Vincent D'ouchenofrio
Is ‘Bag Hand Gesture #73 (The Middle Finger) the 2008 version of ‘Bag Hand Gesture #118 (The Shocker)?
And are 10 Degree Designer Yankee Hat Tilts the 2008 version of 10 Degree Designer Yankee Hat Tilts?
But most importantly, can somebody kick Vincent D’ouchenofrio in the nads so I can buy Jenny a Long Island Iced Tea?
Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Popped Collar
PIC DELETED
Throw me the Hott, I’ll throw you the Bodyspray!!
Yeah, I’ve made that joke before. And I’ll make it again.
Especially now that Short Round is a delightful female cocktail waitress.
The Metaphysical Orange
Many of those training in the ‘bag hunting arts keep asking me, is this one of Joey Porsche’s crew? Or simply an anonymous orange oompa guido douche?
The answer, grasshoppers, is that this is the wrong question to ask.
A great parable for you to meditate on is what I like to call the “Police Academy Conundrum.” First posed in 1987, it is a classic example of false choice.
The debate centers around who was a sexier love interest for Steve Guttenberg’s Mahoney, Kim Cattrall in Police Academy, or Sharon Stone in Police Academy IV: Citizens on Patrol.
Each actress brought specific and unique thespian qualities to their performances as Cadet Karen Thompson and Claire Mattson, respectively.
To pick one is to create false choice, and thus false consciousness.
Remember the Police Academy Hott conundrum when contemplating the pursuit of meaning in examining the orange doucheface.
Whether this is a Porsche Disciple or not is the wrong question to ask. For it creates binary. It creates an inherent competitiveness within a framework of elimination that is not needed for enlightenment.
Old 'Bag River
Old ‘Bag River,
He just keeps scrotin’,
He just keeps scrotin’,
He just keeps scrotin’,
He just keeps scrotin’, along.
While you’re considering your vote in the Weekly, I thought I’d present the greatest asschin this side of young Kirk Douglas.
And yes, I would risk the mouth herp to make out with Pout Blond on the right.
HCwDB of the Week
This was a tough week to cull down into three finalists, and I’m sure some won’t agree with the choices. But this ain’t based on alchemy, it’s based on alchy. Yes, that was a horrible joke. I’m now going to do penance by eating another bowl of Frosted Flakes.
But I have an excuse for lame puns. I’m sitting on my floor, scratching myself, hungover after karaoke and PBRs last night. So, without further ado, here’s your finalists for the last Weekly winner before next week’s Monthly:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Yak
Gorgeous blonde ball of hott. Ass pimple.
As with every great hottie/douchey pic, it is the Yin/Yang polarity between scrotal assface and lusty boobage that creates aesthetic revelation and intellectual revolution. And tasty fruit roll-ups.
On the basis of these counts, The Yak has a very delicate and nuanced balance.
For those who argue that The Yak’s doucheyness isn’t matched by the hottness, I give you one factor:
Spiked hair + sideburns.
Very, very lame.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Tighty Armani
Tighty Armani, which would’ve had a cleverer name if I wasn’t already tipsy last Friday, matches The Yak for perfect wrongness of uberhott and uberdouche.
That’s two hot blondes in a row, and I’m more of a brunette fan. But they are both delicious.
T.A. brings a punchable friend, on the right, and a girl who appears to be making the dual upside down middle finger hand gesture, or what I like to call, The “Can you hear this? Maybe I should turn it up?” Breakfast Club maneuver.
And then there’s the chinstrap.
All chinstrap facial configurations should be shaved with a rusty shank spoon found in the dirt outside Shawshank.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: 2001: A Space Douche
I struggled with whether to give this space/time traveling astronaut of ass and his two uberhotts a shot, as the “pro” nature of the pic makes me wary.
Yet Lime Green Astronaut Hitler makes me want to punch a ferret in the lower intestine. Plus, as perfect counterweight, the model hotts are milkshakes of straw sucking delight.
So I had to give it a shot, “pro douche” or not.
That watch. How am I supposed to live in a world where assfaces wear giant wristwatches on their arm making the sideways peace sign, and mandana on the other?
Club promoter? More like DOUCHE promoter.
Heh. I’m clever today.
Honorable mention to the Exxon Valdouche oil spill and The Blowfish, who both missed the cut by thismuch.
Yes, it was a tough week. And these finalists are all quite worthy.
But which one will it be?
That’s up to you, the ‘bag hunters. Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Soylent Green is Douchebags!!
It’s made out of douchebags!!
RIP, Charlton Heston. From Touch of Evil to Moses, yours was a great career. I dedicate this greased up scrote in your honor.
Which doesn’t really make sense in any tributorial way, but since I write about douchebags, it’s all I can offer.
Sunday Boobies and Zombies
I… uhm… yeah.
Finntercourse
And since I can’t take The Weasel at the top of the page for that long, here’s another pic of Finland douche/hott taken by reader Finnbag.
Eric the Viking needs to have his Greenlands Icelanded, while I take Nordinary Hott for a ride on my Helsinkis.
But in their honor, I will drink only Amstel Light tonight. Which isn’t from Finland, but I’m American, so I can’t tell the diff.
This Week in Classic Scrote: Pauly Shore
It’s bad enough the world had to suffer through Pauly Shore’s brief comedic ascendancy in that post Dice Clay pre Chris Rock window of “opportunity.” The period of the early 1990s, or what I like to call “When Comedy Died Like a Cute Drowned Puppy Tied to a Rock.”
But I should cut The Weasel some slack. It’s gotta be tough peaking in your early 20s through a lack of any prepared material, a slowed down cadence of delivery, and then to be comedically outclassed by Stephen Baldwin in Biodome.
Still, I’m pleased to see Pauly Shore is keeping busy with the strippers. Gotta do something until the VH1 “I love March 16th-23rd of 1993” special finally airs.
Moles and Trolls
As we drift off into the orange hues of the fake-tanned sunsets on this Friday eve, I can’t help but think of the words of Val Kilmer in Real Genius: “Moles and trolls, moles and trolls, work, work, work, work, work.”
Indeed, Chris Knight. We work, work, work. But do we stop and smell the boobies? Do we stop and mock the Orange Armani Monsters of our collective Jungian nightmares?
That’s the question.
Excellent emails and submissions this week, some of the best we’ve had in awhile, so a special shout-out to all the ‘bag hunters emailing me every day. You people are doing Vishnu’s Work. It should be a great final Weekly vote on Monday before the next Monthly contest.
I was going to put King D up for the Hall of Scrote but we’ll do that on Monday.
Instead, I sip my red plastic cup of ‘Train, and meditate on the Boobie Hotties, while chanting my Sanscrit mantra, “Challabackgirl” with ritualized rhythmic cadence.
It’s another Friday. Another week of ‘bag mocking and hott lusting successfully completed.
As Antonio Gramsci once remarked, “The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.”
We must live without illusions in the blinding waves of white-noise douched up media spectacle we call mass culture. But the boobies can save us from disillusionment. Suckable hottie thighs. They can save us from ourselves.
On that note, I tip my ‘Train to all of you, and head off to pound PBRs at a local watering hole, where I will dream of tiny dancing Purg Hotties in hula skirts and with flowers in their hair. And I will not think of Those Who Just Bang Bitches and Drink. At least not until tomorrow.
