Walkabout

    Wednesday, December 7, 2016

    The Shunning of the Trump Voter

    crazy-trump-supporter
    You. Yes, you.

    You voted for Trump?

    You are a human Zika virus. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. Every pixel of your online presence. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. Forever.

    I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. I expunge you with every ounce of my soul, my shmeg, and my spirit. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition.

    You deserve no forgiveness.

    You deserve no retrial.

    You are hereby cast out.

    You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society. And you are certainly not invited to my next birthday party. And that party will be awesome. It will contain real people. It will have cheese dip. And premium gouda. And tasty Hostess treats. Yes, even Chocodiles. And people with actual souls. People with consciousness. From Socrates to Billy Ocean. The collective progress of Humankind. Of which you are no longer a member. Sorry, toad pimple. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race.

    You are douche.

    But not just any douche. We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. You are not merely standard issue douche. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. You fall neither hither nor thither on the spectrum of ‘bag.

    You are a new form of pimple lick. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, each a differing shade of fecal brown. The collective effect is one of patchwork shite. To name you a single feces is to do a disservice to the many sphincters and colons that collectively excreted the various elements that make up your kaleidoscopic dung discharge.

    As such, we are at an impasse. For there are not enough neologisms to express my contempt for your retched life choices that you exemplify, occupy, taint, or otherwise smear with the vile spittle that pours forth like mildewy Mountain Dew from your scaly manure-built form.

    You appear as human.

    But you are patchwork waste. The product of a thousand poops personified in one giant humanoid flush.

    You have an excuse for your actions, I’m sure. You hated Hillary. You just wanted a tax break. You wanted a certain kind of Supreme Court justice or just thought it would be hi-larious to mix it up by voting for an orange simian rhesus hemorrhoid.

    Unacceptable.

    Shove it up your ass like a week old slurpee stained dumpster outside a 7-11 in Sheboygan. Even if that 7-11 was once a White Castle. And even if the memories of those savory square burgers still haunts its myopic walls. The dumpster don’t lie. Once you pulled the lever for a preening con-man sexual abuser, you exemplified the narcissistic diuretic spew of that most craven core embodiment of American Douchebaggery.

    For what is a douchebag if not you? Douches ignore the larger world in favor of the narcissistic self. ‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And so is the Trump vote.

    And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you. You sorry, pathetic milk teat on the taint of a toad.

    Douche.

    You.

    I’m talking to you.

    You never shaved your chest but voted for Trump? You are douche. You never chugged a Bud Light Lime while calling a girl “bro” but voted for Trump? Douche.

    I hereby micturate on your rug for all eternity. Because you live in the age of infinite, accessible information laying at your fingertips. And yet you chose ignorance and hysteria over consciousness and thought. Enlightenment beckoned. And you chose the Great Orange Darkness.

    There is only one course of action left.

    “Hot Chicks with Douchebags” calls for a complete and total shunning of all Trump voters from every aspect of respectable life. You aren’t just to be mocked for eternity. You are to be held in utter fucking contempt by all that value anything beyond the navel gaze. All that value the notion of humanity above primal animal urges and violent impulses of the jungle.

    To the millions of us on the side of righteousness, I call on you to join me. Participate in this collective shunning of those that deserve nothing but shun. De-friend any Trumpdouches in your midst. If they’re family? Cut them off. Scientology style.

    Gone. Dismissed. Forever.

    They do not deserve reasoning. They do not deserve negotiation. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek.

    Christian Audigier and Ed Hardy are dead now. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on.

    In the Trumpdouche. The faux tribal tattoo on the bicep of humanity. They deserve to be scrubbed off and flushed down the toilet as soon as possible. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. Forever.

    This is our next challenge. Our calling. This is a war. Choose your side. And do not go weak kneed simply because a meat-sack in human form resembles an actual human when justifying their Faustian bargain.

    View them for what they are. Condemn them for failing to be what could so easily have been theirs. A world of knowledge. Intelligence. Humanity.

