Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Thanksgiving Thoughts and Links

Your humble narrator is pretty rusty at these sorts of things.

But as it’s turkey time, why not give it a go?

Here, just because this married Jew is feeling festive and nostalgic, is your HCwDB Thanksgiving Thoughts and Links:

Everyone has their dream scenario of what Heaven will be like. This is mine.

I cannot wait for the new Superman film.

No matter how nerdy he appears, the inner soul of Michael Cera will always be pure HCwDB.

Feeling nostalgic for vintage HCwDB ? Here’s The headbanner as it looked in 2006. And here it is in 2007 after I got some design all up in this place. Here’s an actual image of your humb narrs writing the site in 2006. And a pic I took in the Douche Vortex (Hard Rock Casino in Vegas) later that year. On the one year anniversary of this site, March 20th, 2007, a dedicated fan emailed me the following list of early HCwDB milestones. Not sure if I was honored or slightly concerned at that level of dedicated readership. Thankfully, after that point the regulars that came here turned out to be much more normal.

And while we’re getting all punctum up in this shizz, here’s my first radio appearance on Britain’s Ugly Phil Show back in January of 2007. I sound confused and slow because I am both confused and slow. And yes, it was that appearance that gave me the idea to call my show “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” when MTV told me “douchebag” could not appear in the title.

But enough about this site. Back to the links.

This week in aristocratic, elitsts fratbag douchetools. The media nicknaming this CEO a ‘pharma bro‘ should make all of us pleased to see HCwDBian influence continue in all areas of contemporary culture, even if this site doesn’t get the credit it deserves.

Fake nerd Chris Hardwick has ridden Comicon exploitation all the way to this. And this. Along with Jimmy Fallon, they will squeeze every last ounce of 1980s nostalgia all the way to the bank.

Here’s a clip from an upcoming documentary on Chinatown Fair, the ancient arcade in New York’s Chinatown where you could pay a quarter to make a live chicken dance on a hot plate. I spent many a boozy late night in the 90s making that chicken dance.

Speaking of New York nostalgia, Pete Hamill offers a reflection on how much New York City has changed during his lifetime. Most of what made NYC unique is long gone. I sometimes keep track of all the places I used to love now forced to close because of rent increases on the great blog Vanishing New York.

Hells, lets go further back in time.

February, 1986. Brookline, Massachusetts. The Edward Devotion School gymnasium. Seventh and Eighth Grade Valentine’s Day Dance. 8:32pm. Your humble narrator asks a sexy twelve year old Russian Jewess named ‘Masha’ to join him for his very first slow dance. She seems uninterested. Reluctantly says yes. The song? This masterwork from 1984. They dance. Then Masha excuses herself. Two songs later, Masha is slow dancing with Erik, captain of the basketball team and future semi-employed Masshole.

And the first seeds of HCwDB were planted.

Happy Turkey Day!

Happy Halloween from HCwDB!!

BOO!!

EDIT: Apparently upset at this revival mocking of Closet of Poo enshrinee The Poopaloompa, someone named Luna posted in the comments thread to offer a defensive justapoopafication:

——
The funny thing about this “douche bag” is that he is one of the kindest people alive today, but none of you take the time to know this. He probably helped get those women into shape, you know, because he is a personal trainer as well as a very successful musician. What have any of you done to better your lives, you know, besides making a website dedicated to putting down other people you know absolutely nothing about. The real douche bag reward belongs to every single one of you on account of being jealous twats.
——

Let us all marvel at the benevolence of this guy. For let he who is without ab crunch cast the first hottie training session.

The Evolution of Hottie/Douchey Cohabit

Hark! Halt!

Put down that greasy/lumpy cig smoking choadtollery cohabit with Sultry Poor Credit Charlotte and listen!

Like Willy Loman, attention must be paid!

Douche with Hott Paradox is now, finally, evolutionarily and Darwinianly explained!

Yes, it all now makes sense.

