The Boobie Epiphany
Lil’ Head’s Epiphany (a one-act):
Lil’ Head: Boobies!!
Big Head: Lil’ Head, we’ve talked about this repeatedly. Those large soft fleshmounds will only lead us into trouble.
Lil’ Head: How do you figure?
Big Head: First we have to convince her to ditch the cactus head. Then spend two hours at the cabana while she Woos with her six annoying Woo-Hott friends from Michigan State. Then she’ll borrow our credit card and disappear for four hours.
Lil’ Head: And your point is? I reiterate: boobies.
Big Head: Look lil’ head, it’s important that you learn context. Place the boobies into a larger framework.
Lil’ Head: By framework, you mean the butt cheeks and the holy hooha.
Big Head: The holy hooha is not what I’m talking about.
Lil’ Head: Well you should be. I’ll bet it’s where angels fear to tread, afraid to sully its perfection.
Big Head: No, but that’s very poetic, Lil’ Head.
Lil’ Head: Thank you. I’m feeling poetic today. And by poetic, I mean inspired by boobies!!
Big Head: Alls I want you to realize, Lil’ H, is that boobies alone are not enough to convince us to spend six hours on a fruitless quest, only to be left at the bar when another zebra-striped douchescrote walks by.
Lil’ Head: Hmm.
Big Head: Think of it this way, Lil’ Head. Pursuing the Bleeth Hott means boobies that are always out of reach. And boobies out of reach are not boobies at all.
Lil’ Head: So you’re saying if we chase the Boobies we cannot grab, then we lose the potential to locate another set of Boobies that we CAN grab.
Big Head: Exactly!
Lil’ Head: I will have to sleep on that. But first… Boobies!
Big Head: (sigh)
and… scene.
Quaker Scrote
PIC DELETED
It’s not the Tom Cruise in War of the Worlds jacket, nor even the pink shirt, although neither help.
It’s the swirly hair shave. The alien test pattern landing strip on Quaker Scrote’s temple. Look closely. Do you see it?
There is no aesthetic, not in any culture, that can allow this to pass without societal mock as response.
As to Blonde Chipmunk, I can’t tell which is more enjoyable, the ginormholyjebus liferafts, or the highly improbable Moses Bling she’s wearing between them.
I turn it over to the immortal Frank Zappa to sing us out of this one.
Name That 'Bag
Mobybag? Chainsawbag? Redneckbag? ElvisCostellobag? Weird Twilight Zone Masktatt ‘Bag?
I’m at a loss.
Help me out in the comments thread.
HCwDB of the Week: A. D. Artificial Douchetelligence
It was a close vote this week, all three finalists getting their due. But the crimson robot from the future was just too orange to ignore. baggle n lox makes the case:
It’s gotta be A.D.
Yes, he is an android, a douchebot sent back through time to plague the hott and the sane with his rubber-lipped orange face and soulless stare, but you must admire the craftsmanship.
Yes, every gesture is animatronically sterile, but note the perfection with which they are executed – the ab exposure, the cheek-sucking to emphasize the perfectly crafted “serious guy” douche-face.
Also note the meticulous realism of A.D.’s douchy garb, from the wide-strap Jersoid “wife”-beater to the perfectly-torn vintage jeans and the stylish white hoodie. Notice also the trigonometric calculations made by his creators perfectly nailed the Wanna-B-Boy pants droop, sharing with us all the splendor of his ever-so-vanilla plaid boxers. Note that the engineered Bleeth virus is targeted perfectly, transmogrifying each nearby Hott into a douchebaguette proportional to her proximity to A.D.
Some dedicated work went into creating A.D., and we must recognize its genius. All hail A.D.’s futuristic, alien creators. He is robo-scrote; he is androidouche. He is HCwDB of the week.
Damn fine job summing up the win, BnL. daverobfreeman agrees:
Kudos to DB1 for the agony of choice. A.D. FTW based upon the apparent douchal contamination of the two Bleeths. Short Skirt the Librarian seems to be ignoring the filth that is PPK. Vin’s seeming enchantment of the Blonde Saline Balloonist is troubling, yet A.D.’d doucheccouterments, off center navel, and the total nausea of his orange-tinted face blows away Vin’s standard equipment. A.D.FTW!
Nausea being a key word, DRF, well said. But the everpresent anonymous argues for the Ping Pong Beerness of Kong:
Gotta be Ping Pong Kong because of the oblivion factor. How could one be in the presence of such a comely librarian and not be intensely conversing over the romantic poets: “You like Keats? Yeah, me too, but Tennyson really makes my johnson rise. Wanna see?”
Heh. And choadrunnah brings the argument for Vin, the Personal Trainer ™:
Vin. The winner for me because he’s old enough to know better. Unlike Mini Hawk, Vin is far too old to be indulging his inner-douche like this. And by indulging, I mean Axe body spray in glove compartment.
Plus, there can be no question that the Dairy Queen is the hottest chick in the history of the World. She even looks like she might not be that bright. Awesome. I’d switch to the cyrillic alphabet if it meant that she’d have more b’s and e’s to adorn her majestic tetons.
Nothing beats cyrillic alphabet references before breakfast. But phi slamma douchey brings it home for A.D.:
It must be A.D. FTW. The fire is stoked the embers burning and the poker sits ready. I enjoyed looking at the hottest of hotts and colors other than orange but the magnitude of scrotal monstrosity that is A.D. takes it. He’s got the beater, the jebus bling, the boxers, showing of the 7 minute abs’s, ripped jeans and orange. It’s been a good run eyes but you’ve got to go. Did I mention orange.