    They rejected the modern world. We reject them.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Monday, February 24, 2014

    All Good Mock Must Come to an End

    DB2080-739387

    It’s time.

    The hottie/douchey mock has been an embedded and integral part of my life for eight years now.

    We have explored the vacuity of club culture in every permutation we could find. It has been an incredible journey. But it is time for me to stop. At least as a daily blog.

    That being said, nothing’s ever really over in internet land. HCwDB will carry on. But in a different way now. Perhaps as an archive of the past eight years of hottie/douchey poo stain on our culture. Perhaps on message boards. Or in occasional updates.

    But today marks the end of the HCwDB experiment in its initial run.

    And who better to send us off then the first breakout hottie/douchey doucherstars of this site, the late, great, majesty of inflation and boob grab that is Pumpy? Like many of purest of uberbags, Pumpy burned as bright as he did briefly. The Pumpster left us far too soon, but is forever in our hearts and boob fondles.

    There is so much I want to reflect on. Please indulge me. While it is impossible to tell the full journey of HCwDB in all of its multifaceted complexity, I do want to hit some of the high (and low) notes.

    Or, if you’d like to hear me tell it in my own words, listen to the podcast I did a few weeks ago in New York (dated 2/17/14). It covers a lot of the behind the scenes drama of the rise of HCwDB.

    What started as a goofy blog idea for a few friends almost exactly eight years ago quickly turned into a viral phenomenon and then, improbably, a career.

    Here are some of my thoughts on the run:

    The Early Years
    TheShocker

    It all began in the dark days of 2006.

    One day I saw a ridiculously hot girl walking around with an orange tanned chest shaved Ed Hardy wearing fauxhawk and stupid bling sporting tattooed assmunch.

    Something had to be done.

    Someone had to speak up.

    A voice of protest shouting at the canker sore lip herp spreading across the humorless land of Pickup Artist cacaphony and really stupid manscaping.

    DB12007WC2I had no clue what I was doing. Daily picture blogs didn’t even exist. My free blogger software forced me to upload my images to imageshack and cut and paste them in.

    Although the pics have been lost to imageshack hosted time, here’s what my first few weeks of posts looked like. The writing? Not so impressive.

    But mock I must. And so I did.

    I set a few rules.

    No real names of people in the pics. Takedown requests would be honored. PG-13 language if possible.

    And, of course, self-deprecation at the heart of all mock.

    I felt these rules were fair enough to allow pointed hottie/douchey commentary to take place.

    I was pleased and amazed to find that others wanted to join me in mocking douchebags and lusting hotts in all its primal monkey-poo lizard brain herd wrongness.

    I began to receive a few emails. Then more. Then, eventually, thousands over the years. Some hilarious. Some dangerous. Some bizarre. Some intelligent. Some depressing. Many threatening legal action. Some quite poignant. Some angry. Some very silly.

    Of course, as I kept trying to tell everyone, I’m the biggest douchebag of all.

    Gradually the site began to ingratiate itself in the interweb consciousness.

    Gainin’ Steam
    7
    Around 2007, the site began to take off.

    Rolling Stone plugged the site in its “best of the web” column. I did my first radio interview on a British radio show called The Ugly Phil show. You can listen to the interview here (the music is also what inspired me to name my MTV show). You can tell how nervous and amazed I am that anyone is talking about HCwDB.

    Yahoo made HCwDB a pick of the week. Thrillist featured me as well. Here was my somewhat incredulous post from the day that I realized HCwDB was starting to explode.

    I began to hear from a number of military personnel serving overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan.

    One pilot in Afghanistan emailed me privately for months promising to send me a t-shirt of his unit when he got back home. Then one day I stopped hearing from him. I have no idea if he even made it home. I was just humbled and honored to know that HCwDB was able to brighten up their dreary days in those hellholes.

    I realized that mocking the silliness of youth culture had an element of profundity to it.

    People needed to laugh.

