HCwDB on Second Life
This is a real image from “Second Life,” in which douches can now create tatted up, uber-pumped online alter-egos.
With bling. And Douchebaguette on arm. And underwear poke. And six pound watch.
I suppose when the human body emulates the hyper-spectacle of the brand-name billboard, it’s only a matter of time before the avatars follow.
A virtual echo of a corporeal echo of a virtual spectacle.
Canted Angle Saturday
Sometimes when we meditate and ruminate on the Miami Beach douche/hott permutations, we need new visual angles for contemplation.
Like those taken by an eight foot giant during an earthquake.
While Lizette tries to pass off her doggie poop bag to the groin of a Doggie Poop ‘Bag.
Friday Thoughts and Links
I have many thoughts upon this crisp, Los Angeles Friday.
With the 2009 Douchies coming up fast, the pics are being processed and the awards committee is hard at work. And by awards commitee, I mean me. Sitting around. Scratching myself. Eating bowls of Frosted Flakes and enjoying my 1970s Eliot Gould Netflix festival.
The Douchies begin December 7th.
I tip a half eaten HoHo to all of us bag hunters and huntresses. I sip an Ubiquitous Red Cup filled with Trader Joe’s Blood Orange soda from one of the vintage bottles I keep on my Blood Orange Soda rack. And I burp.
My burps taste like fresh HoHos.
Here’s your links:
Lets get our retro groove on with the uberhott and frequently naked Dolly Read “singing” Sweet Talkin’ Candy Man in the Roger Ebert scripted classic, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. This song is genius. Crying out for an updated indie cover.
Moving up a few decades, how’s about some 1980s retro douche: The William Zabka Trilogy.
And, in our present historical moment, there’s: Michael Bay. Douche.
Reader Matt looks up The Salt Licker’s stomach tatt and discovers it’s the symbol for sulfur.
Speaking of the 80s, This’ll cheer you up.
But also sad news: Ken Ober has passed away. At a ridiculously young age. The hilarious host of the great game show on MTV that inspired much of my early teen years, Remote Control. In memorium: Kenny wasn’t like the other kids.
My contributions to the development of linguistic discourse continue.
Do not click on this link. I’m serious. If you do, I don’t want to hear any whining about it. I must include it because it’s superdouchey, but it’s also psychologically scarring. I take no blame. (although if you can make it to :53, the dance is hilarious. Good luck making it.)
Okay, after that link I owe you.
Here’s your payback: Sky Pear.
Red Tony Prepares for the Weekly
Red Tony thinks he’s going to be up for HCwDB of the Week on Monday.
He’s so excited, he’s serving up Vodka and Red Bulls to get Michaela drunk while he prepares to compete.
Sadly, Red Tony hasn’t heard that he’s not making the cut.
Sorry, R.T. Pumped up Jerzguidery without faux and kissylips just isn’t enough.
Vegas Hal
Vegas Hal isn’t major league douche. Sure he’s got the mini-faux popup head. The douchey tatts. The six pound watch. The white belt.
And, of course, apparently tweezed eyebrows. But it’s not the sneery punch-worthy kind of douche.
If Vegas Hal bats for the hometeam, I’d simply mark him a gaybag and be ready to dismiss him from the debate.
But Vegas Hal’s currying favor with Sexy Sandra suggests faux-gaybaggery, which is, of course, authento-douchery.
I call ‘bag.
And now, I will softly rub my flannel shirts from the early 1990s, hum angsty Stone Temple Pilots songs, and dream of brunette boobie marshmallow peeps.
Friday Haiku
Sneery Goose Runner
Almost pulls “Double Shocker,”
Needs index to hold.
Frosted glass at night
In a Seventies basement
Side boob and lip gloss
— Publius Choadius Naso
Spring Break trip mistake
Got on plane to Russia, oops
Still met bags with booze
— Dr. DB
Latin goblin bags
Vanilla chocolate goose
Hots drink to endure.
— The ‘Baggernaut
Three hotts in a room
Douchebag Pack encircle them
Forsake all hope, run!
— Hector, Tamer of Douches
It’s Los Stooges Tres.
Left to right, there’s Moe, Curly,
and El Carne de Porch.
— “Lesbian Thermos” Ernie Tubesock
El Chupacabra
turns his back on tequilla
por que, amigo?
— Douche Wayne
Nipsy Hussle
I chalk this up as a variant of the game young children play.
The “I’ll show you yours, then you show me mine, then I’ll shoot 20 CCs of Andro into my eyeballs and beat up a couch.”
That’s what they call it in the schoolyards now, right?
Jerztoberfest
Puds, please leave the Kappa Kappa Woo Sorority Sisters alone.
Jerztoberfest isn’t until January.
Name that Scrote
Last night’s HCwDB After Dark pic, in which this tatted up, hat tilted, pants dropping grease-scrote was found rubbing up on a fiery zebra Latina we’ll call Jezebel, was not given an official tag.
Since the naming pool is plentiful, I figured I’d open up the ‘tag for Monday’s Weekly. The leading contender right now is Troy Tempest with “Scribbles.”
Can you do better?
Tag that ‘Bag in the comments thread.
Reader Mail: The Britbag
—-
DB1,
He was wearing not-too-tight clothes, there was not a trace of orange on his skin, and the tips of his hair were mercifully unfrosted. He had a cute accent, laughed at my jokes, and was a good kisser. I liked him.
Fast forward to this afternoon, when I noticed that he had friended me on Facebook. I looked at his profile pictures, and was shocked. He was displaying multiple sure-fire signs of scrote — including but not limited to: forehead shine, hair gel, kissy face, and chest-revealing dress shirt. Throw a fake tan and some Armani Exchange on this bloke, and he’s HCWDB material.
Is it possible that a Jekyll and Hyde phenomenon is occurring here — i .e. Dr. Normal and Mr. Douche? Or, more disconcerting, maybe he’s like a Were-douche and his baggery only reveals itself during a full moon?
Your thoughts and guidance on this matter would be greatly appreciated.
— Natalie
—-
There are frequent cases of split personality ‘bags, Natalie, and you must be careful to check for the signs.
Search for hidden canisters of Axe Bodyspray in the bathroom. Rummage for old “Affliction” shirts hidden in the closet. Check his online bookmarks to see if he reads “The Dirty.”
It is not surprising to learn that such split-level choadsity is occurring in London. The alienation caused by living on an island of failed empire can only lead to the fracture of the self. That, and way too many Robbie Williams songs.
