the Week.

They won HCwDB of the Month.

The comments continued.  The legend grew.  Here’s a sampling of the elegiac praise and poetic chunder as produced by the regulars in voting for the HCwDB of the Month:

clementine of cappadoucha: He is Kihon Douchebag, His yin is choad and he yangs of smeg. There is no beginning, there is no end. Little old men in South East Asia ponder his wankiness to release Taiji energies. I ponder his hottie. Samurai means “To Serve” in Japanese, and he serves poo. Samurai FTW.

Anonymous: When climbing the mountain of poo to ask the chosen one “Which one should I vote for?” he said, “Grasshoppper, close your eyes and experience the douchness. Only when the doucheness enters your mind and cannot be eradicated can you make the proper choice.” After many days I cannot get the image of a Napoleonic, mandana-wearing samurai out of my head. And besides, even though his hott doesn’t have the funbags of the others, I would strangle baby otters with Shamwows just to pick the lint out of the drier used to dry her underwear. The Samurai it is.

douchetoevsky: rock beats scissors, paper beats rock, phils beat rays, samurai scrote destroys shiva, and laughs mockingly at the mere mortals who dare stand against him in opposition, wee wee wee all the way home.

paper or plastic?: Much like a recent election of lesser consequence, the results of this monthly will be celebrated on a global scale and usher in a new douche order. Samurai in a landslide.

douchepac shakur: Samurai Scrote is subtle. Samurai Scrote is genuine. Samurai Scrote is rage. Samurai Scrote is Monthly.

jonezy: samurai scrote because he is the everyman’s douche. There is a samurai scrote in all of us- we are all one, yet all of us are douchey in our own singularity. Like a katana blade to the face, Samurai Scrote slashes deep beyond my flesh and reveals the true nature of douche within me.

crucial head: I was once a non-believer in Şǻmǚřǽ Ŝcrœtə. An infidel, if you will. My miniscule mind simply could not comprehend the possibility of a power that exceeded the limits of rational consciousness. But alas, dear brothers and sisters, those foolish thoughts were vanquished the night Şậmΰѓǽ ♀♂ made a personal visit to my bedroom.

The non-disclosure agreement Ŝαmu®åï made me sign renders most of the details from that night moot. But, I have been mercifully allowed to say that it involved bacon grease, a rack of lamb and a lamp. When all was said and done, I had asked the §äмứѓǽ into my heart and he had washed me free of all doubt.

Crucial Head’s conversion spoke for all of us ‘bag hunters in those heady prepubescent days of miracle and wonder.

The site continued to mock new hott/douche cohabits.

But the Samurai Scrote thread continued to grow.

Mr. Scrote even joined us again for an epic Friday Haiku a few months later.

S.S. was so inspirational, he even produced this Garbage Pail Kid inspired fan art:

And yet…

Alas…

Alack…

Aladeen…

When HCwDB was transferred to a new server in 2011, while your humble narrator fumbled once again to figure out the technology that makes this series of tubes work, all comments threads were lost.

And like that… he’s gone.

Just as the Daoist monks construct intricate sand paintings, only to blow them back to dust, so too did Samurai Scrote’s thread disincorporate into the unconscious ecotone.

And yet.

On some voluminous transcendental chrono-synclastic infundibulum, S.S. lives on.

In each of us.  In our hearts.  In our minds.  In our uvulas.

Whenever we lust a hott, Sexy Sequin is there.

Whenever we mock a choad, Samurai Scrote’s face remains expressionless.

For wherever he wanders today, Samura Scrote’s Zen transcends.

For it is here, in this very expression of expressionless whereby we find the sound of one hand clapping.  Sisyphus pushing Cookie Puss up Xenu’s Paradox.  The silly mandana makes no sound as the tree falls in the forest alone.

Buddha’s belly burps Samurai Scrote with every gurgle.

For herein is the universal om. The chord that pleased the lord. The digeridoo of regurgitative poo that reverberates across our collective phantasms.

It is here that we contemplate all that is and all that ever will be.

And within such contemplation, the loss and erasure of that which came before becomes, seemingly paradoxically but actually quite logically, the only truly marker of the universal eternal oneness where lies Hashem.

Peach Point says, “Get out there and vote, ya pinecone!”

Classic HCwDB legend and Hall of Scrote member Peaches just traveled all the way through time.

Way back from that primal era where mocking ‘bags and lusting hotts was still considered comedy.  Yes, from the time we call “2007.”  All the way to 2020.  To remind all fellow ‘bag hunters and hotts here in the US of A to get off your cheetos-eating asses and go VOTE!!

