Fung Diddy
Oh poor, sweet, confused Simona.
How you pull on that wafting tuft of chin fung to see if the mo’ will move. But it doesn’t move. For there is far too much skull.
My Simona. How I would gnaw on your perfect European supple legs like the Kaiser searching the Ottoman Empire for a new Ottoman. Because his living room needs updating.
The Dripster
Because hair like that is an abstract conceptual prank that rewrites history on some achronological mythical level.
Like realizing that Bob Dylan’s entire career was actually played by Sacha Baron Cohen on the Capricorn One sound stage.
Poor, poor Molly. She hasn’t heard of Bob Dylan or seen Capricorn One. But she did see Borat.
HCwDB of the Week: The Kleenex and Nicola
It was a Canadian blowout of ‘baggian proportions. With a run of party douche, Kleencrotch #3. And even incognito Woody Woodpanel, the Kleenex wipers were too
strong, and Nicola too hott, not to win, taking down Benny Wah and the Alt Hotts and The Golden ‘Baggers with ease.
The voters speak:
Istandouche: Easy competition this week. Kleenex gets my vote.
Jacques Doucheteau: Well good for you Mr. Choke-on-your-own-cock-grease. You’ve finally found a lifestyle that permits you to successfully pick up on drunk girls that lack even a smidgen of taste, class, self-esteem, or badly needed antibiotics. For that we shall bestow upon you real celebrity status: To be known far and wide as a complete and total douchebag, worthy only of our mock.
Fatness: Pic #2 seals the hott part of the deal, and Kleenex Wiper’s got to be one of the taintiest slime balls ever to grow in the Great White North.
Charles Ulysses Farley: This is the kind of asshat that should be subjected to repeated painful government experiments regarding the pain threashold. And Nicola. Oh my! You have that sultry, Amanda Peet look about you. Me likey.
Captain Lame: You see Nicola was once a beautiful clean sheet of soft material that would’ve feel wonderful on my nethers. Unfortunately this choad is a mucusy discharge that ruins said soft piece of material upon contact.
End the Haberdouchery: Kleenex gets my vote. He strikes me as the type of guy who tucks it between his legs every night before bed and dances for himself in front of a full length mirror, Buffalo Bill style.
Mr. White: the huge gulf that separates the douchosity of Kleenex and ethereal hottness of Nicola cannot be ignored
The Goob the Bag and the Pudly: I gotta go with Kleenex, too. I feel my blood beginning to boil at the thought of tasty Nicola and her knee-weakening come-hither eyes and smile cuddling up to that tattooed, bling-bedecked wad of excrement.
Amerigo Vesdouchey: Nicola is the hottest hott here since Jebus’s Mary. And probably not as high-maintenence. I would tickle her ass with a feather.
The Reverend Chad Kroeger: Kleenex is a douchebag whore selling himself as a brand. That brand is Douchebag Pro. Kleenex Wiper and Nicola win it for the bling.
smackdouche: I must vote for the KIleenex Mafia. Which is the worst name for a group/collective ever. Sounds like they would bust your kneecaps after watching “Steel Magnolias”.
Deltus: Kleenex is so dyed-in-the-wool douchetastic nasty taint-smelling poo, I fear for the future of Canadian health care because of the random, multi-drug-resistant infections of everything from The Virus to STDs he inadvertently passes along at his parties.
Musicman: Kleenex by far deserves the weekly…He brings shame to Toronto…..What if the Kleenex brothers meet Dimitri?!? If that happens, then the Canadian douchepocalypse will happen! RUN TO YOUR SHELTERS PEOPLE!!!!!!
Exactly. Good call, people. But while it was a Toronto blowout, both The Golden ‘Bagger and Benny Wah and the Alt Hotts did find a little support:
Tony Ventresca: #2 Golden Bagger. For two reasons: (1) he thinks he’s as cool as Mickey Rourke but doesn’t realize he’s going to end up looking like a piece of old chewed-up leather just like Mickey, and (2) she is Hall of Hott worthy in my opinion (or at least Little Tony thinks so). The others look like they might be able to pass as normal humans with street clothes and hair gel washed out.
Captain Scrote Sparrow: Ricky Rockett and the 3 large Orange Juicers get my vote. I like big boob’s and i’d drink from that fountain anytime…
doucheywallnuts: The Golden Bagger FTW. He and Patricia are living, breathing reminders of precisely why cliches and stereotypes exist, and by extension why this web site lives and thrives.
Redouche-Reooze-Repsycho: As for Patricia– well, as much as I hate to see bicycle helmet hair and oversized shades on a woman, her body (artificially enhanced though it may be) is smokin’, and makes me tingly in the right places.