    And who better to laugh at then douchebags?

    I was interviewed on the enormously popular Los Angeles morning drive radio show, The Kevin and Bean Show. The site crashed from all the hits.

    I learned that HCwDB was being hosted on a shared server. I learned what a server was. And then quickly upgraded.
    I did more interviews. This included Playboy Radio. You can listen to the interview on Playboy Radio here (starts 34 minutes in).

    In May, Simon & Schuster bought my book pitch. Here’s Gawker’s snarky post from that day.

    I began work on my book, one that I remain quite proud of. Especially when I got to see it given so many times, interestingly enough, as wedding gifts.

    And that, I thought, was that. What more could a blogger hope for than to write a book?

    Much more, as it turned out.

    HCwDB Comes of Age
    GoldenGlobesDouchie3
    2008 was when the site really exploded.

    And by exploded, I mean oiled up cans in proxy with spiked up choddlescrote.

    HCwDB got even more press. The book sparked a debate in Las Vegas.

    I had the uberhott Elizabeth Banks talk up the site on The Tonight Show and Jerry O’Connell plug it on an embedded late night show that has since disappeared into the ether. I did many radio interviews. I even turned down a bunch of TV because I was lazy and a bit shy.

    My book came out in July.

    I did signings in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. I had the pleasure of meeting dozens of readers in each of those cities. Suddenly the abstraction of writing HCwDB had become real. I signed everything from books to Ubiquitous Red Cups.

    Then I got sued. A few times. But luckily there’s this thing called The Constitution. Both cases were thrown out of court for sheer ridiculousness.

    I got agents. I wrote up a reality show pitch. I pitched it. I sold it to MTV. Another network that wanted the show but didn’t get it went ahead and made it anyway. I remain unamused.

    But I had my show and I was thrilled. I got to create, cast, executive produce and write voiceover for what was the best HCwDB show I could have hoped for, Is She Really Going Out With Him?. MTV let me run with it for three seasons and call a bunch of serious scrotes out. A pleasure indeed.

    The show was a solid hit on MTV. The book got optioned by New Line. I wrote two drafts of a script for the studio. Sadly, the movie never got greenlit. But other than that bump in HCwDB’s conquering of the world, it has been a lifechanging pleasure to mock douches and lust hotts for your daily entertainment.

    The Golden Years
    Crosshair

    For the next few years, the mock was choice. Submissions were high. The comments threads were bumpin’. I was pleased to see the douche mock expanding even further into all corners of the pop culture consciousness.

    But even with the success of the TV show and book, the core of HCwDB has always the website. And we have mocked some very toxic hottie/douchey examples over the years. Sometimes readers met up with each other.

    I encourage you to peruse the archives located in the left hand column. Or just check out the Hall of Scrote and Hall of Mock. You can read of Douchie Awards in years past.

    Sleepy Jerkenstein and Cindy still roil my nethers.

    The classic ‘bagitude of the now antiquated Joey Porsche.

    The face most deserving of a fish slap that still haunts my nightmares in Fish Slap.

    The vile arrogance of The Ab Lobster.

    The endless party of King Douchuous the IV.

    The ridiculousness of Kisseus Vomitorious.

    The arrest, release, relapse, and updates of Hall of Scrote Chicagoan Donkey Douche have embodied the HCwDB ethos for years. Or just read The Donkster in his own words.

    So many epic scrote/hotts. So little time.

    I must acknowledge the epic douchery of The Gator, the lumpyness of Smoot, the stupid chicken frying poetry of Stackhouse the Poet, the party spikes of Four Prong, the ass-bite of Benzino, the sad desperation of Mack the Nozzle, and the ridic face carve of Brothabag Leon, just off the top of my head. But there were so many other profound scrotal sores over the years. How could I sum them all up in one post?

    At the heart of it all, The Unholy Grieco sits. The Unholy Source Douche and I even interacted on Facebook once. Now I just sorta feel bad for the guy.

