Mike Myers 'Bag
I’m just happy to see Mike Myers is doing okay for himself since the Austin Powers franchise died down.
But Mike, what’s with the soul patch?
First thing you know, old Jeb's a giant douche
There’s a Beverly Hilldouchies joke in here somewhere, but I can’t seem to find it. I think I’m distracted. It could be that fantastic Iowa corn fed healthiness on mamtastic display. Or it could be the moon-rock head on the left. Thirdly, it could be Judd Hirsch from “Taxi” in the background. Fourthly, it could be my rash. Stupid rash. So itchy.
Jeb here wanted to come by and congratulate Fish Slap in the Weekly, and offer a few points of his own. And by points, I mean cactus head.
HCwDB of the Week: Fish Slap
What can I say about the genius that was this week’s Discussion Thread? The various levels of scalpel-like dissection of all things hottie/douchey performed by the regulars, as well as a crop of excellent newbies, was like a whiff of Axe Bodyshot on a warm summer’s eve. It was pretty genius. If you have the means, I highly recommend you take a read.
This was an epic struggle between the old-school douchitude of Fish Slap, the ironic post-modern performative douchebaggery of The Link, and the next wave futurist scrote of DJ Racoon. After we crested 110 votes, anonymous 3:16AM let loose with the frustration we all felt at having to choose between these three heaping spoonfuls of tasty, but very different, scroad:
ITS A DRAW!! LET THERE BE A DRAW!!! LIFT THEIR JERSEYS TO THE RAFTERS!! LET THEIR MEMORIES DOUCHE ETERNAL IN THE HALL OF SCROTE!! ALL THREE ARE REVODOUCHIONARIES AND HAVE PERFECTED THEIR PARTICULAR SUBGENRE OF SCROTE!! WE CANNOT IGNORE WHAT EACH OF THEM HAS DONE FOR THE WORLD OF DOUCHING!!! I TYPED IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE IT INSINUATES THAT I AM YELLING – KIND OF LIKE IN THE TOWN SQUARE OR FROM THE TOP OF A PULPIT!!!
Were that we could declare a draw, anon 3:16am. But the ghosts of past winners haunt us. They task us with this undertaking, and we cannot let them down. And so we must choose.
And behold, the voters spoketh. And yea, they cast their lots. And lo, the Fish Slap found the middle finger of the Lord had chosen him ‘bag among ‘bags. Wank among poo. And the Lord beheld what he had chosen, and knew that it was scrote.
The Racoon made a massive push but in the end fell only a few votes short of catching the classic rage inducing smugness of Fish Slap. But we learned something in this battle. We learned that there are those who define douchebaggery according to classic lines, and others who forge an expansive definition. We learned that some are transfixed by the peak of a tiny tattoo from above a hottie’s jeans, while even the power of a fantastic brunette in a bikini and a plastic chain necklace can’t elevate a smug scrote who looks like he’s acting.
There were so many brilliant comments this week, there is no way I can choose any one or two to feature, so I will simply let the ever present anonymous 3:22pm sum up what it came down to for the winner Fish Slap:
every time I glance at that hat, I die a little.
Don’t we all, anon. Don’t we all.
Yea, tho we walk through the valley of the shadow of douche, let us fear no eyebrow shavings. For the hotties are with us.
We must be brave. We must be strong. We must soldier onward. Amen.
Corned 'Bag on Rye
Here’s a classic ‘bag sandwich formation with an extra smear of douche-mustard on the left side. But my oh my that’s a tasty sandwich filling. All we need to do is cut the crusts off, and it’s a cleavite enhanced meal to go with my Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry, half-sour pickle and a side of ‘slaw.
Mmm… deli food hottie.
Voting will remain open all evening in the HCwDB of the Week contest in what is turning into a legendary comments thread. Get yer votes in before criss-cross ‘bag here makes you want to jump, jump.
Spiderbag
Ever get that strange feeling like Peter Parker might have a double identity as a mutant douchebag who fights crime?
That’s right, Mary Jane. Don’t look behind you. Parker is Spiderbag.
No, this isn’t a plug for the new movie. It’s a plug for those two fantastic cleavite Wisconsin cheese award winning wonder womans. I would web them in tri-color pulp print while bubbles describing my actions with all capital letters floated above me. She is comic book supernova perfection.
Choad Steamer
Here’s the thing, choad steamers of the world. When a cute girl agrees to sleep with you, it’s like Christmas. Don’t ask questions. Don’t preen. Don’t flex, analyze, question, discuss or contemplate.
Simply appreciate.
Conan O'Baggin
Conan here wants to remind you to vote in the HCwDB of the Week if you haven’t already.
He also wants to remind you that he is a half baked loaf of ass.
Note the ubiquitous red cup making its presence known behind these two lovely slices of fresh fruit. I would serve them with coffee and a danish and call it brunch.
Fecal Cough
A reader writes in and suggests the term “Fecal Cough” as an apt descriptor for certain nuances when deconstructing the larger ‘bag hierarchies.
I like it. Fecal Cough. It has a certain poetic resonance. A mixture of the polite euphemisms of late 19th century Russian literature yet with a whiff of early 20th Century modernism and futurism. And by whiff, I mean poo.
And so it is with Arthurian pomp and circumstance that I knight white tie ‘bag here Fecal Cough. Not simply for the bling. Not simply for the facial pubes. But simply for the uber-douchen silken white tie + no t-shirt look. If that don’t say ‘bag, then my name ain’t DB1.
Inflated hottie has a nicely hybridized 1920s German Cabaret + Alex in “A Clockwork Orange” look going. Sure she may need a little dental work. But, to paraphrase Ferris Bueller’s Ed Rooney quoting Faulkner: Between teeth and boobies. I’ll take boobies.
See, I knew we’d wax poetic eventually.
Furry Popped Collar
It’s not that I’m a befuddled, alcoholic, slightly confused douchebag, although I am all of those things.
It’s simply the existential crisis that plagues my soul when I’m forced to contemplate such visual stimuli that so shakes my world view. The troubling reminders of human futility. The sobering soul shaking disruption of any claims to importance and achievement we think we have made in this world.
That reminder exists in simple form. The Furry Popped Collar.
Six millennia into our collective transformation and ascension. Six millennia into the development of irrigation, medicine, morality, art, culture, society, literature, music, philosophy, science and here we are.
Beholding Furry Popped Collar.
Furry Popped Collar mocks our collective achievements. Furry Popped Collar laughs hysterically at our puerile attempts to rise above primordial base instinct and ascend to a higher plateau of consciousness.
Furry Popped Collar is the grounding force of real world actuality. The check on human gravitas and self appointed importance. The slap in the face, the dash of cold water, the sobering and uncanny reminder of the only emotion we should ever partake in when contemplating our role in the universe. Humility.
Furry Popped Collar allows for the paradigm shifting process of self actualization through absurdity. And so we should thank Furry Popped Collar. For it checks our intellectual need to arrogantly ascribe transcendence to the human condition. Furry Popped Collar speaks to us. It retells the story we need to constantly be retold. The folly of self aggrandizing importance. The reminder to be humble in the face of a cold and vast universe that spans billions of years. A universe that blinks once and we’re here, and twice, and we’re gone. A universe of Furry Popped Collar.
Or we could just call it douche.
