The Pancake
The critical question our society must ask is not to be found in the grand philosophical treatises of history. It is not a question found in ancient Greece. Nor in the Romantic period. It is not found when ordering pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment in Vegas.
I do not know the exact wording of the critical question facing our culture as it slides into a global mish-mash of mass media spectacle, convergence and incoherence. The shouting bobbleheads. Ryan freaking Seacrest. The depressing nonsense of American Idol counterpointed with the premature cancelation of the genius that was Freaks and Geeks.
I know only that the question of our times involves two conflicting concepts. Really hott women. And their proximity to really, really freaking douchey black nailpolished uberscrotes.
Within counterpoint, within dialectic, the answers will come in glowing neon bursts of multicolored enlightenment. The message, the medium, the digital and the analog will compel us, silently, to mock the douche and lust after the hott.
Men, women, boys, girls, everyone. People from all over the world.
And we will.
Because douchebags are asswipes. And hotties are soft.
Dog
Dog appears to be a very large gang member, so I will simply remark that he is a scholar and an erudite intellectual with great acumen, and his facial hair configuration bespeaks a wise and jovial humanity.
His snake tatt is not douchey, and implies strength and boldness of vision. His tiny ambiguously Latina hott demonstrates modest, classic feminine dress and groin tatt that is not slutty at all.
Please do not break my spine in sixteen places like you’re flicking a bug off a maple leaf, Dog. I mean you no harm.
Instead, lets share a Red Bull and cigarette while we discuss Proust, Balzac, Kafka and the radness of Buckcherry.
Take Him to Your Leader
PIC DELETED
Nothing Runs with the Goose Hotts quite like four alien antennae sticking off your douched up head.
I was going to make a Twilek reference, but thanks to George Lucas’s genius decision to unleash three steaming turds of overhyped, nonsensical toy ads on the American public over the past decade, Star Wars references have been demoted. They’re now ranked directly below allusions to post Funny Farm Chevy Chase movies, but still above anything involving Pokemon or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
It’s a complex pop-culture graph. Involves charting historical time, random evocation, general obscurity, mass culture resonance and subculture currency in intersecting matrices of overlap. Would take too long to explain.
So I’ll simply note that drunk strippers running with the Goose almost make up for Greedo firing first.
Wednesday Limerick
I’m pulling that last pic, and rebooting the Limerick. This one’s more fun:
Black Fingernails for Skier McCool,
Doesn’t hide the fact he’s a total tool,
But Sally’s can’t hear it,
A Sumerian Spirit,
Has taken over. It’s Gozer and Zoul.
Yup. The DB1’s hangover is killing the creative buzz. I need a coffee.
HCwDB of the Week: Tighty Armani
At first it looked like this was The Yak’s week to puke on some boobies, but the sheer strength of Tighty Armani’s innovative shirt/bicep douche move, and utterly angelic blonde that he’s decided to headlock, were too much to overcome.
frozen orange douche lets loose with the primal id-scream:
Tighty Armani: DIE DOUCHEBAG DIE!!! YOU MUST BE DESTROYED!!!! DEATH BY A THOUSAND ICEPICKS!!!! ARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Tighty Armani FTW.
First reactions, especially ones like this, are often a good barometer of a winning hott/douche pic. Or, as the everpresent anonymous tunes in:
Tighty Armani shows a disturbing new trend. With biceps like that, there’s a new sub-genre of Doucheroidbags pawing (and likely crushing) the hotts. Bad enough when spindly hair-spiked orange-skinned eels grope the perfect female flesh. This is way scarier.
The biceps + tight designer shirt is indeed a new sign of the coming douchepocalpyse, and we should all be very scared. And Senn invokes the Holy Pumpy, in casting in with T.A.:
My vote goes to Tighty Armani, because beeing a huge fan of holy pumpy I always had something for Inflatadouches , that something beeing a urge to facestab , right between the tasteful chinstrap and the insulting grin.
Well said, Senn. But The Yak was a very close second, finding lots of support, and by support I mean hint of cleavite. As Johnny Scrotten puts it:
the yak.
this guy embodies a great quote from the irish playwright, george bernard shaw; “youth is wasted on the young”
GB Shaw should’ve added, “and boobies are wasted on the young hotts who choose douchefaces to hook up with.” At least, that’s how I would’ve written it. Because I’m like a GB Shaw echo.