    And lets not forget the sheer, unadulterated joy of classic bro Bra!! Has anyone ever enjoyed a tasty cola beverage in presence of a hot chick more than Bra!!? We can all learn a Zen lesson in life enjoyment from our favorite party pud.

    The great Vin Douchal even composed an ode to Bra!! among many other HCwDB song classics.

    Or this friggin’ guy. I didn’t even remember him until going through the archives. But what a piddling example of hottie/douchey wrongness. Yech.

    The epic hottness of Halo Angel, Brunette Rhea, Arielle, Anya, Holly, Francine, just to name a few, still dazzle with the purity of suckle thigh. And the lawsuits of uberhott Champagne Katie and Billy Dee Willhelm still amuse. And then my own personal adventures in singledom with the lovely Veronica.

    Many a fine moment was had by your humble narrator during this crazy run.

    A Look Back
    DeathtongueBut, if I had to pic, no pic featured on the site better encapsulated the travesty of hottie/douche cohabit than early 2008’s Deathtongue and Quartasian Mia Sara Hott (pictured here).

    We’ve seen far douchier douches.

    And at least equivalent hott hotts.

    But no festering nuclear dump of a combination quite captured the essence of wrongness like these two.

    The spikey hair. The stupid shirt. The aggressive, arrogant posturing machismo captured in mid-lick.

    And the innocent Mayan Eye of Coitus expressed by Quartasian Mia Sara Hott in (im)perfect counterbalance.

    Festering stew. So wrong.

    And of couse let us not forget Deathtongue and Quartasian Mia Sara Hott ii.

    QMSH even won Hottest Hott of the Year at the 2008 Douchie Awards.

    So many amazing/horrifying HCwDB couples over the years. I can’t even begin to cover all the adventures we’ve had together on this site.

    I even managed to get in a few quality rants on subjects like Spring Breakers, New York in the 1980s, the death of Al Goldstein, or just a general hate of douche culture. There were my thoughts on Lorde and The Boston Bomber Rolling Stone cover. The rank atrociousness of people likethe late, unlamented Andrew Breitbart, Donald Trump, Brett Favre, Mel Gibson and Dr. Drew.

    I journeyed to Lane Meyer’s house to search for his two dollars.

    I had quality righteous spew directed at peak Douche John Meyer and again.

    We witnessed Poo. Lots and lots of poop. Prompa Poop.

    Or, uhm,…. Moobs.

    And then there was the Pear. Lots and lots of Pear.

    Let us also remember the genius of the tribute HCwDB videos. In addition to Vin Douchal’s epic compositions there was Foglizard’s Douchebags.

    And this little piece of brilliance from back in 2009, created by HCwDB’s own Mr. Scrotato Head:

    HCwDB in the News
    ImpendingSignOfTheApocalypse_CartoonAmerica
    Then there was the flipside. The dozens of imitators, ripoff sites porny vidoes, countdown videos, music videos, parody videos, animated videos, gym videos, and comedians cashing in on the HCwDB experience as much as they could. Without even the courtesy of a link to my site or mentioning of my book.

    All of those pretenders and thieves can suck it! HCwDB will always be where douche mock first originated. To those in Hollywood, if you have to steal other people’s ideas to entertain, kill yourself (to paraphase the great Bill Hicks). This is the real deal. It always will be.

    On a related note, I always enjoyed this Adam Carolla rant set to HCwDB pics. That’s what led to my appearance on the Adam Carolla podcast. Also worth a listen if interested.

    Now, eight years later, our victories our many. Today we see rejection of overpriced t-shirts, stupid bling, and peacocking spectacle that once ruined our cornflakes and micturated on our collective rugs.

    Looking back I feel privileged to have been able to chart a nation’s cultural transformation.

    And what can I say about the cadre of brilliant regulars who brought daily poo-fling in the comments threads? You guys kept me going years past the point when I probably should have shut things down around here.

