Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Shirtless Pud Award

Since it’s a holiday, and we gave out two Weekly Winners last week, there’s no HCwDB of the Week this week.

Instead, we’ll hand out the honorary “Shirtless Pud” award. To this guy.

Lay off the Danish Au Pairs, Tommybag. They’re only here to avoid having to go work in the Lego Factory like some Fritz Langian worker-slave nightmare mixed with shiny children’s building bocks.

And unplug the Felix the Douche clock behind you, while you’re at it. Those ticking eyes are creeping me out.

The Sunday Grenade Tosser

Nothing like a little sunday grenade tossing on a three day weekend to fire up the kettle.

The Crustacean: Hall of Scrote '08

Welcome the first inductee to the Hall of Scrote for 2008, The Crustacean. Although there is another strong candidate likely emerging in the next few weeks (I give you one Crimson guess).

While it wasn’t a unanimous vote for the Crust, like it was for, say, The Prompas, it was a strong win, and by win I mean Puma armband. A win aided by the power of the Rainbow Boobie Hott.

As Mitch Meats puts it:

My metric for these is comparing the current nominee against the latest 10 or so inductees and whether or not he can out-douche enough of them, as it were.

I believe the bile contained in this one picture (thanks to Fruit Stripes pushing it over the edge) is greater than the entire oeuvre of the STDs and Peaches combined. The fact that Crusty is also in the same crowd as HBT, Bree, and Fish Slap in real life just seals the deal. I vote yea.

Well said, MM.

Danny Noonan, in rejecting Judge Smails’ ditch digger soliloquy, agrees:

When we reduce this website to it’s essence, this is what is left over. Ridiculous hotts and a vomit-inducing, epileptic-seizure inducing, sever-your-own achilles-due-to awe-inspiring-anger, douchebag. Crusty is a repeat offender and belongs with his peers, DD, Gator, FishSlap, Peaches, and the rest.

Crusy FTHoS.

Indeed he does, D.N. As Douche Vader puts it:

I consider myself a guardian/curmudgeon when it comes to the HoS. I hate to say it watered down, and think it should be reserved only for the scrotiest of scrote. Usually, I vote nay.

That said, hells yeah, Crusty should be in there. I mean, look at him. He’s everything to be despised in a DB, but on steroids.

However, Minnescrota makes the opposite argument, saying The Crust doesn’t quite rise to the level of legend:

This Douche is kind of like the Keith Hernandez of Scrote. He’s full-on solid Douche, but doesn’t have a signature move, i.e. reverse shocker with a counterclockwise swirl. I let my gut decide this one for me, I axed myself, would I Doucheambeau this Choad right in the nuts? Yes, I would. Would I drive to Daytona Beach to do it, NO I wouldn’t.

That’s how I know the Crustacean isn’t ready for the Hall.

Well argued, Minn. But like many in the Hall, you don’t have always have to be a first ballot to get in.

Sammy Hagar high-notes it down for us:

The Crustacean is not one to be forgotten. I don’t want to see him spending eternity wandering in douchey purgatory. He defines douche. He emits douche. He is legend.

Let’s put him in the Hall so hopefully young women of the future will be lucky enough to point at his abs.

The Tao of Oates

Oates in not a douchebag.

Oates is the yin, the yang and the chakra to our collective Kaballah. Oates is the private to our eyes. The no to our can do.

Oates dances the mustache dance for all of our collective Freudian nightmares and Jungian sins.

Oates rocks the retro with grace and wit. Oates rebounds on the dance floor. And within Oates’s style, his ballet, his poetry, we find the shards of ideological purity.

Oates washes our souls of sin. Oates is our ritual purge. Our mikvah bath. Our Mississippi river baptism.

Do not doubt The Tao of Oates. For Oates is not just the key to spiritual enlightenment due to his second-banana 1980s rock star iconic forgottenness. With a fantastic ‘stache. Oates is the “other” by which we define ourselves. The projection of the schism within all of our psyches.

Oates is the unknowable. The ethereal. The corporeal embodiment of our deepest darkest fears onto that which we normally fail to comprehend. That which we deny to ourselves.

Oates fractures our false construct. All through the power of one single, iconic, 1980s moustache. For Oates is not Hall. Oates is Oates.

Oates is more than Garfunkel. Oates is more than Ridgely or either of those guys we can’t remember from Tears for Fears.

Oates is liminality. Ambiguity.

Oates exists not as fixed polarity, but as conceptual dialectic. Oates is neither background musician, nor foreground solo artist. He is neither star nor chorus.

Oates is between the stage and the audience. The light and the dark.

Oates challenges the entire paradigm of binary either/ors that we use to construct narratives to define ourselves and our world.

A false construction that needs Oates to reveal its falsity. That needs that ‘stache to reveal the higher truth.

The Oates in the Machine.

No, Oates is most certainly not a douchebag.

For Oates is us.

Saturday Haiku

(just for the helluvit:)

Hark! The war is lost.
Culture dies not with a bang
But with shaven chests.

aldoushe huxley laughs
the brave new world has arrived
douchebag utopia

— newman’s own balsamic douche

Two ‘bags and a blonde,
and they deserve an award?
Reality bites.

— massengill

Guidos, Peroxide
Tequila menage a troix,
back to pedicures

— douche bigalow

I’d need a gallon
Of Cuervo Black to escape
This “reality”

— 23 skidouche

smurf-like cretins smirk
inflate a chest blonde zombie
i weep for the youth

— ‘bag lanta

Fan Mail

Possible early nominee for best fan mail of the year, all the way from England:

—-
twats.

love the website
stu xx
—-

Nicely played, Stu. Now piss off, ya tosser.

Yup. I’ve always wanted to talk like a drunken angry working class Brit.

The Marissa

I name this scrote in the middle “The Marissa” for personifying a cheap carbon copy of the douched out husband of Marissa Miller, himself a cheap carbon copy of a cactus plant.

Gentlemen. You are spawns of suburbia.

Put down the hair gel.

You are not “punk rock.” You look like a rooster.

Juan on the right looks like he’d rather be tangoing with Smithers to Barry Manilow, so I’ll leave him out of this. And the Long Island twins aren’t Deathtongue Hott, but nothing to sneeze a ferret at.

Jimmy Two Times

PIC DELETEd

He’s gonna go get the Bodyspray, get the Bodyspray.

The Hott House Flower

Great.

Now tatted up Oilbags are growing innocent little Hott House Flowers out of their nipples.

Someone fetch the weed whacker. I’m taking Ass Chin down.

Tom Bradybag

The one excuse for shirtlessness on a ‘bag is being at the beach.

And then you had to go and bust the ginormous mandana, armlet, and ab rub move, Bradybag.

And I’m not just taking it out on you because the real Tom Brady didn’t close the deal in the Superbowl.

I’m also taking it out on you because PINK has the hindquarters of an aged whisky tumbling lightly over ice.

I would park there for a season and contemplate quantum mechanics.