Reader Mail: The Rastabag
Aussie ‘bag hunter Whac-a-Douche, aka Tof, writes in with another quality tag:
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G’day DB1.
We have met before, I had the pleasure to submit Homeless Phil Collins a few few months. Funny you would choose such name not knowing the guy is actually a drummer. Anyway, I digress…
Today I have both a submission and a question.
My submission is vaginoplasty specialist and celebrity surgeon Dr Rey.
I had never heard of him before this morning, but the interwebs brought him to my attention while drinking my 9am bourbon and searching for the perfect pear. One might say this is holy endeavor.
My question: Have you ever featured rastabags? I have been reading your web site for quite a while now, but can’t remember ever seeing these annoying chillaxed skateboarding whine-about-everything-but-not-do-anything-about-it pot smoking silly hairdoed creatures. I believe they deserve mock.
Till next time,
Tof
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Firstly, excellent ‘tag with Dr. Rey. A true celebudouche of the reality sort in all the wrongest of fake authorial performative doucheries. Good work.
Secondly, to answer your question, our best Rastabag was either Blondbacca from way back in 2006, Buffalo Scroteja from 2008, or our recent Yamo Been There.
The Rastabag is an important subset of alterna-douchery in hitting on hot chick, and are underrepresented here at HCwDB. However, the mock will continue.
Oh yes.
It will continue.
Where’s Fish Slap?
Somewhere in this coupling of classic Vegas hottie/douchey sweetness and schlort, I’ve carefully placed the rapidly aging/sagging form of HCwDB legend Fish Slap.
Look closely.
Can you explain the five year gap on his resume when interviewing him for night shift at Carl’s Jr.?
Envyus is Made Out of Plastic, Is Glad to Meet You
Plasticdouches posing as humans? Pretty sure Envyus was actually a villain from the old Doctor Who.
Both Katie and Vanessa are candy corn sunshine slappy slap drinks of sex salve carnal carnation butt bouquets, and so I salute their genetic ancestors with the ritual burning of fruitfly incense and awkward tree humping.
HCwDB of the Month: Clifford the Big Red ‘Bag and Bethany and Brittany
In one of the closest Monthlies in awhile, what was essentially a four way tie of hottie/douchey meritocracy was finally broken by considering both primary secondary votes.
So your brain addled narrator tallied the votes. And after an early surge by Mr. Hawk and Hottie Heather, and a late push by both Manos: The Pecs of Fate as well as the wrongness of The Roastbeefer and Nikita Twins, Clifford’s shrunken nads and real world cuteness of Bethany and Brittany ultimately triumphed (failed).
The voters speak:
Horace Dangleballs: Sweatband? Douche. Red goggles and you’re not preserving your night vision like a WW 2 submariner? Douche. 26 inch cutoff jean shorts on a 34 inch waist? Douche. (But, as someone said in the original post, his lowered sperm count IS a benefit to society.)
Hermit: Clifford’s chin is horribly scarred from playing bobbing for sea urchins in a vat of hydrochloric acid, but it’s nothing that some Bondo and a neckbeard couldn’t hide.
Douchewallnuts: Clifford the Big Red Bag FTW. Channeling Will Ferrell while being a douchebag is an incredible achievement and must be rewarded.
idfma: I gotta go with Clifford. I have never seen someone look like an arrogant dickhead and completely befuddled all at the same time. Those rose colored shades make his eyes look swollen shut, and he either looks like he’s about to barf or say something really stupid.
ehcuodouche: Heather is the hottest, to be sure, but Clifford has two relatively normal-looking attractive women sheltering under his redmess [sic] who are not bazooka barfing. You can’t explain that. Clifford FTW.
Et Tu Douche?: Clifford the Big Red ‘Bag and Bethany and Brittney, FTW.
percy douchetonsils: Do the shorts make the man red, or does the red man make the shorts? I’m not sure, and quite honestly, I find my lack of certainty comforting. Between the Ballston Stranglers, the Knopfler circa “Money for Nothing” headband and that smug-pugly smirk that makes Bradley Cooper seem humble, I gotta go with Elway, for the win!
tall guy: a fouler, more putrid sight I have not seen in a long time. School boy tighty shorties? In acid wash fabric no less? And if that is a gun in his pocket, it resembles an Austrian 2mm pinfire miniature… So it’s Clifford the Big Red Bag FTW.
Troy Tempest: I vote for Clifford because Hawk doesn’t rate, Manos pulls bleeth, not hotts, and roastbeefer has been reduced to radioactive confetti.
Well said people, and what’s interesting is other pics featured both purer hott chicks and douchier douches, but together, it was Clifford and Bethany and Brittany that produced the toxic tandem to win (lose). In a tight jorts second, we found the surprisingly strong essence of douchery in the visage of Mr. Hawk mugging Hottie Heather:
Fatness: Mr. Hawk Doesn’t Deserve This and Hottie Heather. He’s moving in and she is politely smiling for the photo and not leaning away. Either she just won a bet or she actually likes this hawk-tard. Winner (and we all lose).
MrEvilBreakfast: This is a tough call… but hawk FTW. It’s just that’s incredibly doucheristic. Clifford’s high up there, but he just reeks so heavily of retard. But that mohawk is just so deliberate…
Vin Douchal: Heather has some Silky Milky’s and I’m hoping she immediately went back to her paralegal studies after this photo was taken. And by paralegal studies I mean stripping her way through cosmetology school.
But Manos: The Pecs of Fate and the ‘Beefer were also on the cusp of winning (losing), and both found righteous support:
Grand Douchemeister: I gotta go with Manos. The question which scientists have attempted to answer for decades has been which spawned which. Did the movie spawn the douche or did the douche paradoxically travel back in time and spawn the movie which spawned his name which and so forth until we all yearn for the sweet taste of oblivion.
