Dante's Assferno
If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.
— Dante Alighieri
I looked in me for the root cause of our societal decay, Dante. But I still want to rent a condo inside of Brunette’s buttocks and move in for a fortnight.
— DB1
HCwDB of the Week: Velvet Jones
Despite a groundswell of cheer for the people’s princess, Ricky, Smmove Velvet Jones’s power of classic douche stench was far too much to overcome.
Velvet takes the weekly with ease.
Was it the bling? The Velvet? Or that heinous ‘stache? Or perhaps the other side of the equation? That smooth slice of strawberry goodness on his arm that makes you want to slam your head in a car door.
sir scrotesly makes the case:
Velvet has what may be the most dizzying array of ‘bag signifiers ever captured in one digital image.
Make the list: Purple velour shirt, top 2-3 buttons undone. Faux-platinum wrist bling. Faux-platinum dogtags. Billy Dee Williams ‘stache. Oversized “designer” sunglasses. Poorly-executed comb-over.
He’s one mandana away from a complete sensory overload. And this made all the worse by the fact that he’s clutching a pouty-lipped pink ball of cleavite with eyes sensuous enough to cause even the proudest of homosexuals to feel an explosion of self-loathing.
Well said, my friend. All the classic douche/hott dialectics are present. douchetonic agrees:
Velvet Jones. Although I am very tempted to vote for Ricky, Velvet pulls through with the imitation-Dolomite image, an image I rarely see among D-Bags.
Excellent Dolomite reference, D.T. A long neglected film that deserves its place in the canon.
But the legend of Ricky may remain with us long past this Weekly. There are special Douchies I hand out to people like Ricky. So he may stay with us after all. Like a rash. On my groin.
As douchette1 puts it:
ricky! he’s all “sup?!” and hottie’s all turning away and going “NOOOO! don’t take my picture with this wanker!” and ricky’s still all “sup?!”
Yes. Yes he is. Or, as bcs puts it:
He is the Indiana nightclub version of Rudy. He is the everyday man, who somehow finds himself on a path to fornicating with greatness. Who are we to stop him?
I vote for him, not because he is a douche, but because there is a little Ricky inside of us all.
Indeed bcs, I think that’s Ricky’s pick-up line. “Would you like a little Ricky inside you all?” Or, as The Arch Douche eloquently put it:
Wherever I am, for as long as I live, Ricky will always be dancing behind me. It can’t be undone, so it must be mourned.
Yes he will, T.A.D. Just like a scrunt, use a mirror. But while Ricky came in second, and BOING! a disappointingly distant third, this is Velvet’s moment to shine, along with Strawberry Cheesecake. As Col. John “Hannibal” Douche wisely sums it up with a back to basics appeal:
How is this even a question. Velvet Jones. Hes a pro – the total package.
Yes. Yes he is. So pour yourself a frosty cold mug of the classy Colt 45 and toast Velvet’s pro-douche game, as well as Strawberry Cheesecake’s wondrous mounds of feminine signification.
They’re this week’s Weekly winner. And bringin’ their A-Game to the Monthly.
The Waxen Choad
She’s a little too Darryl Hannah for my tastes, but still possesses impressively enhanced child feeding ability.
He, however, is a Waxen Choad.
Normally one would assume that looking like a douched out version of Liza Minelli’s ex-husband and animated wax figurine, David Gest, would be a detriment to one’s goals of scoring a hott ball of boobie pie.
However we don’t live in normal times, now do we?
Porkpie
Listen up, Porkpie Steve Zahn. As much as I loved you when you came out of the closet in Winona Ryder’s integrity filled video doc in Reality Bites, the leather wristband? Lose it.
As to Gwynneth?
Some people dream of world peace.
Some people dream of ending global poverty.
I dream of tapping out Ringo Starr’s drum solo from The End on her lower clavicles with licorice drum sticks while butt grinding her hoop earrings and calling her “granmama… my granmama…” in a falsetto sing-song voice.
Uhm, yeah. I need help.
Doucheband of the Year: Buckcherry
Molten hot ‘Bagma writes in:
——-
Dear DB1:
In stumbling upon your hilarious and also extremely necessary blog, i have found a level of satisfaction that is almost unparalelled.
With this being said, I have just something to add.
The other day me and my boys were hanging out at our local college/twentysomethings bar and the song “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry came on.
It was like some douche preist stood atop mount st. douchey and called all the ‘bags within a 10 mile radius to come and prey at the choad temple. Before i knew it the the whole bar was filled with spiked hair, cheesy tribal tatts, shades in dimly lit areas and orange tattoos. I would like to nominate this song as the official Douche anthem/ call to action. Just a suggestion. Keep making the site hilarious.
Molten hot ‘Bagma
——-
Excellent work, MhB. This video just blasted me with cheap tatts and body odor mixed with Tag Bodyshots. There is no doubt this video is extreme douchosity and deserves our collective observation of its post-Kid-Rock festering swamp of trashbaggery.
Congratulations are in order for Buckcherry, you’ve just be crowned official anthem of Douche for 2007.
Expect an Honorary Douchie at the Douchie Awards in December.
(warning: video is NSFW)
Roadkill and Boobies
“Roadkill and boobies.”
Where have I heard that before? Either that was a classic album by Stevie Ray Vaughn, or it describes this pic.
His runover porcupine corpse on I-5. Her boobies of firm succulent early morning dew and honeysuckle glow.
Together. Roadkill and boobies.
Cue guitar solo.
The Cyborg
I refuse to accept that I share a genetic species with this waxen plastic android.
I will, however, share genetics with Pouty McBlondehott on the right.
Heh.
I made a clever.
BOING! in 3rd Place
BOING! can’t believe he’s trailing badly in 3rd place in the HCwDB of the Week contest. Its currently douche-neck and douche-neck between Smoove Velvet Jones and the Everybag Ricky.
To protest his utter lack of douchepreciation, BOING! is going to give himself a proctology exam. With a giant spiked cactus.
Voting is still open, scroll down and cast your vote. Help a Boinga out.
Gypsy Moth
It’s hard to determine exactly when a trend turns into a full blown onslaught. But the mass replication of the Fauxhawk/Mohawk is undeniable at this point. It is rapidly replacing the popped collar as the single biggest giveaway of douche.
I had thought the wispy fwiphawk development of late 2004 had consumed itself in a post Ryan Seacreast American Idol swamping of mass consumption by this point. But here it is again, retuning in mutated douchological form. Perched fungally on top of this greasy middle aged Gypsy Moth Chinbag.
As to the two hotties? What’s the word I’m searching for.
Oh yeah.
Yes.
Punch Drunk 'Bag
Punch Drunk ‘Bag has the puka shell muscle choad look down perfectly. He’s like the foreign kid in highschool who took out all of his culture-shock frustrations by spendng six hours a day in the weight room. Pumping up with an angry “don’t talk to me” scowl and listening to 1980s Swedish death metal blasting on his iPod.
You rock with your bad self, Punch Drunk ‘Bag. And I dig that boat you’re on. Very Miami nouveau riche.
Persian Kitty makes me want to sing hymns in Sanskrit while inventing Algebra.