Vote or face the wrath of the douche-point.

Peaches wanted this message to be purely nonpartisan in its point.  Whether hangin’ with the hotts or just his bros, Peaches’ goal is simply to support the ideology and participatory nature of representative democracy as a regulatory necessity given late-Capitalist post-structuralist systems of fractured affect and epistemological decoherence.

But then Peaches realized that the festering mango scrote currently occupying the Presidency is the embodiment of all douchechoadery that we fought on this site for a decade.

So forget that.

Get out there and reject that clown.  By voting.  With the power of Peach Point.

Stat.

Don’t make Peaches point at you in disgust.

Vote.

Twelve Years a Potato

It’s nice to be remembered. Even by a spud.

Gator-Poo 2020

Just sayin’.

Talk about a balanced ticket.

And by balanced ticket, I mean lots of roids and excessive bronzer that resembles offensive forms of historical vaudeville.

The Coronabag

If Covid took douche-human form, it would be this guy. And we would all become the hot chicks.

Ponder that metadouchical conundrum in this our time of Netflixian, Postmatesian, Grubhubian exile.

2020 Thoughts and Links

So what would Hot Chicks with Douchebags actually look like in the age of selfies and social media image awareness?

Good question.

And who better to answer it than legendary Hall of Scrote ubersquat, the one and only The Gator?

Now your typical’choadal bagscrote might have a brief moment of douchey Vegas Greasewank ascendance in chasing the ladies. But that’s all it is. A brief moment of youth. A grasp at the douche ring before they eventually fade quickly into suburban ennui and CostCo runs.

But the true ‘bag legends? They shmear snail slime on suckle thigh forever.

Just leatherier. And with more skin cancer.

And who is Grator than the Gator?

Here we see The Gator 2020, replete with latest conquest, Leopard Selfie Hott taking inspiration from 80s teen comedies.

Gotta give mad respek to his sandbaggery visage for staying in the ‘bag game all these years. And by respek I mean poop.

To paraphrase the immortal words of Wooderson, The Gator might get wrinklier and leatherier, but them hotts, they stay the same age.

Just like the Gator’s leathery appendages and saggy pec mounds, so too do we find ourselves in 2020. Still here. Still lumpy. Still present. But hanging on to past glories even as the ‘roids begin to turn to ashes and colon cancer.

It is I. Your humble narrator. The originary Douchebag1. And you. Loyal ‘Bag Hunter, Mocker of Choad. You have come back. Perhaps hopeful. Perhaps melancholic. Hoping to figure out when the playful innocence of the early 2000s gave way to an epic, lurid global clownshow. The world might be burning. But we still have each other.

The DB1 might not have all the answers for you. We have moved on to greener pastures. But every so often we check back whimsically on the time when social media had not yet been commoditized, monitized, caramelized, and Liza Minnelli with a scary clown at a birthday party in the 1950sized.

Here are your 2020 Thoughts and Links:

If you like and miss the rants of your humble narrator, check out an article I wrote on growing up in Boston for a new magazine called Fifty Grande. I’m honored to be in the first issue. You should subscribe. Then you’ll be into these dudes before anybody.

This leaked clip from the upcoming Judd Apatow directed Pete Davidson movie looks hilarious and promising.

I’m so tired of all the racism on TV these days. From now on I’m only letting my daughters watch The Flintstones.

Someone sent me this interview of me from 2007 the other day and I don’t remember it at all. But then again I don’t remember most of 2007. I was jacked up on Night Train and HoHos and other assorted tasty Hostess snack cakes while sitting on my rug in my one bedroom in the not-yet-cool neighborhood of Los Feliz, grappling angrily with where it all went choady/hottie.

If you want to see the imitation palatial apartment building where the DB1 lived for most of the years writing this site, here it is. The fact a UPS truck blocked the Google Camera pretty much sums up those years.

Los Feliz is now a trendy enclave where annoying fake nerd sexual abusers live and they shoot ironic self-aware serial killer TV shows. But back when the DB1 lived there, Los Feliz was mostly just sitting around and having coffee at House of Pies.

I miss those days. Now it’s Family life in the valley.

Speaking of the Valley, this is how they make love in Tarzana.

At what point is mid-career Eminem just Max Perlich in Beautiful Girls?

No joke, speaking of houses of pie, if you’re ever visiting LA, go here and order the steakburger and a slice of apple pie. You’re welcome.

This clip of Zach Braff and his girlfriend Florence Pugh celebrating her Oscar nomination is hilarious.

And here it is, your moment of Zen.

Have a great 2020!