Billy Go Potty
Then there are the hottie/douchey couples that simply disturb. No amount of curvy soft boobage, nor mockable tatted up burnt out rocker choad, can demystify the stench of wrong. They are simply a vortex of karmic societal pain personified in the frozen duality of heterosexual dalliance.
Take Billy Go Potty and His Squatting Hottie, pictured here. They dance the douchetron dance at what appears to be Douche Mecca itself, the Hard Rock Casino’s Rehab party.
As such, they form a singularity of suck. There is no recovery for the hottie who dances so close to Billy Goes Potty. There is only the darkness of finger tattoos.
What saddens me is Billy’s sporting the Kirk Douglas chin dimple. And Kirk Douglas kicks ass. No douche should be allowed the Kirk Douglas chin dimple. Not in any sane or just world.
Only Spartacus gets the dimple. And Billy is not Spartacus.
Lobot
Speaking of Lando Calrissian in the Weekly (and don’t forget to vote), is this greasy douchewank actually Lando’s right hand man in Cloud City, Lobot?
Ever get the feeling that when it came down to naming the smaller characters in the Star Wars universe, George Lucas stopped trying to rework Japanese and started just slapping new first letters on existing words?
Yeah, he’s uh… Domputer? Nah. How about Mandroid? Nah.
He’s Lobot!
I would ravish European Stable Wench Hottie in a bale of hay while the phonograph played Dietrich’s Der Trommelmann in the echoey scratchy distance. By the farmhouse.
And yes, I just switched from George Lucas to 1920s European literature. Because I’m freaky like that.
HCwDB of the Week
In meditating on the hott/choad combos this week, I’m reminded of the 1985 classic teen comedy about smart kids, Real Genius. Mitch tells Chris Knight that he had a strange dream. Chris asks Mitch, “Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you?”
Mitch answers no. And Chris asks, “Why am I the only one who has that dream?”
I have that dream too, Chris. Only it involves tiny jelly donuts, Purg Hottie and a tub of Crisco.
But you don’t want to hear my perverted sex fantasies. Nor even quotes from the classic that is Real Genius.
You want me to get to this week’s hottie/douchey finalists. And here they is:
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Velvet Jones
Velvet ‘Bag not only features the classic receding hairline “comb-forward” but the Billy Dee Colt 45 smoove ‘stache of sexual healing.
Look at that ‘stache. I mean seriously. Stare at it. It’s almost hypnotic.
V.J. also reminds us that douchebaggery may have originated in the Italian/Guido universe, but it has spread its cross cultural impact like some airborn chicken flu pandemic.
We see ‘bags in Bangledesh. We see scrote in Scranton. We see choad in China. As such, Velvet Douche’s smooth chest and dog-tag bling reek with viral douchosity.
As to the other side of the hottie/douchey equation, Strawberry Cheesecake more than holds up her end of the bargain. God damn I’d like to wrap us up in plastic and ship us by Fedex to Mobile, Alabama. Five day delivery.
Her boobies astound. Just as her levitating dress astounds the late 1970s magical wonderkind Doug Henning. Oh come on. Like you haven’t heard of Doug Henning.
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Boing!
One of the key meaning structures of performative douchebaggery involves what philospher Guy Debord describes as “Society of the Spectacle.”
This notion, expanded upon by Baudrillard and ultimately leading to two craptastic Matrix sequels featuring a zombified Keanu Reeves speaking incomprehensible gibberish about levels of reality, engages the notion that mass culture creates social meaning through intertextual visually enhanced spectacles of false construction.
The spectacle supercedes the actual. The spectacle within the simularcrum leads to … BOING!
When the cool mediums transmit meaning, we end up with… BOING!
Because the only way to snag the boobies in an image saturated visual culture is to… BOING!
BOING!
HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Ricky
There’s something wonderfully charming about Ricky’s amateur douchebaggery. He’s not really a ‘bag on any physical level, and yet he scrotes with the desperate hunger of the wannabe choad trying to get down with the hotties.
So in a sense he’s charming.
In another sense, he’s an awkward douche.
I went back and forth on letting Ricky compete for the Weekly, but then I decided every so often we need a hero to the working class douchitudes. Ricky is Rocky. Ricky is The Washington Generals.
He has little chance of getting served a platter of Hott later that night. But he’s trying. Dammit, he’s trying.
Hero? Choadmunch? Both? That’s what we’re here to judge.
So here ya go, Ricky. You made it to the finals. What you do with it is up to you.
Honorable mention goes to DJ Poopy Head, who just missed the cut.