Indiana Choad and the Temple of Douche: Gotta go with the Roastbeefer, for actually wearing more feminine clothing than his hotts are sporting. Quite possably the gayest thing I’ve seen in quite some time. It’s only a matter of time before he starts begging for my “jelly” and “Mirin”, and to “come on me, bro”.
FoghornLeghorn: Manos and Marsha for the win. Clifford looks like the biggest bag and Heather makes me drool, but their dates bring them down. If Clifford and his shorts could get together with Heather, or even the Nikita twins, that would be a winner. But that won’t happen in his lifetime.
joey-joe-joe: the clear pick for the monthly is manos, seen here selecting the most manly of pole-polishers in an attempt to make himself appear somehow relevant by applying the classic head-fake of “is it he or is it she” distraction. that straight-billed slightly-off-center cap with stupid sunglasses and pubic-triangle-chin crapsmear make me wanna gargle with port-a-pot waste and spit in his drink (if only it wouldn’t be such a waste of perfectly good digestive enzymes). yes, mano and his pecs FTM.
Choad the Douche Sprocket: Manos, like Nowitzki powering his trademark jumper, barrels into the lane sporting tatts, soul patch, hat tilt, wristband (Puma no less!), stupid sunglasses, even stupider stare, and a pulchritudinous hot pressing her arch-backed fun bags into his pits
I R A Darth Aggie: Manos and Back Arch Marsha FTW. And by “win” I mean “I want a kitten to punch me in the nuts” because I’m horrified that I’d like to dork Marsha in her squeakhole.
‘Daggerbagger: Roastbeefer FTM. Its his poised, coy smile combined with an exact 14degree eastwards face-tilt that requires oh so many hours of mirror practice to perfect that sells it for me. This is a sign of learned douchebaggery. It is this, plus gay V-neck shirts eminiscent of ‘NON’ from superman in the presence of babes that make me want to destroy myself.
Excellent parsings by all in the comments thread. But this was Clifford’s week to take it to the Yearly. Lets let Whoop-di-douche take us home:
Clifford the Big Red Dawggiebag gets my goat, er, vote with that caricature of a comicbook body and those teeny tighty jeanshorts. It’s a total irony that he has no tatts I can see, but then, his starin’ ‘tude is more visceral than his obvious viscera. Please, someone slip that headband onto his neck, attach a leash, and lead him far, far away, before he takes a dump on us all, because those two pooper-scoopers with him are not up to the task of cleanin’ up after him.
Methinks all four of these toxic couplings should receive some form of recognition at the 2011 Douchie Awards. But only one can advance to the Finals. And that one has a really low sperm count and real world tiny hotts by his inflated sides.
Clifford and Bethany and Brittany for the Yearly. And your narrator for a bagel.
Poppa Squatter
Sometimes the waiting period for entrance into our hallowed Closet of Poo is waived (wiped), and immediate flush is granted.
This is one of those times.
Hairpocalypse Now
I hate the smell of Vegas in the late afternoon.
It smells… like hair grease.
Ask DB1: Ed Hardy Quandry
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Oh wise one, we beseech thee with a question for the oracle of douchebaggery.
Can an Ed Hardy shirt, worn without irony, by a decidedly non-douchebag fellow, ever be acceptable attire? I ask this because the fellow pictured is a great guy, a good chef, and the father of the gal in the picture.
Together they run one of Las Vegas’ best off-Strip restaurants — serving kick-ass Bulgarian, Czech, Russian and Spanish(!?) food — to certain louche-lounge-lizard types, who may look like Eastern Promises extras but are genuinely nice blokes who appreciate the hand-tooled food of their homelands.
But the Ed Hardy shirt does give one pause.
What say you DB1?
– Choad The Douche Sprocket
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Hardywear = autodouche.
I don’t care if Mother Theresa and Jonas Salk had a kid who just cured jock itch using only chocolate HoHos massage techniques and a large vibrating eggg. If that child wears Ed Hardy, he must not pass.
There are no exceptions.
Well, maybe homeless children in Africa receiving rejected merchandise from America, who need to clothe themselves. M’Buke gets a nottadouche for wearing unsold 2006 Von Dutch shirts while scouring the garbage pile for aluminum foil. Other than that, autodouche.
Moped Mike May or May Not Be a Douche But Bikini Clara is Tasty
Moped Mike? Who gives a rats ass.
I would breakdance tai chi through a field of twitching mushrooms wearing only worn boxers and a hairnet and playing the orchestral version of a Nico harmony from early Velvet Underground using only a plastic comb and tapping spoons while sipping fermented grapefruit juice from a gimmick baseball cap can holder just for the chance to cup slap the brain addled aardvark that once upchucked on her cotton candy outside the Tea Cup ride at the 2004 summer carnival in Decatur, Illinois. And then I would tickle her underboob with an ostrich feather.
Crotch Johnson and the Sara Bikini Hotties Order Bottle Service
To some, a thousand dollars for a bottle of Grey Goose may seem excessive.
To Crotch Johnson, it’s an ethos.
The Sara Bikini Hotties are malnourished in all the right ways. And while a peanut butter and banana sandwich may aid their health, I pooch their underfed bellies with feral lickage and top it off with a cannoli from Veniero’s.
The Party Pirates Voted
That annoying couple at the party that dresses theatrically and probably lives in San Francisco just voted in the HCwDB of the Month. Have you voted yet?
Not that there’s anything wrong with most people in San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities.
But lets be honest. Performative Dressup Theatricalbag Party Pirates with fidoras? The Mission Street 2BR/2BA odds are at least 18%.