    The “Hall of Mock” in the left hand column is our Hall of Fame and honors some of the top regulars. But lets be sure to toast each and every one of you with a cup of Night Train fortified wine. I even thank those not on the plaques who submitted pics or just chimed in every so often. I read almost all the comments threads. It was always a joy.

    I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a special belly fondle to the great DarkSock. A supreme mockist who filled in for me on numerous walkabouts and brings a keen mind and boat crashing punk rock anarchy to all that he touches.

    And then, last August, BabyChick1 (BC1) arrived.

    Suddenly mocking douches and lusting their hotts suddenly didn’t come as organically as it once did. Not to mention that I need to save up my creative energy for new projects like a tantric version of Sting in mid-coitus.

    So today seems like a good day to say thank you to all that have joined me on this journey of mock into the heart of American culture in the digital age. The last eight years have been incredible. I had a platform to spew my daily thoughts and people who responded to it.

    It’s the eight year anniversary in about a week. And so that seems like a nice bookend.

    I will take a month or three off. I’ll still be doing house cleaning around here. Like adding Brothabag Edgar to the Closet of Poo.

    And then I will probably start occasionally posting again here and there when I can. If I find a pic or a rant worthy of attention.

    So I wouldn’t call this site dead-dead.

    More like on walkabout. For now.

    But just because HCwDB will not be updating that does not mean I won’t be around. I am working on a number of new projects that I’m quite excited about. Hopefully good news will be announced in due time. In the meantime I will start updating on my long dormant sister site, Lucky Punkass, again. All of your avatars/IDs should carry over there. Feel free to join me and say hi.

    You can also follow me on Twitter and Instagram, both of which I try to keep active. Or just drop me an email: douchebag1 at hotchickswithdouchebags.com.

    I have much left to say/rant/complain about in life. I just can’t keep mocking douchebags over and over. Nor did I want to transform this site into something it was never meant to be.

    So let us close the books on the HCwDB run. It was glorious. I have seen my writing and our mock influence everything from the game changing impact of The Jersey Shore to the “Douche Jar” mocking of Schmidt on New Girl.

    And let us bow our head and appreciate the power of the mock. The power of pointing out the hypocrisy and economic violence of a media and corporage industry hellbent on selling “sex” in high priced packages. Douchey t-shirts and overpriced bodyspray. All part of the long con. The marketing hypnosis meant to brainwash us into thinking we need spikey hair and overpriced products to perform the universal coital dance. We do not. Coitus is free. If you want it. (to paraphrase John Lennon).

    That’s what HCwDB has always stood against. And always will.

    Now let us repose with a pack of tasty Hostess HoHos and a cup of Night Train.

    Life is good.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, December 5, 2013

    Boston Bound

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    Speaking of wigga tool pantload crapstain koala spittle yak in a noose hanging from a eucalyptus tree wrong.

    So it goes, Billy Bob and Katie.

    Your humb narrs, HC1, and, of course, BC1, are all on a plane headed home to Boston.

    Our mission: Allowing my grandparents, newly minted as great-grandparents, to oggle my spawn.

    On a related note, “Oggle My Spawn” the working title of the Osmond’s Christmas Specials back in the 70s?

    # posted by douchebag1
    Saturday, March 9, 2013

    The Mutational Internets

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    From lo-res dancing baby to Harlem Shakes (no embedded links to spare you the passe-ness), the internets has come a long way, baby.

    Your humb narrs has played a small, teensy tiny role in the chaos as the world shifted from text-based processing (blogs) to image-based imaginariums(instacrap et al).

    Whereto next, o captain my captain?

    How willst the digital umbilicus that pastiches the collective unconscious as unregulated simulcrum traverse the sands of cultural shift next?

    I do not know.

    So here’s a horse guy.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Wednesday, February 27, 2013

    The Sherpa's Scribbletatts

    photo (8)

    Once, when I was working as a grapefruit vendor for the mob in Tijuana during rainy season, a passing blind Sherpa told me not to look so hard.

