Saved by Her Bells
Oh Mr. Belding, you wacky sit-com principal.
Tell Screech the new hairdo ain’t working.
On an unrelated note, The DB1 gets drunk with a writer from Metromix.
The Hott/Douche Singularity: Samantha Ronson
There’s been a number of emails lately discussing the disturbing topic of Samantha Ronson.
Since I’m not quite sure who she is (I have one theory that she co-starred with Christian Slater in Pump Up the Volume but that may be incorrect), I’m not sure what to add.
I figured I’d turn it over to the forum.
Is Samantha Ronson a next-generation evolutionary step in the merging of the boobie hottie suckle thigh and the steaming uberscrote?
Is she a Brundlefly experiment gone horribly wrong? Like Jamie Lee Curtis before her, does she hold both peepee and hooha?
Glare of the Emo
Emobags with anime hair are a definite stage-3 violation on the Douchal Hierarchy chart.
Emobags achieve a douche-face with neither kissy lips nor sneer. Their look says, “I don’t bathe because I protest a cruel and inhumane world, and I want to touch your boobies.”
Sultry Suzanne is that perfect mix of Quartasian with ripe, cherubic cheekbones and Mia-Sara-in-Ferris-Bueller hair.
I would sacrifice a confused Balisian rhesus monkey on a makeshift shrine meant to honor Thorax, God of the Inner Ear, just for the chance to summon rain clouds to water her garden petunias after she overslept after taking an extra xanax the previous night.
Wednesday Limerick
When Betsy Ross knitted a flag for the ‘volution,
She had no clue it’d be a scrote sack solution,
For Disco Ball Peter,
To show off his ant eater,
Made complete our societal devolution.
Mooby Dick
It’s 19th Century Herman Melville by way of late 20th Century techno D.J. recording artist Moby, by way of ‘roidy man boobs.
Really nasty Man Boobs. Moobs.
And a cute hair-scrunch brunette fondling them.
I didn’t think there was a way to follow up the Monthly victory for Droopy McScrote. Yet somehow this feels appropriate.
HCwDB of the Month: Droopy McScrote
While A.D: Artificial Douchetelligence put up a valliant robotic fight, and by fight I mean Cheetos Orange Residue, Droop and Surfer Kelly were far too strong a commingling to overcome, dominating in their landslide victory.
The everpresent anonymous makes the case:
While the dual belted A.D. makes me wish a pandemic outbreak of necrotizing fasciitis upon Jersey, it’s gotta be Droopy Droops for the month.
When Obama speaks of hope we can believe in, he’s speaking of Kelly here. I would pleasure her ten ways from Tuesday and then read her Goodnight Moon.
Word to your blubber Droops, keep living the dream…
Word to his blubber, indeed, Anon. The douchezetta stone agrees:
Although A.D. makes me want to vomit my Froot Loops onto my keyboard, it has to be Droopy FTW. On a hot scale, Kelly is the surface of the sun..while the Droopmiester is 0 degrees Kelvin… absolute ZERO. I would consider extreme forms of violence to pull surfer Kelly away from the Manticore-like monstrosity that is Droopy. Put a shirt on, Droopy.
But the lack of shirt is what renders Droopy’s delusions of grandblub so profoundly scrotal. As robert muldouche explains:
The Droop. He’s douching it up more than anyone else, his hott is hotter, and the contrast between his belly and hers is a marvel of the modern world.
But dr. engine disagrees, reminding us to consider alien warlords with tricked-out laser sighting:
Can’t give it to Droop. Amidsts a sea of washboard abs and Lasik Eye Surgery, he has boldy belly-flopped from the dock and caused a massive splash that surely soaked the scrotes around him. For this, I tip my Astros cap. And by that I mean Yankees cap, and say ‘good on ya.’ You can see the pain behind his gangsta signs, knowing surfer Kelly is waiting for her real douchebag to pick her up after his bouncing shift at Neptunes lets out. I prefer to give it to an oppontent who has all the chance in the world to score…who looks in the mirror and sees nothing wrong. Predator FTW!
But what of A.D.? Will this robotic douche machine from the future return for a special award at the 2008 Douchies? It’s possible. As aaronrear explains:
I’d say the Tangerine Twit, A.D., has nailed the essence of douche. He’s orange, he’s pouting, he’s wearing the strangest collection of unnecessary straps and studs and layers, and he sports the douche trademark shirt lift.
All I want to know is what the owner of the hand on the right side of the frame is saying…”Look at that scrote!”