I R A Darth Aggie: The Alt Hotts FTW. And by “win” I mean “kick Benny in the Wah”.
Tom Choad: Benny Wah for the win! What kind of a douche makes a four-year old’s nyah-nyah face when posing with hott chicks? Somebody remove that sludge from the gene pool, please.
I hear ya, T.C. and I’m glad a few people saw the ‘Baggers Gold and Benny Wah as worthy of mock. And the Alt Hotts have yet to get their due for hottness. But this was a Kleenex Nose Wipe blowout. Lets let system of douche take us home:
It’s Kleenex for me. He is sinister. He is douche to the core. He is so self absorbed with his bling, chest shave reveal, tatts, and stupid haircut he makes me want to scour the neighborhood for mewling kittens, collect them in a burlap bag and repeatedly swing said bag to the pavement until there is silence.
Won’t somebody think of the poor mewling kittens? Kleeny and Nicola for our next slot in the Monthly, and your humble narrator for Corn Pops.
Where’s Fish Slap?
Somewhere in this unbalanced lineup of far too many pumped up schloads and far too little gnawable hott chicks, I’ve carefully hidden HCwDB legend, Fish Slap.
Look closely.
Can you slap him in the face with a dead fish for being such a douche?
Pouty Karl
Hipsterbag Karl doesn’t like being presented with perfect pillowy bounce-quartery spheres of semi-globbic perfection.
Instead, he likes to wear rosary beads.
And pout.
And for that, he deserves our mock.
Ask DB1: The Suburban Divorcee ‘Bag
——-
You know, DB1,
When I read this site, about the only solace that I get is hoping that since most of the HOTTS featured here are young; they will someday grow up enough to know better than to date orange, roided, gelled, preening, smirking, red-cup holding, gang-sign flashing, hat tilting, giant watch wearing, ridiculous tattoo douches, and instead go out with normal, non-pumped, verbal, intelligent guys who won’t think of them as possessions, conquests or arm accessories from which they can “get some.”
I still hold out hope that this is true, but I swear to God, every time I go to a function at my kids’ school, Back to School Night, Family Fun Night or whatever, I start to seriously doubt that this paradigm is true.
Because all of the cutest divorcees, and there are always a few, show up to these things accompanied by smirking, middle aged douche bags.
These guys invariably sport torn jeans, and not torn by manual labor or falling off a bike or whatever torn jeans, but torn by low-wage factory workers in Thailand or Korean torn jeans.
I could laugh this off. Some women (and men) just stay dumb, right? Some of us never evolve.
But see, I KNOW most of these women and they’re not bleeths. They are not dumb. A lot of them are professionals, teachers, attorneys, the cream of the suburban divorcee crop not only in regards to looks, but also in the brains department. And yet at every function they trot out these f-ing douchebags.
Riddle me this, boss. What gives?
Does the lure of the douche not lessen as the HOTT ages? Is attraction to douche not lessened as the HOTT learns, evolves, gets smarter, learns a thing or two about the world, and gets screwed over by douche after douche?
– BFlak
————–
In the age of youth culture fetish, the quest for eternal teenagedom condemns the aging to seek out the brand name validation that will best hide the truth of mortality under the bling of spectacle.
Partius Von Crotchenstain
When I was in seventh grade, way back in the desperately vacuous hair metal days of the late 1980s, I took a class in European History.
In that class, we learned the events of the famed 19th Century boy-king, Partius Von Crotchenstain. Youthful heir to the Indochine-Prussian Von Crotchenstain kingdom from 1811-1814.
Partius inherited the Kingdom when his father, the former Duke of Lacrossian Daterapian, passed away after his prized guinea pig came down with a case of contagious rickets.
From that point forward, Partius wasted his Kingdom and his empire on the Bleethiest of the Fair Maidens a’milking. From great wealth, the empire plunged into poverty, setting up the terrible period known as the “War of 18 Year Olds who Act Like They’re 12.”
At least I think that’s how it went.
Then again, I got a C-.
Afflictionbags
Still out there.
Still traveling back in time via a cranked up DeLorean to hit on the hottest girls at the 1955 Enchantment Under the Sea formal.
The Jersey Sores
Grandma don’t like the douchebags.
Jenny and the Bros
All Jenny wanted was to hang with her BFFs and, like, totally complain about how Kevin was, like, totally lame at the party when he threw up on those foreign exchange students.
But then the Bros showed up. I mean, like, sure, they bought them drinks and all, but did they have to butt in when Jenny began Facebook picture-taking (ratio currently holding at twenty-six attempts per uploadable)? I mean, the night, like, totally sucked from there on out.