So while we have no clear Gators this week to trounce the competition like a hungry hungry hippo, we do have three divergent yet complimentary tropes with which to parse extended hottie/douchebaggery discussions around.
Is it the everyday underdog of ‘bag, Ricky? Or does the visual spectacle of BOING! confirm Baudrillard’s fears about a culture in which visual spectacle supersedes the real?
Or should we buy Velvet Jones’s smoove mustache a Colt .45 and bask in his Lando Calrissian echo?
That, my friends, is up to you.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Cro Bagnon Forever
Reader snarky writes in with the following pic:
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Oh snarky, you should know by now that here at HCwDB there will always be a place for the hulking primitive douchuousness of Old No. 7 aka Cro ‘Bagnon.
Like Pumpy before him, there are douches, there are uberdouches, and then there are the exalted scrote.
I mean look at that grease generating ginormous mellon head. Hotties are attracted to it like a blue bug zapping flicker. And thus we honor. And by honor, I mean mock.
American Douchebag: Millard Fillmore
Not sure who made this, but it’s pretty hilarious.
Millard Fillmore. American Douchebag.
More Saturday Creeper
As douche vader put it in the comments thread to the previous pic:
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There’s rage, and then there’s disgust, but no single douchebag ever featured on this site captures those two emotions within me, at the same time, like this guy. I literally recoil in bile filled horror every time I see his picture. If I had a bat and that tongue was lined up in the cross hairs, I’m not even sure I could take a swing. How do you hit the mother of all douchebags in the face with a bat, agent Kujan? What if you miss?
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So eloquent a ‘bag smackdown D.V. that I had to post this pic just for you.
Because he’s Keyser Douchey.
And she used to be part of a boobieshop quartet in Skokie, Illinois.
Night of the Creeper
HCwDB of the Month winner and legendary alien slug zombie from the 1980s, The Creeper, decided to bring along his absolutely rancid tongue and a delightfully full bosomed (if terribly Bleethed) hottie, to say hi on a Saturday.
Hi, Creeper! Hi! Good to see you.
You are still beyond mere douchebaggery. An extra serving of festering blister pus. I will mock you from the safe confines of my apartment floor. Because you are with a terribly sexy minx you do not deserve.
But that rainbow shirt makes me wonder if you weren’t a clown this entire time. Fooling us into thinking you were ‘bag. A clown dressed as a douchescrote. A sad douche clown.
Sexy Dumpling Fan Mail
Reader Sexy Dumpling writes in:
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Hi,
I’m an Asian female, and I got invited to join a facebook group called “Asian Girls and White Guys.”
Here are a couple gems in the photo album I found within the first couple minutes.
Atrocious.
~ Sexy Dumpling
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Yikes.
Stay away from the Gwai-Lo douchebaggery, Sexy Dumpling. Then again, it’s these choads that are the digital pixelated fuel that feeds my fire.
So I can’t complain, I s’pose.
Nah, sure I can. Nice arm tat, Camobag.
As to the Garlic Chicken Hottie, I would dip those soup dumplings in soy sauce until my beef were broccoli’d.
Hmmm. That sex/food metaphor may have read just a little too visually.
Friday Night in the Naked City
Los Angeles. City of ‘bags. City of hott.
It was the breast of times. It was the douche of times.
Choadbags flexing like twitching insects in the crackling dry desert underbrush.
Hottes rolling through downtown like mystical apparitions of boobosity, possessed spirits like Native American tribal elders. Cursed to wander between the axes of all that is soft, lickable and juicy assed, and all that is chest shaving scrotemunch.
The z4 Roadsters, like chariots, awaiting the spiritual afterlife journey of the douche/boob soul, torn asunder betwixt chaotic contradiction.
I sip my cup of Night Train and I regard the hott and the douche. Grappling and clutching as if trapped in amber. Frozen in perpetuity. An existential crisis of iconic sweet and douchewank. Of cleavite and scrotundae.
I see boobies. I see mandanas.
I see contradiction. I see paradox. I see desire and choad, mixing like a foul cocktail with a hint of sweetness. A hint of hope.
And it is Woo.
Lake Winnepedouchey
One of the dangers of waterskiing on Lake Winnipedouchey is the Grease Shark.
Known for its tribal-tat fin structure and scrotal eye protection, the Grease Shark attacks stealthily and with minimal distruption of Miller Lite or Energy Drink.
When its victim is distracted by camera flash, the Grease Shark will jump out of the water and attack with a gutteral cry that sounds vaguely like, “Whatsup, yo?”
Close the beach, Mayor.
He’s coming back for his noon feeding.