Chief Dances With Crabs.

Poppa Squatter.

Even this unholy collection of toxic sparrow spittle.

Brazilian Emo Hulk understands. It knew it this entire time.

The answer was simple. The rippling lobsterian torsos of fate are nothing more than the mechanism of deception by which hott is fooled.

I suppose after eight years of this site in its prime, we already knew that. But what the heck. It is good to be reminded once again.

The Manicorn

So Man buns are now a thing.

One that cannot, nay, must not stand. Not with hair band. Nor clip.

Whether appearing on quasi-celebrities or just in classic douchepose selfies, we are witnessing the spread of an insidious follicular blight.

For this douche ooze bridges the generations. An amalgam of hippie nostalgia, metrosexual choadery, and the emergent lumbersexual gender crossing vortex of confusion to produce a giant circular Princess Leia hairpoo.

Lo, the moment is bleak. Enough to make me break my self-imposed HCwDB silence. Not even spiritual appeal to OatesStache can cure my disquiet.

I dub these festions of toxic rot ‘Manicorns.’  For mock is our only hope. It may not stop the onslaught of next-wave ‘Baggery. But it can at least mitigate the cultural reprehension.

And then this happened…

So what if the ghost of David Bowie masticated on the corporeal remains of a sunburned Axl Rose and pooped out two Gary Glitters and a Gary Busey?

This is the what.

This is that poop.

Retro Glam Gwynneth deserves better.

If for no other reason than the five year Sarah Lawrence reunion is coming up and there is no way she is showing up to that beer hall in Brooklyn with this bloated toothpaste tube of Aqua Stale. What would Ashley think?

On a related note, if you miss my musings, you can check out a side project Facebook page I just started up, Cockroaches of New York. It’s just like the award winning Humans of New York. But with cockroaches.

Reader Mail: Australian Shane Warne is a Cricketdouche

Despite the retirement of HCwDB from the public discourse, Aussie Pete demands that the mock continue by calling out some foreign sports playing tool with an extremely douchey haircut by the name of Shane Warne.

———–
DB1,
Would love to see you break into the world market, mocking the detritus that washes up on the shores of the world.

– Aussie Pete
—————

I have no clue who this clown is. But since he stole the lavicious and lascivious Liz Hurley from that dude who starred in Lair of the White Worm, I will temporarily cast off my hermetic hiatus for a brief mock.

This pathetic pudtwiddle of twaddling pudwankery is the definition of douchebro.

I could spend a fortnight simply mocking his posture.

But that is not the purpose of this post.

The purpose of this post is to marvel at the genius that is Warne’s unbelievably ridiculously garish wall art. Not since Jeff Koons sculpted Michael Jackson and Bubbles or the rumored Alex Rodriguez centaurs have I been so simultaneously aghast and amazed. This piece of pop horror that apparently took seven years to concoct, may be the douchiest collection of oils in one place since Brian Austin Green switched to decaf.

Humpster Dumpster

Humpster Dumpster sat on a wall,
Humptster Dumpster had a great fall,
All Stephanie’s besties,
And all Stephanie’s friends,
Agreed that Humpster Dumpster’s ginormous douchelips should be smacked with a rusty kaiser blade by Anthony Michael Hall.

Billy Wankowsky Sings Yacht Rock to Youthful Kelly

Billy Wankowsky has a secret.

That secret is Yacht Rock.

What is Yacht Rock? That lame douchebro fratchoad music for over forty years of lip biting, high fiving, boat sailing and Bud Light Lime summers.

Like Melville’s symbiotic whale/fish interplay that circumnavigates their douchey-ass trawlers, Fratrock and Douchechoad are a perfect margarita blend of trust fund pablum and culture blender generi-spittle.