And batou concurs:
I seriously can’t tell if he’s real or made out of a mixture of wax and forehead grease. He looks like he was plucked from a future museum, where wax sculptures dressed up like douchebags to educate children about how primitive and distasteful 21st century mating rituals were (but in fact only causes them nightmares for weeks).
Anyway, this guy is beyond poo, he is in fact a metaphoric river of sewage. And for that, he deserves the weekly.
Orange takes the cake for A.D. proving the power of scrotal monstrosity can overcome second rate Bleeths.
Book A.D. a slot in the Monthly in a couple of weeks, where he’ll go up against some formidable competition, including Lawnmower Man and Droopy, as well as whomever wins this week.
It’s a well deserved win. And slutty barely legal “American Beauty” blonde is starting to grow on me.
Reader Mail: Mickey's Hot Chicks with Douchebags Review
Mickey writes in:
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Hey I just got finished reading the Hot Chicks with Douchebags book. I’m going to share its wisdom with everyone I can. I was in tears from laughter for most of it. The bit about punching the dwarf and then asking for change (CroBagnon page) had my ribs actually hurting!
I’ve forgotten more philosophy, anthropology and mythology books, what have you, than most entire families will read in their lives, and even armed with this fascinating but ultimately useless knowledge,I have to say that yours is one of the most brilliant books I’ve ever read.
I too have suffered the privations of douchebags throughout my life. I come from a town absolutely rife with Jersey ‘Bags and Bagboas. I attended high school at a time when the douchebag virus was just beginning to spread. The high school hall stank of hair gel and testosterone, Z. Cavariccis hung from every fashionable hip, and wigga CrossColors, for some unfathomable reason in the elitist, racist town I hail from, were popular as well.
Coming from New Jersey, I’m very familiar with ‘bags of all types, and you hit the nail on the proverbial head with most of them. Great job keep up the good work!!!
Oh, one point of order, if I may be so bold. When describing the Jersey ‘Bag, you fail to mention the iconic chariot of the JB, the IROC-Z!
Later!
–Mickey
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I feel giddier than a schoolgirl in a nitrous factory when I get emails like this. And yes, I’ll be pimping my book on this site until you buy it.
Yeah you.
I’m looking at you right now. I can see you through the screen.
Been reading my site for a year, but keep putting off actually ponying up the dough to buy a copy off Amazon? Listen to Mickey. Buy my book.
Caption This Pic
“Maybe the open call for dancers for the Long Island touring production of Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz wasn’t the best idea,” thought the casting director glumly.
The Pimpit
Many people still struggle to understand the concept of the Douchebaguette — the Female Douche aka The Bleeth.
The Bleethed Hott remains in possession of the sexy boobie suckle thigh, but has become so polluted from proximity to “Pimpit” types, that you just know she’s a huge pain in the ass.
This does not mean one still wouldn’t desire to lick her upper arm area like an unmedicated Michael J. Fox on Taurine. Only that redemption for the hott is no longer possible. And we must lament the dark destructive force of douchescrotery on her once fair and pure bosoms.
Or something like that. I need a coffee.
Where's Waldouche? Frat Tard Edition
Somewhere in this lineup of Arizona State Pre-Med Major Future Nurses of America, I’ve carefully hidden a Fratdouche clown. And his bored best friend, Arnie.
Look closely.
Can you spot him?
For degree of difficulty, I’ve replaced Ubiquitous Red Cup with Rare-Ass Blue Cup.
Reader Mail: b4-4 and Ireland
(warning: This b4-4 music video not safe for children, small woodland creatures, and humans with even rudimentary levels of self awareness)
cieran writes in all the way from Ireland:
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db1-
i’m from ireland love your site man but is it possible douchebags are mostly native to the americas? here in ireland i can honestly say i’ve never seen a real douchebag in the wild. we have no pool parties no fraternities and no red cups. colin farrel is a class a douche for sure but other than that i cant think of a single one. also that b4-4 video is amazing.
you should take the site down and just put a link to that vid because it has it all douche headlocks ab lobsters and just generally reeks of srotatalia.
please hit me back db1 your legendary status has reached as far as ireland and it would mean alot to hear back from you. cheers mate-
ciaran
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Well observed, Ciaran, and on behalf of the douchal plague unleashed on the world by American mass media spectacle and name brand culture, I apologize. But since b4-4 is from Canada, they must share in the North American shame of scrotological fungus we have unleashed.
But Ciaran raises a good point — Colin Farrell. Huge fungus of cultural decay.
You need to take at least a little responsibility for global scrotology, Ireland. You used to be the land of James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and The Pogues. Colin Farrell has rendered your glorious history of poetry, literature, music and art moot.
Do something. Mock him until he goes away.
'Bag / Not a 'Bag: Maverick
I know what you’re wondering. What makes Maverick a douche? He’s not really doing much of anything. No hand gestures. No facial sneer. No stupid tri-tip facial shave.
Only a vaguely annoying fwip hair thing. And the aviator glasses from Top Gun suggesting he plays loud Kenny Loggins power chords while chest shaving each morning.
But enough to call Maverick ‘Bag? I leave that up to you.
And while you’re deciding, take a moment or three to chant Gregorian hymns in praise of Perfect Carla’s body of girl-next-door sin. She is Holy Sweet Jebus Crisp on a Saltine dipped in sweet foamy love hott.
