HCwDB of the Week
Ah yes, the DB1 faces his morning bowl of Corn Pops with great aplomb. For there are three juicy hottie/douchey couplings to choose from on this windy Monday morning. This is a tough vote, so meditate, ruminate and flatulate on all things hottie/douchey before casting your lot:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Flame Twins
The Flame Twins streaked onto the site late last week, only to produce the douchal offspring, Ned Grimley.
Multiple pics always help a cause, and in this case, so do ridiculously douchey hair fwips.
For bringing dual torch-like douche hair and streaking across our collective simulacrum like so much digital spittle, The Flame Twins earn a well deserved spot in the Weekly.
And let us not forget Pouty Hannah. So polluted from extended club exposure, that’s she’s actually giving herself the finger, as one of the regulars pointed out.
But still cute. And still in need of butt paddling.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Samurai Scrote
Samurai Scrote does not need to win the Weekly to know that he is Zen Douche.
Samurai Scrote does not even need to acknowledge that you think he’s Zen Douche.
Stop looking at Samurai Scrote, for his powers are beyond the aural and visual spectrum.
Do not acknowledge Samurai Scrote’s existence, for he will pummel you with his thoughts.
And yes, Theresa, I would lick each bedazzled sequin on that dress until it had a perfect shine, just for the chance to have you walk out on me after I grew tired during coitus and turned on The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Because he has funny eyebrows.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Sun Grout
There’s something about this glowing tool that inspires a rage beyond the douchal signifiers of his dress.
Grout first appeared on the site as A Sun God but was quickly exposed by Abraham as a false god, and the Israelites turned on him, calling him “douchey” and stoning him with week old manna.
Speaking of manna, blonde is trashy/tasty, but undeniably sexy, with a shoulder I’d suckle with the fright of a caged calf sensing his impending transition into veal.
Scrotonerable mention to The Sweathog, Cleanup Aisle Five , The Day Trader ‘Bag, Teddy Troll Doll, and The Great Pumpkin all coming within a gel encrusted spike of making the finals.
But these are your three. Each a separate and distinct branch of the hottie/scrotey tree.
Which coupling strikes you as most worthy of being crowned hottie/douchey of the week? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Your Sunday Desert Rose
Even amidst a sea of trailer trash poo, a desert flower can bloom.
Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Bret Michaels
For riding a six month Hair Metal career into twenty years of scrotal infection, for being the lip-herp of reality TV, and for puffing up like an overbaked Alaskan salmon, it’s high time we honor Bret Michaels with an honorary Douchebag of the Month.
Joining such past ass-clowns as John Meyer, James Blunt and Mystery, the B.M. macks on the hotts with sleazy patter, a lack of a second “t” in his first name and a shirt with his own face on it that looks like smelly ass mold.
Not all 80s Hair Metal survivors are ‘bags. Slash gets a pass for being ironic and grounded. C.C. DeVille turned out to be pretty hilarious on The Surreal Life.
But Bret Michaels? Twenty years of nozzle water festering like an overgrown swamp.
If Midnight Cowboy era Jon Voight mated with a week old lump of soggy wonder bread, the resulting half human half bread creature would shat out a Bret Michaels in its stool.
And, not to forget the HC side of the equation, dig that blonde drink of water in the back. She makes baby seals “arf” with joy at Sea World.
The Jerz
I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
Friday Thoughts and Links
I sit on my ass and sip some Mr. Pibb and contemplate another sunny day of smog in the smoggy sun of Los Angeles.
The economy wrecks itself and sexy coeds jog by in naughty little flannel shorts. Unemployed actors and old guys named “Tony” are already in the bars on Sunset. In the distance, a seagul vomits.
Hey, it ain’t Bukowski. But I’m doin’ my best. On to the links:
You asked for it. You got it. The Prompas in Hi-Def. (warning: Not suitable for children under 18 or without adult supervision)
Bra!! loves his cruise ships like he loves his variety of tasty cola beverages.
Hot Chicks with Pirates. And he’s making the kissy lips and “Westside,” arrr.
Reader Adolf Skroatler von Baggenstein just bought the HCwDB book. As a ‘thank you,’ I bought him a car.
Chocolate Axe Bodyspray Guy is kinda freakin’ me out.
Peyton List warms the cockles of my 1962 retro zoot suit.
EDIT: Pic swapped out for a little Friday Velveeta ‘Bag and Bunny Lebowski.
The Day Trader 'Bag
Yes, it’s true, our economy is crashing around us. People are panicking, and mortages are doing something, and next thing you know, HoHos cost more.
But so long as there’s this pudwanker with a Yankees tatt above a Virgin Mary, there will be laughter. Oh yes.
Plus chin pubes thinner than a line of credit at Wachovia.
We are in the land of the Day Trader ‘Bag. Uberdouche by day at work. Uberdouche by night at play.
And a Blonde Maya Rudolph Chicka who wants me. Even through the glasses, I can tell.
Friday Haiku
Tiny Dancer hugs,
Says, “My God, it’s Full of stars!”
Doucholith devolves.
Tennis star Bjorn Borg
Wonders why his name is used
For underwear bands
— don’t wheeze the douche!
The telltale douche stars
bag no remuneration
but saran wrap bleeth
— jean claude van douche
Flea! Flea! Tiny Hot
but resistance is futile
when panties spell BORG
— fidouchiary responsibility
young girl studies stars.
constellation of the douche.
leads the way to poo.
— ted theodore scrotgan
Young hott clings to him
Hoping that one day he will
awake from coma.
— mr. white
“Attack nips on fire
Off the shoulder of this Douche” –
Roy Batty goes mad…
— darksock
'Bag / Not a 'Bag
I can’t tell if this dude’s a douche, or holds the secret of Shaolin ascendancy.
I’m inclined to give him a pass. He’s gotta be a Kung Fu master who reluctantly takes in a young white boy, down on his luck, and begrudgingly teaches him his mystical secrets to help white boy overcome his antagonist, and his personal demons.
Since, as we’ve learned by now, all minorities exist to impart their exotic lessons in the service of helping Whitey regain his or her soul.
So here’s to you, exotic Kung Fu Master. Especially for pulling in those young, awkward, “on spring break and confused” fawns of Ft. Lauderidean migration.
The Great Pumpkin
That’s the creepiest pumpkin I’ve seen since my 5th grade class field trip to Drumlin Farm.
I don’t know whether to carve out the seeds in his skull or place him in a field so Linus’ll finally get that payoff he’s been waiting for.
As to Hott in a Yankee Cap, it’s one of those conundrums.
Like getting a piece of chocolate handed to you by some dude who just scratched his ass. Or meeting a Mormon but being unable to kick them in the nads due to local statute laws against Mormon violence.
Silly Mormons.
All with the Jesus #2 hanging in America with Native Americans shtick. And the magic underwear. Goofy.
Beverly Hills Chihawkua
In honor of the greatest cinematic exploration of the pathos found between animal and human since Vittorio De Sica’s neo-realist masterpiece Umberto D, let us honor the release of Disney’s Beverly Hills Chihuahua with a moment of silence.
And by silence, I mean mocking Hawks’ silly-ass hair.