Agreeing about the Yak is Idaho’s own idahohottpotato:
I vote for The Yak.
She is hot enough to make straight women consider a lesbian fling, and he is… poo.
Indeed, hottP. And the ever present anonymous hits the core of The Yak’s appeal:
I must vote for The Yak for 2 reasons. DB1’s Theory of the Hottie-Scrote Yin-Yang Polarity is put to the limits in this photo. He may not exhibit the highest amount of douche, but appears to be more of a Joe Six-pack who was infected with the Grieco. The fact that such a low-level douche can nestle between such voluptuous blond sweater cows makes me contemplate infecting myself with the Douche virus. And for that, I hate him.
Very well argued, Anon.
2001 lost out due to professional douchebaggery, and probably rightly so. I think I was distracted by the uberhotts and couldn’t resist giving those four oranges a chance in the finals.
As to my logic for disqualifying The Blowfish, the potential for gaybaggery is one disqualifier as the essence of every great HCwDB pic is the rage of douche/hott cohabitation. But it was also that The Blowfish’s mouth was just creeping me the hell out. That thing + the facial pubes, was just plain too disturbing to look at.
However, something tells me The Blowfish may just be in line for a 2008 Douchie Award. So don’t fret, ‘Fish fans. You’ll get additional mocking time down the road.
This week, it’s T.A. BaDouchus as our last entry for the Monthly. It is well deserved. As mary puts it:
Tighty Armani. Just for his dumb f@#king t shirt. Blondie is not looking at him, she’s doing her best to not inhale his Axe stink.
Exactly, Mary. And don’t forget: Chin strap. Megods, we live in a world with facial hair chinstraps. And sexy blondes who like them. If that ain’t hott/douche, I don’t know what is.
Late Nite Douche Club
Yeah it’s late. But reading the excellent deconstructions of our own King D the IV for the HoS, I couldn’t help but genuflect.
And when I genuflect, I need some scrote to mock and some hotts, even milfy ones, to keep me company.
This means you, alien tough guy doucheface.
Your mom is hott. So’s your sister. Now get the hell out of the pic before I grab your designer ‘tags and yank.
In other good news, the site won a Webby in the Culture/Personal blog category.
As part of my acceptance speech, I’d like to thank The Gator. No really. For being the heaping Britdouche primal force of greased up wrongness that drives me on a daily basis to save the hott women from their clutches, he deserves my thanks. And by thanks, I mean a cracked up rhesus monkey flinging week old poo.
Alas, alack, it’s late at night. Time to celebrate The Webby with a tasty plastic cup of Thunderbird.
And a HoHo.
Because HoHos are good.
King Douchuous the IV for Hall of Scrote
Some Hall of Scrote legends get there through instantly brilliant hottie/douchey wrongness. A singularity of absurdity. A corporeal manifestation of all that is superdouche and hott, together and wrong.
Others get there through longevity. A body of work.
And by body, I mean in the presence of hott ass boobies with stupid-ass hair.
Witness the King’s run here, here, here, here, here, here, and here,
King Douchuous the IV first appeared on the site last summer, bringing a Brothabag into the mix. He won a Weekly, but just seemed too darn goofy and professional to induce much rage.
Holding him back, arguing against inclusion, is the “pro-douche” factor. The club promotion thing. Pro douchebaggery never quite rankles like the amateurs do.
But a call has been made to nominate him for our hallowed Hall of Scrote. And so I put it to the floor.
King D for the HoS?
The Prince of Pud
Wherever there’s a suburban sorority kegger party, he’ll be there.
Wherever there’s a Ubiquitous Red Cup, he’ll be there.
Wherever there’s a need to shave the top part of a chest to go with the shirtless rosary bead look, he’ll be there.
He’s The Prince of Pud. And he’s coming… for you.
Clubland Mating Call
After the club lets out, watch the doucheclowns gather as the coital mating dance begins…
Caption This Pic
“She loves my chin eye, so who are you to judge?”
