Reader Mail
Reader “Nick” writes in-
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Now, while what you write is probably true for most of these cats, they still at the end of the evening have their arm wrapped around a very hot piece of trim. Only going to show that you can still be a douchebag and get p@#$y… perhaps if you know the right collection of shallow girls and have money.
I would hope that ne one who would start such a website gets enough ass to take s@#t.. call it morbid curiousity
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So douchebags can still get “p@#$y.” Interesting theory, Nick. Perhaps next time I’ll call my site “Hot Chicks with Douchebags.”
As to “Hater of the Year”, I love all things hottie boobie. Even the Bleethed out hottie boobie. So I got that going for me.
Derrida on Douchebaggery
When studying the noxious fumes of the skinny purple tongued douchewank tackling a cutie, I often think of French Algerian philosopher Jacques Derrida.
Derrida posited that all structures have originary complexity. In other words, what appears as original events or concepts often trace back along self-reflexive cultural structures of meaning which we can only tangentially approach and understand only through fragment.
If we take Derrida and apply him to the pixelated frozen reality of this unwashed heathen polluting this slice of blonde, then the meaning structures creating uberdouchosity clearly existed in complex understandings prior to the manifestation as apparent with greasy chin pubes and the douche face.
So what does that mean?
That wanky scrote-puds that you want to punch in the nads are not unique individuals, but part of a larger rotting and festering plague of cultural blight.
Or, as Derrida might say, the scrote does not comprehend the meaning structures engaged by his scrotudinous scrotundae.
At least that’s what I think Derrida would say. Or he’d just call him a douche-poo and go get some Absynthe on the Left Bank.
The Artist Formerly Known as The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars
Much like Vanilla Ice changing to Rob Van Winkle, Debbie Gibson becoming “Deborah Gibson,” or The Rock reverting back to Dwayne Johnson, The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars has found mythic transformation within self identifying textual reinvention.
He is now The Dude with No Popped Collars But a Spiky Fro and African Nike Headband.
Good on you, Artist Formerly Known as Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars.
May you find revived interest in your continuing career of collegiate inspired douchosity.
And your perky college cutie runs track with lime green matching goodness.
The Kissy Lips
PIC DELETED
Like any highly potent contagion, the Joey Porsche Kissy Lips are spreading like douchal wildfire.
Note the rare combo Kissy Lips, ‘Bag Hand Gesture and Ginormous Down Jacket look. Impressive, in its own scrotey way.
Somone hose down Joey McJacket and liberate Perky Kimberly to help me pledge Lambda Lambda Lambda.
The Warthog From Hell
Tell me this ‘bag doesn’t look like the satanic love spawn of a mutant Fred Durst, a desert cactus brush and the biker mercenary from “Raising Arizona.”
Someone better rescue Nathan Jr. and pick up the huggies.
I’ll busy myself with launching a small but lethal gang of inbred Ninjas to explore the bouncy hills of pink pale Cleavite calling to me with the sing-song mellifluous tones of a drunk Kim Gordon.
Which is my roundabout way of saying boobies.
The Dude with a Lot of Popped Collars: A Look Back
I know what you’ve been wondering lately: Hey, whatever happened to The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars that HCwDB featured way back on Tuesday of this week?
I can understand. We’ve all spent many a sleepless night wondering whatever happened to that guy.
Like every great VH1 “Behind the Music,” the story of The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars is one of rapid early success, parties in the Hollywood Hills and crazy drunken orgies with a midget named Ted. But that early success was short lived. The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars quickly plunged into a long and sad decline into tragedy, heartbreak, and the douche-face.
But now, things are looking up. The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars is back in the studio, and high on life.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
But for The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars, finding peace and balance in life is a daily challenge. A daily challenge The Dude With a Lot of Popped Collars is sure he can meet. By popping his collars.
All That is Douche
Ah, hello there, classic ‘bag.
Hello there, all that is douche.
The Mists of Avalon form your iconic visage. The ghosts of Christmas Past embody your tatted up grease. That single curl of douche-hair wandering into your greasy forehead like lost Magellan’s solitary boat cries out for the horroshow that is your tighty muscle-t and hint of guyliner.
And lo, bespeak the boobies of smiling hott.
For angels cry over the existential crises presented by that leopard print boobies pressing against one so foul. One so rank.
Yes, somewhere betwixt low riding hott jeans and a giant white studded douche-belt, lies hope. Within douchey hand gestures and red ceilings, the hottie/douchey couple stares into the abyss. And the abyss cries out, “Hark!”
It’s 7am. And the DB1 needs coffee.
'Bag / Not a 'Bag
Is there still hope for the emergent douchosity of Blondy McFratchoad?
Is he simply partying like the proverbial rock star?
Or has he taken the deeper step towards deep dark douchitude, with no hope for cultural recourse?
And most importantly, would Pink Slip with the Egyptian Trim mind if I chewed on her used summer flip flops while licking every heart-dotted “i” found in her diary?
These are the questions that plague me.
And why my feet smell like Brie.
Pinching Loaves
Looks like Yellow got tired of the Olive Loaf and decided to send out for some pimento with oil dip.
Oh, how I love the hott within that dress. I would compose small Irish Jigs to honor holy side-boob. I would hire MiniKiss to dance, Stonehenge style, to their greatness. I would chant rhythmic Oms of Tantric fire breath just for the chance to fondle the bras she never used.
Hatchet job haircuts and douche-faces. Partying in a Turkish Bordello. Make it stop.
Bedtime for 'Bagzo
When hunting douchebaggery in the wild, one key indicator of the location of scrotal fungitude (aside from the acid wash jeans), is what I like to term the “covert ‘bag hand maneuver.
This is when choad announces his choadbaggery only to the camera, while cleverly hidding it from the slender legged Asian Hott.
It’s like a magic trick by David Blaine. Only instead of appearing dead-eyed while producing a card, the douche appears happy while producing a ‘bag hand gesture.
In conclusion, boobies legs.