All should beware when fratchoads like Billy hum along to remixed Doobie Brothers and fry up some ‘awesome dogs, yo’ on their boat grill. For theirs is a self contained ecosystem. A wretched hive of scam and Valium. The perfect modus operendi for wanky trusty rusty twatwaddles. Whilst lame soft rock seventh chords strummed to falsetto repetition provides the generic soundtrack to their aging, deadened, sun ripened soul shard.

But the greatest tragedy lies in what is slayed on their veritable whale hunt of pop culture somnambulism. For their overplayed ‘classic rock’ soundtrack is not merely accompaniment. It offers the soothing Steelydanitude of inappropriate dazzle. The harmonic wailings that woo ubersucklefondle quality of Youthful Kelly and her purity of holistic hottitude.

And that is true tragedy of the spectral rotting whale corpse beached on the sands of a grossly unexamined life.

Happy summer from the DB1!

Death to Douchey

The Typhoid Mary of Ed Hardy, arbiter of all things overpriced paint spackle and tiger tattoo, exploiter of the actual Ed Hardy and frequent target of mock on this website, Christian Audigier passed away yesterday at the age of 57.

I certainly do not mean to make light of the premature death of a choad style icon and spreader of cloth herpes simply because his life’s work made the world a douchier place.  By all accounts he was a good person.

Actually I have no idea if he was a good person or not. I haven’t read any accounts either way. I’m simply here to note that his product was really, really douchey.  Like source level toxicbag rot.  To those he leaves behind, I offer only condolences. To those who wore his choadlicious shirts, I will continue to mock your sorry asses with the wit and brevity of a crack addled ferret on no-doze.

At least when I bother updating this bloggy relic of a lost internet age. A memory of the Jurassic Web, I suppose. A place that sits encased in pixelated amber, refusing to give way to a streaming/app infested Facebookian controlled world. But one that wakes up when seismic shifts in the Douche Force occur.

And one occurred yesterday.

RIP Christian Audigier. I will remember you as you wanted to be remembered. Pimping overpriced, garish crap.

Someone Named Ariana Grande Wants You to Stop Judging Her For Dating Douchebags

A few weeks ago someone named Ariana Grande, who may or may not be a Starbucks promotion coupon code, complained that people need to stop judging celebrities based on who they’ve dated.

Apparently this ambulatory entertainment product has spent the past few years coupling with a series of pre-packaged plastic drone boy toy veneers shrink wrapped for mass consumption. And now she doesn’t like it when the internet gets mean. In a rant in some form of social media, this person of whom I have no idea (Disney princess? Heir to Kombucha Tea fortune?) complained thusly:

———
“I can’t wait to live in a world where people are not valued by who they’re dating / married to / attached to… but by their value as an individual… I have clearly not been having the boy questions in my interviews lately because I have come to the realization that I have SO. MUCH. MORE. to talk about… I’m saying this after literally eight years of feeling like I constantly had to have a boy by my side. After being on my own now for a few months I am realizing that that’s just not the case.”
———

There’s some other stuff in there about activism and gender roles, but I’m too lazy to retype it.

That being said, allow me to retort. Because we here at Hot Chicks with Douchebags like to stay up on current events in our quarterly half-assed posts.

Reducing public gossip/criticism to a reductive form of gender politics offers a slap in the face to the very real problem of systemic bias within the language and codes of patriarchal traditions.  It is the pseudo-intellectual whine of privilege. It does damage to the real cause it claims to support.

When a young performer chooses to enter the Foucauldian panopticon of new media ludicrousness, they make an implicit contract to perform as a dancing/dating/drinking/partying rhesus monkey grinding the organ grinder for the hordes of the unwashed.

This is not to excuse the venom and personal attacks that dominate the bottom-scraping chum tank of reprehensibility that defines the New Media wasteland.

It is only to observe that criticism comes with the perks of fame and fortune, as Gandhi once said. Every celebrity has learned this painful lesson since Clara Bow sucker punched Hedda Hopper at Hearst’s Brown Derby blowout back in the 20’s.

So let it be venti. So let it be done.