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Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Ask DB1: Britbags and Jacques Derrida
Reader Elizabeth Darling writes in from England:
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Dear DB1-
Sitting in a pub in Camden the other day across from my leather-jacket-clad, quiff-sculpting, indoor-glasses-wearing friend, I realised two things.
The first was akin to Darwin as he tracked the evolutional progress of primordial slime into swamp creatures; there exists in England a phenomenon which I am certain has been repeated the world over in the many variations of douchal hybrids.
The specimen I observed that sunny morning in London was of the mod-punk-rock-douche variety. The self-assurance, eyeliner and ego of the douche coupled with the “‘tude” of an ageing Sex Pistol made him utterly punchable, and it suddenly dawned upon me: my college friend is a douchebag.
The second, and more significant realisation, was that the reason why i was friends with him was his acceptance of self. He was fully aware of the metaphorical choad protruding from his forehead, getting choadier and choadier every day as he contrived a new ‘accidental’ rip in his T-shirt or purposefully sprayed a little Stella Artois down his front to give the illusion of a ‘don’t-give-a-f&ck’ alcoholic nihilist. He knew of the soft, nougaty, malodorous core of ‘bag that lay thinly concealed beneath half-formed pretensions of psuedo-intellectual philosophical rambling. And yet, using the poor bullet-riddled corpse of Irony as a shield from ‘bag-haters, he continues in this ridiculous fashion.
The crux of the matter, the great question I pose to the Oracle of all that is Hot and Douchey, is: Is the self-aware douchebag really such a douchebag after all? Like Derrida’s binary position of phenomonological meaning, does the self-declaration of douchebaggery actually nullify, or indeed counter-act it? If one proclaims “I am a douchebag”, does this in fact mean that one is… not?
My theory is that self-deprecation and consciousness of the inner choad may ameliorate, however slightly, the catastrophical social canker of douchebaggery that threatens to infect England with increasing fatality since Jack Wills launched their latest crusade. But alas, this theory is nothing without your confirmation or rejection; pray continue to lead us through the complexities of douche-kind as Virgil once led Dante through the Inferno.
England needs you, DB1.
God Speed,
Elizabeth Darling
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It is interesting you engage Derrida, E.D. as he may posit the key to understanding why the ironodouche does not gain an exemption for authentobaggery.
In his seminal text Scroters of Marx, Derrida examined the notion of the spectral haunting of past texts upon present thought, signified at the moment of both recognition and simultaneous negation. This entanglement with the past and present suggests a shifting signifier operating complexly. We can neither negate the originary meaning of the sign, nor repurpose it as douche.
As such, Derrida’s “differance” within post-structuralist understandings of subjectivity does not mean an inversion of douchological signification through the rupture of self-awareness. It simply means that the act of realization, conversion from phantasm into the realm of the linguistic or corporeal, summons the real as it destroys the spectral.
In short, boobies are bouncy.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009The Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag
Some categories of ‘Bag that we mock here at HCwDB defy archetype.
For these greasy mugs who dare to curl up with dark haired girl-next-door Raven cutes, we place them in the Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag category.
Because, well, I’d like to… yeah. I suppose it is pretty self explanatory.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009The Frying-Pan-to-the-Head 'Bag
Some categories of ‘Bag that we mock here at HCwDB defy archetype.
For these greasy mugs who dare to curl up with dark haired girl-next-door Raven cutes, we place them in the Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag category.
Because, well, I’d like to… yeah. I suppose it is pretty self explanatory.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Waxy McBrow
There’s three things Waxy McBrow knows before he heads off to the club to mack on the European Hotts:
1. One’s brows must be perfectly waxed and sculpted
2. No seriously, like, perfectly waxed and sculpted
3. He likes turtles
A little later, Waxy McBrow will present an argument on the merit of his phallus by fondling a large bottle of Grey Goose.
And even later, Lamey McFriend and his girl will come by and crash their bottle service.
Where they will talk about turtles.
And yes, I’m all too gut-painfully aware of the level of insane uberhott that is Rachelle. My sonnets will compose to her mammalians all afternoon as I descend into latent alcoholism by 3pm.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Breaking: Marissa Miller Still Married to Douche Cactus
2008 Douchie Award Finalist for “Douchiest Celebrity Couple,” Marissa Miller and Cactus are still married.
Repeat… still married.
