Tonguebaggin'
One of the key givaways of early scrotebaggery developing in a pud is, of course, the tonguebag.
The immediate need upon seeing a camera to demonstrate one’s douchey inner monologue for all to see.
Not that you’d have any problems picking this choad out of a poo lineup.
Slender Milkshake Hottie is such premium Ben and Jerry’s goodness she even makes the 10 Degree Hat Tilt look whipped cream delicious.
Bat Boy
Now that the “Weekly World News” is no longer in business, it will be up to all of us to keep tabs on the mysterious and elusive Bat Boy.
Here’s Bat Boy douching it up Menudo style with two Beach Blanket Bingo Cuties that sing the body electric. Note how Bat Boy is making douche hand gesture #06, The “Westside” with the creepiest fingers this side of a Tales from the Crypt.
And what’s with the classy Heineken shirt, Bat Boy? Looks like you can’t even afford domestic.
But, in the end, nothing says “class” to the hotties like plyboard in the window.
Bottom Gun
Perhaps Maverick ‘Bag isn’t really that douchey, other than the puka.
But Brunette can be my wingman any time.
And by wingman I mean pillow pancake that I would masticate like a toothless 19th Century British street urchin who just found a scone.
HCwDB of the Month: The Crustacean
It was an intense ‘baggle royale between four worthy contenders for the Monthly crown, but the back-to-ab-pointing basics and utterly reprehensible douchosity of The Crustacean was too much to overcome.
In an excellent vote, the comments were plentiful and eloquently parsed the hott and the scrote in all four Finalists. But, as il choadrino puts it, The Crustacean takes the crown:
I raise my Peach-tainted finger in a vote for CRUSTACEAN. Mostly because I think he’s an ass, but also because his jeans remind me of the dotted-swiss blue dress Nadine Sternberg use to wear in third grade when she’d beat the crap out of me on the playground.
And if you will excuse me, now I must drink.
You’re excused, I.C. That ridiculous Puma Armband alone is enough to break up a dedicated A.A. support group and cause them to hit the Glenlivet.
I would love Fruit Stripe Hottie with the rechargeable power of a Prius battery. Her hips are like a sun dappled sunday morning at grandma’s house. Her legs comfort like lemonade on a screen covered New Hampshire porch.
As 23 Skidouche puts it:
Crustacean by a mile. My esteemed colleagues have already done a scholarly job deconstructing the myriad reasons why this douche is the clear winner, so there is no need to rehash them here. What I will mention is that
Crusty has assembled an impressive body of work on this site already and has paid his dues on the scrote circuit. This picture here represents the crowning achievement of his douche career, and so in honor of his lifetime of work in the field of scrotology, The Crustacean deserves a a victory in the monthly and a shot at HCwDBotY.
Indeed, I fear you are right, 23. This pic will stay in our colective trauma for many a month. Expect it to do extremely well at the annual The Douchies in December. I expect it to take at least one Pat Cup.
Although the metro-mystery Memphis Choad came in a solid second, with what reader John Edwards terms, his “inflasian” hottie by his side, he found his fans. And by fans I mean participants in the metrosexual vomitorium. The Arch Douche clearly and simply states the case:
“Memphis! Memphis! Memphis!”
So goes the chant that echoes in the night, black and cold and hollow.
Indeed, A.D. And clementine of cappadoucha makes the strong case that we shouldn’t overlook the power of dual grease in The Greasers either:
The greasers must recieve my vote. The culmination of the silk, the cock-and-balls marks and the blonde Anne Hathaway damsel in distress is almost too much to tolerate. Mostly, however, it’s the choadgobbler on the left with too much product in too much hair, the hint of chin pubes and the thumb-ringed douche gesture. This wad of vaginal mucus’ greatest transgression though, is his smug expression.
It seems to say, “Yes, I know that I’m a bumtaking rimjob monkey whose only purpose in life is to be the perpetual wingman, but I get the chubby friends (like me), and if that doesn’t work out, my severence package from KFC just kicked in so I can buy myself that inflatable girl I’ve had my eye on for some time now. Boyeeeee!”
Ultra-fantastic smackdown, C.o.C.
But canadouche sums up what we’re all thinking:
A glimpse of “The Crustacean” invokes enough anger to get me to roll myself out of bed and to go down to the local fish mart with a 12 pound sledge hammer and smash any and all crusteceans, but then I pan to the right and see Fruit Sripe Hottie and that beautiful clothing remnant which in some cultures they refer to as a “skirt” and it all goes away.
And right there is the essence of the perfect hottie/douchey contradiction. That Yin/Yang polarity between hot and scrote that drives us crazy with swirling emotions. Hope. Fear. Rage. Revulsion. Arousal.
Give it up to the Crusacean and raise his jersey to the rafters. He’s earned a Monthly win, and a ticket to the Douchies in December.
'Bag / Not a 'Bag
When ‘bag hunting the elusive muscle t-shirt choad in the wild, there is one key giveaway that you’ve spotted one.
It’s, uhm, the muscle t-shirt.
Yeah. I guess that was kind of obvious.
But this brings up important theological and scrotological questions. Is wearing a muscle t-shirt, in an of itself, inherently douchuous?
Take Crispy McTall here. He’s lined up a gaggle of delicious tasty after-school 19 year old specials.
But his dual ‘bag headlock is relatively benign. There’s no clear douche-face. Little in the way of bling.
So I put it to you, Greg. ‘Bag or not a ‘Bag?
Tropical Choadwank
Porn-star pubal facial scruff. Annoying tongue. Combo 93 Degree Hat Tilt + the extremely rare Z-Axis Tilt. Jesus bling shirtlessness. Dual bee-glasses hotties in inverted ‘bag sandwich formation.
Yup. Time to slap myself in the face with an oven mitt.
Add in the cursed idol from the Brady Bunch hanging like some form of douche missletoe, and Tropical Choadwank makes me want to blend arctic lemmings into a lemming milkshake and feed to a Polar Bear until his satiated growls serve as a sonic blotting out of the memory of this choadputz’s existence.
Leviathan
As we consider the hottie/douchey variations and permutations, the scrote/boob combos force us to consider our philosophical human condition itself.
Our culture. Our values.
And boobies.
The great philosopher Thomas Hobbes describes the natural state of the human condition as one of brutality, primitivity and pain. Without societal structure, Hobbes wrote that we would devolve into a state of natural chaos. A ‘war of all against all.’
I gaze at tatted up tongue-douche and I think to myself, Hobbes knew what was up.
The Apprentice
Oh pumped up sleeve rolled wannabe Pumpy.
You may appropriate the boob grab, but you will never come close to the Master.
For while you possess many of the douchetributes that are used to identify those of your ‘baguous ilk, there is something lacking.
Douche Aura.
You may emulate The Pumpy. But you do not yet comprehend the Tao of Scrote.
Keep learning, young one. Keep studying, young Kevin James in “The King of Queens” ‘bag.
The ways of the douche are not far off.
Wednesday Limerick
There once was a man named The Gator,
Whose favorite expression was “Don’t be a Playah Hater.”
His leathery chest,
Looked like a skin vest,
And his friends Chip and Chet weren’t much straighter.
College
Ah yes, College.
A time to expand one’s mind in the pursuit of knowledge.
A time to grow and find one’s self as a person.
A time when ridiculous suburban fratchoads score quality tail the heights of which they will never again come remotely close to scaling.
The imbalance between semi-annoying economics major sophomore frattoads and the 20 year old uber-hott is strong in this one.
I would make a blond/brunette PB&J sandwich, and enjoy with a chocolate YooHoo.
