HCwDB of the Week
This is the last Weekly before the Monthly. But, unlike last week, this was a tougher week to cull down to three finalists, as Orange Color Space, M&Ms and even tiny little Diff’rent Scrotes were in the mix.
But I had to pick three, because thems the rules. Each of these three have strengths and weaknesses within their hott/douche polarity. But only one can triumph. So, without further abra, here’s your finalists:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Canker Twins
For overwhelming stench of douchosity, as well as surreal double vision, this pic would win hands down.
But where it suffers is on the female side of the equation.
A truly ascendant HCwDB pic should inspire diachronic rage. Polar axis of contradiction. It should make both male and female ‘bag hunters want to intervene with a fire hose on behalf of civilization.
These Bleeths are so far gone, it’s hard to want to intervene at all. More like walk away and slam one’s head into a stop sign.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Preppy ‘Bag
This pic grows on you.
Like a foot fungus. Or alien spores on Steven King in Creepshow.
At first you think Argylebag isn’t so bad.
But then you note the fauxhawk. The velvet shirt. The sneer and hint of facial pube. Then you notice Nadja, so sweet, so drunk, so Au Pair Swedish. And the stew is stenchy.
The wrongness consumes into a vortex of turd puddle.
But is Argylebag douchey enough to win the week? Still to be seen.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Still Life with Coors Light
While I considered naming this pic after Hieronymous Dousch’s The Garden of Scrotey Delights in honor of its absurdist and surreal art overtones, instead I will name it after Georges Braque’s Fruitdouche, Ace of Clubs.
This prom-like hottie/douchey absurdity is just too genius not to be allowed to fight for HCwDB of the Week Honors, even if the hott may be sporting a surprise package down below.
The composition is like surreal dada art. We have z-axis spatiality mixing with the blank negative space aesthetics of late 18th century Japanese printmaking.
And Coors Light. And a stupid-ass belt.
Lets just assume that the dress is simply curved in a strange direction and go with it.
But can a hott offering a potential John Holmesian surprise carry the dada aesthetic onward to triumph in the Weekly?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Which of these three gets a slot in the Monthly? Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Sunday Kickin' It
Nothing says “kickin’ it” like taking out a boat in the swamplands of North Dakota, with a gorgeous view of what they call “Rock Point.”
Hard to tell how douchey Flabby McGee really is, but sagg tatts and hint of 10 Degree Hat Tilt suggest “yes.”
She is a delightful pirate of curvy softness. I would tractor my trailer throughout the midwest just for the chance to take her to Arbys after staying in a Motel 6.
Backstreet 'Bag
This is one of the Backstreet Boys. Jordan, I think. Or maybe Donnie.
Note the black fingernails, receding cactus hair and small army of picnic ants on his face.
In the immortal words of Paco the Tijuana Cab Driver: Eh, how you say, duche?
Then again, he’s rescued his drowning career by grabbing onto two large flotation devices. So he wants it that way.
It's Saturday, Bra!!
Bra!! It’s Saturday, broheim!!
And you know what Saturday means, bra. Time to strip down to silk shorts and wristdanas, brosky.
And say hello to the strippers, bra.
Bra!!
Friday Thoughts
As another Friday passes by, Ubiquitous Red Cup comes to me and asks me questions.
How is it that the ‘bags we examine each day can cover such a wide variety of shapes, forms and variations, yet they all converge into a single ball of societal douche?
Maybe we’re missing the key nexus point where contradiction converges: The spectacle of difference and the structure of sameness.
Maybe the spectacle of douchosity is not how we percieve it. Maybe it informs the erotic by virtue of its meaningless shell of exterior. The hott desires the glinty shell by virtue of its great irony — that within the visual spectacle of uniqueness, she will actually find the comfort of sameness.
Ours is a culture of cacophonous mutiplicity, mass marketed artifact. Yet, spread across the wasteland, from sea to shining sea, the baubles become devoid of content. Denatured of context. Form without meaning. Shells of Speed Racer mass produced masculinity, store bought Iron Man icons of rebellion reprocessed.
This is why the mohawk has been rendered ridiculous. It has become denatured of originary act, reprocessed as mass culture club going gimmick. Originality sold by the yard in the conceptual chain outlet of mass culture recoding.