    “You can only see when you cannot see.” the blind sherpa told me, his gnarled hands clutching a pencil box for charity and a half-eaten Snickers bar.

    “When you cannot see, the universe will reveal itself.”

    We sang ancient Sanskrit hymns until dawn before being rousted from our campfire by a pack of wandering muskrats in search of truffle.

    So we wandered past the Cayan Underpass and over the Hills of Prangladesh. I offered him some mead wine and a few sheckels and bade him on his way at the crossroads by I-59.

    But I pondered the Sherpa’s words. And stopped staring at the sun.

    Later, I found out the Sherpa opened a tattoo parlor on Ventura. Scribble Tatts, half price.

    I still see the signs of his wisdom today.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, January 24, 2013

    Pregnant Mandouche Says, "Where's The 'Sock?"

    youll-poke-an-out-eye-with-those

    (notes from a post-coma hospital bed)

    Gach…. HoHos!! Wherefore art thou HoHos?…

    ‘Sock!! Wherest du, ‘Sock?! You must post in the mornings!! To keep HCwDB Running in mein absence… even ast I talkst Germanic in my haze…

    Oh Black Bikini Alyson… how thine supplest of curves warmest mein freuleins and tickle my shpinkles…

    Alack! I have a vision!! Black Bikini Alyson offers the hope while Pregnant Mandouche offers the abyss… I must heal myself… with the power of prayer pear!!

    # posted by douchebag1
    Monday, April 9, 2012

    Props to the 'Sock!

    And by “sock,” I mean Marty Puffinmuscle’s impromptu and improvisational adherence to prophylactic need.

    Aka the social conventions of discovering birth control methodology via article of clothing in Marty’s van down by the river upon convincing an addled Corrie that she should, like, totally make out with him for a few hours, then watch the sunrise.

    Your humble narrator is back from meditative and monastic retreat in Uttar Punjab and ready to fire things up again.

    Gotta a hamper full of soiled HCwDB pics ready to fire.

    I hope all of your Seders and Seder-ripoffs (Easter) were delightful and macaroon filled. Now lets do this thang.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Thursday, November 17, 2011

    Silk Yankee Caps Are Not A Sign of Class

    Perhaps we’ve become desensitized to just how odious D.J. iPod culture has ravaged our civilization like rampaging crypto-gay gladiator movies released on 11/11/11.

    D.J. Assmunch wastes his salad years chasing ephemera under the rubric of accomplishment. Loud lights and noises as a substitute for thought.

    Amanda pumps up and tones out, but rock solid abs eventually fade. What’s left?

    Time, like the honey badger, don’t give a shit.

    I’mma get a coffee.

    # posted by douchebag1
    Sunday, May 29, 2011

    Sometimes you slap the fish…and sometimes the fish slaps you

    Well, my time behind the wheel here at HCwDB draws to an end. DoucheBag1 returns his firm and calloused hand to the helm; refreshed and wizened from his walkabout, like the Alpaca of Fate after catching that perfect wave.

    What enlightenment will he bring forth from the misty crowns of the Andes and the ruins of Chichen Itza and Machu Picchu?

    Specifically, has he learned any lessons about messin’ with them alpacas…?


    We wait, DB1, with Bated Breath for you to share with us what you herd.

    Because you have found the sacred truth:  That in each of us flows some alpaca blood.

    We now rejoin DB1 in his journey: to learn, to discover, and most importantly…to mock them silly douche bastards.

    And what of myself?  I too now feel a calling; a journey to enlightenment that will pull me away for some time; my own Walkabout.

    I’ma Walkabout ten steps over to my wet bar and pour 3 fingers of my very fine 25 year old Rittenhouse Rye, splash a little Fiji Water into it, and enjoy. Because every journey begins with a step; however, like Reverend Chad, mine will end in 12 steps.

    I’ll rejoin you all inside the Peanut Gallery tomorrow, where together we shall continue the Fight.

