Scrotiserie Chicken
And lo, the hills were perfect and golden, flowering with the nectar of swollen bosom. But hark, the douchedragon prowled yonder, roaring with gusts of Tag Bodyshot. Seeking to feast on scrotiserie chicken.
And hark, the DB1 can’t come up with anything else to say about this pic except boobies.
HCwDB of the Week: Oompa Prompa
It wasn’t even close. Prom Oompa Loompa just crushed the competition. And by crushed, I mean Orange.
There’s a certain genius to the Prompa, and it’s not just the zoot suit or the orange or the hair. It’s that nervous moment we can all relate to. That glance around right before going to the prom when you’re waiting in line and making sure your tie’s on straight. The only difference is that unlike all of us at our prom who just felt like we looked ridiculous, Prompa actually does look absolutely ridiculous.
The range of emotions that Prompa inspired in the comments thread ran the gamut from hilarity to depression to heavy drinking. As the everpresent anonymous put it:
I stuck a couple of waffles in the toaster for breakfast but this thing in pink just made me lose my appetite. Time to call in sick to work and crack open the first OE of the day.
Nice Old English reference. I’m not the malt liquor drinker myself, but I respect anyone who mixes it with waffles. Born 2B Bag sums up the Prompa pain:
Grieco High, Newark New Jersey class of ’07. This is why Al Qaeda hates us.
They hate us for our hair gels, B2BB. choadasaurus rex wonders aloud at the development that lies in the future for this ‘Bagling and his sidekick:
WTF IS THAT?!?! This teen ‘Bag is definitely pushing the douchebag envelope. If he continues on this path his future here is bright… it will be interesting to follow his progression from prepubescent uberbagosity into a full blown scrote commando. Orange face, pink tux, gray spiked hair… and this is his prom gear. Imagine what his club ‘Bag attire would look like? I can’t even imagine… he is definitely shooting for the stars of douchedum. Watchout world… this new up and comer promises endless ‘Bag material.
The sky is the limit. He’s like the proverbial “next Michael Jordan” of the douchebag diegesis.
I was sad to see ‘Baggish and Syndrome find less support, as both are fully grown and highly accomplished scrotemeisters, well versed in the Art of ‘Bag. Each brought along a fine hottie to balance the equation, especially Syndrome’s (yum).
But the Orange Prompa was not to be denied. And there will be no cropping of this pic. Part of the genius is the long-shot. Finding the Prompa standing nervously in line.
It’s poetic art. Someone call the Guggenheim. Prompa is 21st Century dada at its finest.
So raise Prompa’s orange jersey to the rafters and book him a ticket to the Monthly. He’s officially enscribed as HCwDB legend.
The Long Journey
During my long existential journey trolling through the swamplands of MySpace/Facebook hottie-douchey wrongness, I have found my soul vexed by many troubling questions.
What are the root causes of douche-hot duality? How does Grieco Virus spread its greasy plague from city to city, ‘Bag to ‘Bag, ‘Bag to Hottie and Hottie to Hottie?
My journey, my vision quest, into the dark festering land of douchitude has offered some answers, but also opened doors to more soul troubling questions. Do greased up uberchoadbags possess awareness? Does the inflated tat-douche ponder quandaries of being and nothingness? Do Hotties know not what they do? And can we forgive?
Most imporantly, can your humble narrator, The DB1, drink a six pack of PBR, down three packets of tasty Hostess HoHos, and still cruise high school parking lots in a beat up Chevy Cavalier?
The Lime Rickey
Holy sweet merciless hooters, I miss being 18. Because when I was 18 I also had two sweet balls of teenage perfection in the back of a limo. Just like this choad.
Okay, maybe not. But the possibility was always there. As far as I knew.
I don’t know whether Suity McSilktie is a ‘bag, but, well, he’s a ‘Bag because I loves me some lime rickey. She makes me tremble like a coked up Kate Hepburn.
Ice Ice Baby
Check out the douche while the DJ revolve it.
Yeah, I’ve done Vanilla Ice jokes on the site before. And I’ll do them again. Because I’m creative like that. And really, what else is there to say about this choad?