Yes, A.R. Were he only to corral a hot like Surfer Kelly, he would’ve taken Droopy easily. But methinks we will see A.D. again.
However this is Droopy and Kelly’s moment of transcendent spitwater scrotosity. poop douchey douche makes the case:
Simply for the fact that Surfer Kelly makes my testes boil in a way no woman has since my third grade teacher let me lay under her desk for “reading time”, (Foot sniffing time)I vote Droopy FTW.
And the religiously inspired anonymous 3:16:
For me, AD and Droops are clearly the breakaways that the peloton of run-of-the-mill DB’s will never catch. But with 20 km to go, droop rides to a clear victory, leaving AD to only wallow in his pool of orange dye contemplating which Axe to spray and how to get hott’s like Surfer Kelly – perhaps a steady diet of White Castles and Cheetos…
Droops and Kelly FTW!
And steve zodiac takes it home:
For Droopy McScrote is the essence of this website: the difference between him and Surfer Kelly is like Night and Day, Acid and Base, the Pillar of Judgment and the Pillar of Mercy, all that is good and scrumptuous, and all that is vile, bitter, and pathetic. Here – BEHOLD! The failure of civilisation itself in one photograph of an overweight douchebag and a taut tummied hott with Big Fake Boobs.
Go home and cry.
As we shall. Chalk up a spot for Droopy and Surfer Kelly in the Finals at the Douchie Awards in December. They’ve earned it.
And by earned it, I mean stretch.
Tumnus the Fawn
Just landed on the East Coast for more book-stuff, and while I just missed the Los Angeles earthquake, I sadly did not miss avoiding having to look at Tumnus the Fawn in my in-box.
Yes, this woodland creature from the Scroticles of Chlamydia is actually making make two simultaneously annoying ‘bag hand gestures (#22 and #84), while copping a feel at the Arizona State Cheerleader tryouts.
Let ’em go, Fawn, or I’ll force you to read warmed over creepy Christian subtexted fairytales from the 1950s until you itch.
Reader Mail: The Ex-Bag
laughing her ass off in vegas sends in an ex:
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DB #1-
when i stumbled upon your website today (amazing by the way)… a picture of an ex came to my mind.
my ex, although not the biggest douche I have ever seen (i live in Vegas, they are a dime a dozen baby!) he definitely meets the criteria… the “cool” ripped jeans… the strange hand gestures… (what is that? a BACKWARDS shocker?) the “i’m too cool to shave” 5 o’clock shadow… too much gel in the hair.. and lets not forget… the button down shirt at a local bar!
but not only does he have the complete DOUCHEBAG look in this pic… his happy little friend in the background has his thick chain, unbuttoned shirt and cheesy smile… and lets face it.. when you see this pic you think “look at these douchbags”.
i mean.. i am no expert… this is my first time on your site…. but i thought i would give it a try.
love,
laughing her ass off in Vegas.
—-
I dunno, LHAOIV, I’m inclined to give a nottadouche pass and compliment him on the choice quality of the brunette. But I am transfixed by the club. Is that a cross between a dance floor and The Museum of Natural History? Are those lilliputians building condos in the background?
Caption This Pic
To prove his hunting prowess, Ken showed two Pool Hotts where Ubiquitous Red Cup likes to nest, and Kimmy plucked two for the road.
Reader Mail: Tagging Mystery
Reader Shia Ladouche tags the biggest ‘bag of them all:
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DB1-
I was in Vegas recently, and boy, have I got a bag tag for you. You can’t really tell how hot this chick was (trust that she was the hottie boobie suckle-thigh), but the fact remains that this is true douchebaggery in action.
The ‘bag is the legendary Arch-Douche “Mystery”, actually performing a “magic” trick in a ridiculous fluffy hat in hopes of wooing the lovely blonde hott. This bag tag takes place at the center bar in the Hard Rock cafe.
The funny thing is, when I took this pic, I didn’t even know who Mystery was. I showed the pic to a friend when I got back home and she revealed his identity. I just thought it was the biggest douche I’d ever met! Little did I know it was none other than the Grandmaster ‘Bag himself, leader of the army of pathetic oompa-loompas following his 4 scrotal truths. Imagine my surprise.
Keep on mocking the douche and lusting the hott,
– Shia Ladouche
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Mystery’s fundamental philosophical flaw is in assuming capturing the boobie hottie suckle thigh validates all. The hott does not validate the self. One can achieve a hott without douchal plummet. That is the the triumph over The ‘Bag Within.
Excellent work, S.L. This is one of the highest ‘bag tags possible. It’s like knocking out Mike Tyson in Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out.