HCwDB News will keep you updated with the latest as it unfolds in this developing story.
By which we mean the moment Marissa Miller wakes up one morning and says, “I’m Marissa Miller. wtf.”
If you’re curious who won the 2008 Douchie Award for Douchiest Celebrity Couple, the answer is here. As if you had to ask.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Umbiko’s Vision
Umbiko, a young tribal Bushman of the Khalahari, runs screaming through the shrubbery one dawn morning.
For he has had a nightmare.
Cut by brambles and near hysterical, Umbiko reaches his local village hut.
Frantically, Umbiko tells his Village Elder and part time Witch Doctor, Kakuule, that he has had a vision.
“Kakuule! The Douche is Real! I saw it in a dream!” the young boy shouts.
“Relax, child. Sit and tell me what you saw.” The aged one replies.
“Somewhere, there is a spiked up Douche Poo, right now, spreading sweat and hair gel on two reasonably cute girls! And, worst of all, the Douche Poo is revealing his monstrous, scary, artificially tanned lobsterian abs!”
“Nonsense.” replies the aged one to the young boy, as he crumbles a pinch of snuff in his wrinkled hands. “The visions of douchebags with artificial tans and hand gestures mugging hotts come to all of us during Walkabout. They are tests from the Gods. Nothing more. Spirits. Phantasms that task you with questioning morality and sanity in this world.”
“But Kakuule, I know it is real!”
“What place did your Vision tell you this was taking place?”
“It was… it was called… Jerz.”
The old man’s eyes grow wide, but his voice goes silent. For he knows, Umbiko’s visions were, indeed, real. And very smelly.
And… scene.
Yeah. I need another coffee.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Umbiko's Vision
Umbiko, a young tribal Bushman of the Khalahari, runs screaming through the shrubbery one dawn morning.
For he has had a nightmare.
Cut by brambles and near hysterical, Umbiko reaches his local village hut.
Frantically, Umbiko tells his Village Elder and part time Witch Doctor, Kakuule, that he has had a vision.
“Kakuule! The Douche is Real! I saw it in a dream!” the young boy shouts.
“Relax, child. Sit and tell me what you saw.” The aged one replies.
“Somewhere, there is a spiked up Douche Poo, right now, spreading sweat and hair gel on two reasonably cute girls! And, worst of all, the Douche Poo is revealing his monstrous, scary, artificially tanned lobsterian abs!”
“Nonsense.” replies the aged one to the young boy, as he crumbles a pinch of snuff in his wrinkled hands. “The visions of douchebags with artificial tans and hand gestures mugging hotts come to all of us during Walkabout. They are tests from the Gods. Nothing more. Spirits. Phantasms that task you with questioning morality and sanity in this world.”
“But Kakuule, I know it is real!”
“What place did your Vision tell you this was taking place?”
“It was… it was called… Jerz.”
The old man’s eyes grow wide, but his voice goes silent. For he knows, Umbiko’s visions were, indeed, real. And very smelly.
And… scene.
Yeah. I need another coffee.
Monday, May 4, 2009Blurry Xenu
Blurry Xenu laughs at this week’s HCwDB of the Week Finalists.
Next week?
Xenu’s a little more nervous.
Not enough to put away his purple silk vest and open chest shirt.
But a little.
Monday, May 4, 2009Grad School Melissa and Whiffy the Clown
Melissa is ballet trained, graceful, and smells like lilacs. She likes to practice yoga, loves Desperate Housewives, and is a huge fan of books by Michael Chabon and David Sidaris.
Melissa is a part time artist and an expert sculptor. For her uncle John’s sixtieth birthday, she made him a beautiful abstract figure out of clay.
In September, Melissa will go to grad school and major in Interior Design.
Melissa is dating this choad. Whiffy the Clown.
A Daoist monk in Uttar Pradesh just lit his balls on fire in protest.
Monday, May 4, 2009Excuse Me Waiter, There’s a Herp in My Salad
I’d send it back, Carolyn.
And switch restaurants.