    # posted by Bagnonymous
    Monday, May 16, 2011

    The Boss is Lost, Al’s Pacas, and oh, yeah…the D’bag o’ the week!

    DarkSock here.  In case you didn’t tune in Sunday (from fear of Frolic Exposure) you may have missed the notice about DB1’s sudden departure upon a journey of spiritual awakening; a walkabout to gain enlightenment and penance amongst the feral unshorn alpaca herds grazing in the mist of the Andes mountain ranges.

    Walkabout and penance my ass.

    So I’m trolling through the Boss’s filthy apartment, pawing amongst the strewn Ho-Ho wrappers and kicked-over half-emptied bottles of Trader Joe’s Blood Orange soda (which faintly smell of rubbing alcohol…) looking for pictures and passwords so I can keep the fight going on this site.

    Among the yet-to-be posted pictures I also find death threats from Doc, a monogrammed pair of men’s briefs emblazoned with “Plinky”, the skeletal remains of a Jack Russel Terrier, a subpoena from the Llama/Alpaca Vice Squad Task Force of the Florida Fish and Wild Life Commission, and most disturbingly: a past-due final notice from Big Al Pacas (pictured here), proprietor of the North American chapter of M.A.I.L. (Man-Alpaca Integration League). This “notice” is hand-written on college-rule notebook paper in jagged angry font rendered from a fury-blunted Sharpie marker, and it states that either DB1 coughs up the $5,200 owed in alpaca feed and llama lubricant or Big Al Paca will be forced to send his cousin Thick Vinnie “Shit” Paca over to adjust some external genitalia with his pet snapping turtle.  And yes, that is a euphemism.

    But my irresponsible conjecture matters not, only DB1’s parting words: “For the ‘bag mock and hottie lust must continue, unabated, in my absence.

    Fear not, our soon-to-be-gelded leader. Those Hotts will not go unabated; they will be bated until our elbow bursitis returns yet again.  GodSpeed, DB1; may you gain enlightenment while avoiding getting sticky alpaca poo on your new hemp sandals.

    To that end: let us select the Hottie/Douchebag coupling of the preceding week.  Yeah, for a limited time we’re going back to the Weekly Vote; because I cannot shoulder such an awesome burden of selection alone.  But I can count votes whilst suckling a bottle of Beam like it was the fiery red teat of the First Mother Alpaca.

    Here’s yer choices:

    HCwDB of the Week #1: Ball State Kevin and Party Girl Kelly.

    Ball State Kevin attracts Sex Kitten and Party Girl Kelly’s woo-hottiness into his Sauder-Woodworks-appointed dorm of inequity to do laws only knows what…perhaps change his ball state from blue to empty?  We must not imagine ourselves into a ball state of despair.  But it ain’t easy.








    HCwDB of the Week #2:  Bird Poo and Sweaty Sally, as witnessed by Natural Nina.

    I would give many things in order to wipe that moon-pie smirk off of Bird Poo’s mug. But Sweaty Sally’s soaked beach towel would not be one of them. I would fight off a sickened grizzly using only it’s own loose scat and a VW fender if that’s what it took to carry her soiled beach blanket around like a perpetually engorged Linus. While Nina watched.








    HCwDB of the Week #3:  Chimpy McWhack and Kneeling Kelly


    Why, Kelly, are you in proximity to this Ben-Stiller-Simian-Simulcrum? I hope against all hope that this coupling is due to a mix-up involving Ambien, a full bladder and his uncanny resemblance to a bidet.








    HCwDB of the Week #4: Jimmy Pud and Mandy.


    Jimmie Pud clearly got a Freudian idea whilst using a flat head screwdriver during shop class as he worked towards his doctorate at the Tallahassee Community College Campus. But lovely Mandy prefers Philip-Heads.








    This is your Rogue’s Gallery for this week.  Vote, as always, in the comments threads, where I shall skim them, pretend to count, and pick my fave anyway.


    # posted by Bagnonymous