Che Guevara club t-shirts. Dog-tags, once the requirement of a soldier’s potentially dead body, turned into brand-name trinkets sold at Armani outlets. A shiny metal object rendered as meaningless pseudo-masculine “bling.”
There is no meaning, so the spectacle becomes fragment. Strands of an originary cultural sameness.
Thousands of TVs reflect back to the Hott the bauble, the glint. The shifting brand names, the power chord rock song du jour, the follicle length of the month, Seacrest Approved.
These signifiers congeal into the singularity she calls “boyfriend” and validates her desire as cultural net worth. No words needed. Just icons.
We have become walking hyperlinks.
Bodies as intertextual echo of media super-spectacle.
Our physical presence no longer exists. We simply communicate the codes of market set value in the hopes of validating ourselves in the eyes of the collective other.
We trip the wiki fantastic and link across the wastelands, our belt buckles as hypertext, our A/X shirts as link exchanges. We charge our sense of selves on the collective power outlets of quick cut digital flash and the noise of the latest 31 Flavors.
The Hott intuits these values and pursues their market worth. But while the Hott may chase the Douche, she can never catch up to ephemera. It is a digital carrot on a pixelated stick — always out of reach at 29.97 FPS. A drop-frame simulacrum of structure designed never to resolve itself. Only to perpetuate the chase.
But once we shed the bling, drop the Goose and turn off the turntable, the image dissolves into actuality. The thumpa-thumpa noise fades, and the authentic body reemerges. Fixed. Present. Real.
In the end, they can’t buy and sell that online. Our bodies are still here. And the boobie is still firm and succulent.
So we got that going for us.
All That Scrote
I always knew we’d find evidence of the lost Bob Fosse musical, All That Scrote.
Rumors had abounded for years. Strange dance sequences involving stripper hotts and lanky Ryan Gossling types with chinstrap facial pubes.
The whole thing a dark commentary on America’s lost foray into nihilism in the go-go Wall Street Reagan years.
With snappy orchestral accompaniment. And Ben Vereen as Bill Cosby.
Orange Color Space
The color orange occurs between red and yellow in the visible spectrum at a wavelength of about 585 – 620, and has a hue of 30° in HSV color space.
The complementary color of orange is azure, a slightly greenish blue. With pigments such as paints or inks, a mixture of the subtractive primary colors in the proportion of 75% yellow and 25% magenta produce the secondary color orange.
Orange pigments are largely in the ochre or cadmium families, and absorb mostly blue light, as well as greasy hair gel.
Johnny Blaze and the Clubdom of the Crystal Skull
Douche archaeologist and noted professor of scrotology, Johnny Blaze, is back!! And this time, it’s personal.
And by personal, I mean gelly.
Watch Johnny Blaze swing through another wacky adventure involving two club hotts, a bottle of Grey Goose and sixteen Soviet footsoldiers falling off a truck.
Friday Braku
Bra!! Spring Break, Broheim!!
Seven hotts and diet coke!!
Bra, dig my package!!
Bra loves his soda
How can seven hotts compete
With carbonation?
— mr. white
Da bomb was Pepsi!
Coke is awesome too Bra ya!
Bra I have Hep C!
— vacuum cleaner bagg
Italian haiku:
leaning tower of slutness
my extra toppings
— douche mccallister
Braaaaaaa! Yo, Broseph! Braaaaa?
Grab another brewsky, braaaaa!
Sups, Brosephina?
— burnsy
Bitch drank my Pepsi!
Brand loyalty’s not my deal.
Leg-humping chicks is.
— anonymous
Why stand on crowd’s edge?
I would jump in that pile
Like a kid in leaves.
— wohlfat
Confusious does say
Girl in blue skirt need eat more
Thigh look like noodle
— dunkterdouche
Frankie and Annette
Never wanted stuff like this
Beach Blanket Douchebag
— alan hull
Thugs 4 Life (Or Until Monday 9am)
PIC DELETED
When not managing the shipping department at the local UPS branch outlet, where they’ll be happy to help you with your packing needs, Jake and Cecil are THUGS 4 EVA.
Patty, Kimmy and Suzie are begging me to talcum their butts with melted Peeps and then rub mustard on myself until we form ass-peep sandwiches.
Oh, like you’ve never had an ass-peep sandwich.