She’s like the hot young mom at the PTA meeting who looks all conservative, then dresses up as Wonder Woman on weekends and participates in reiki orgies. I would discuss lunch menus and after-school curriculum with her over lapsang souchong tea at Starbucks before getting my freak on to iPod house music and my expensive shaper image strobe lights.
People are Douchey
People are douchey,
when you’re a douchebag,
Faces look scrotey,
when you’re a scrote.
Women seem Bleethey,
when you’re a choadbag,
Streets are uneven,
when you’re a clown,
When you’re douche,
Greasy chest features your bling,
When you’re douche,
Leather pants show off your thing,
When you’re douche…
When you’re douche…
When you’re douche…
Facebag
Those are five of the nicest balloons I’ve seen since The Blizzard.
Other than the douched out shirt, the dude doesn’t really have many classic ‘Bag signifiers. So lets stamp and process him as stage-1 EuroBag. Then ship his ass off to Vienna.
And by Vienna, I mean the sausage factory. Where he’d be more comfortable. While I steal away with sultry brunette by cover of moonlit night, only to ravish her under a chocolate waterfall while tiny Oompa Prompas dance in our peripheral ecstasy.
Todd the VII
A little known legend about the great King of England, Henry the V, remains in English lore. The story goes that Henry the V had a much less famous and lazy younger brother, Todd the VII. Todd the VII would continually embarrass and shame the great warrior king during his rise to the throne.
When Henry the V finally ascended to the Crown in 1413, much of his court was deeply concerned. How would the new King of England handle the douchebaggy antics of his clownish and slothful younger brother, Todd the VII?
Henry tried to endure, but Todd’s continuing need to grease up and “Mack on the Harem” proved too much for Henry to tolerate.
Finally, by 1419, Henry had had enough of Todd’s greasy antics and sent him to the far East as a token of good will. When Todd reached Beijing, Todd was quickly taken in by Chinese guards and put on trial for being a “Barbarian Invader ‘Bag.” Emperor Ming the Choadalicious quickly took a liking to young Todd and allowed him one bar wench of his choosing before confining him to the Forbidden City. And so Todd the VII chose Katharine the Hott, pictured here.
Back in England, word of Todd’s bravery quickly spread, and by bravery, the jesters meant douchey. Todd the VII was quickly renamed “Todd the Douche,” and he lived out the rest of his life in the Forbidden City with Catherine the Hott, feasting on mutton, mead and Applebees chicken and ribs takeout.
Pearls Jam
Nothing says 1970s, balls out, Sid Vicious, puking into an empty pizza box at 3am, CBGBs wall grime, essence of punk rock like wearing pearls in suburbia.
Pearls in suburbia. I like that name. It’s like a late 80s punk band meets an Eric Bogosian play meets a 2007 teenage uberchoad. And the Dr. Seuss socks just take the whole thing over the top.
I guess I gotta give it up to Pearls, here. At least he’s original. Now where’s Dee Dee and Joey to throw down.
She is Marisa Tomei from “My Cousin Vinny” goodness. I would pretend to be interested in cute furry animals and charity work if it meant we’d retire to her dorm room to make out to Bon Jovi’s greatest hits while her roommate studied Intro to Economics on the bunk bed above us.
Choad Patrol
And while you’re mulling your vote for the HCwDB of the Week, here’s a toxic spill to help cleanse the palette.
In staring at the Choad Patrol here (and I’d be careful not to stare too long), the revelation of Ab Crustaceans brings up an important discussion. Is this simply an attempt at affectionate playfulness? Or aggressive posturing bordering on hostility and latent anger?
I’ve always found a certain linguistic irony in the fact that the words “aggression” and “affection” are so similar. And by linguistic irony, I do not mean pretending to enjoy your pasta at the Olive Garden.
What constitutes over the top douchebaggery posturing as aggression instead of affection? Where do we draw the societal lines on ab revelations and hottie headbutting?
And would Mira Sorvino Cutie let me lick her earlobes like a cracked up ferret?
