Slim Douchey
Okay now I just feel dirty.
I’ve felt dirty before. But usually that’s because I’m too lazy to wash my sheets or take a shower. This is dirt on the soul dirty. True douchebag Jersey uncleanedness.
Another zonked out boob grab, enough tribal tats to launch a war in the Peloponnesian islands, and Eminem ‘Bag. I can’t tell how cute Pink is because my corneas just melted from digital herpes exposure.
I do appreciate the gradient skin tones on display. It’s like a before and after photoshop demonstration. Whitey McEminem fears the sun. Oh yes he does.
America's Most Douchebagged
Have you seen this man?
Height: 5’5″
Age: 20-26
Race: Douchebag
Sex: Rarely
Hat: 10 Degree Tilt
Bling: Far too much
Be on the lookout for any Tag Bodyshot purchases, extensive Backstreet Boys iPod shuffling or frequent use of the expression, “What’s up, yo?” The suspect may be armed and dangerous. If he is holding a red cup, please do not attempt to interfere. Call the tip hotline at 1-888-DeBagger.
The Costume 'Bag and Douche Transference
This pic is an excellent test case for a discussion on the notions of Douche Irony. By now we’ve all witnessed the scrotey ‘bag busting his ungodly and disturbing charms at a costume party. But does the “costume” trump the initial impulse of the douchebaggery itself? I guess what I’m asking is can we overcome the base impulses of what I term “The ‘Bag Within” through the use of irony, situational context and a claim to self referential intertextualism.
I would argue that expression of ‘baggitude, even in ironic form, operates as a form of externalization of internal douche trauma much in the way sarcasm operates more as aggression than humor. In this way the ironic ‘bag becomes the actual ‘bag simply through the affectation of the attempt. The ironic effort to coopt the tropes of the real under cover of the parody transforms the literal into the figurative, but retains the impulse of douchebaggery as its base cause. And in so doing, the figurative becomes the actual through simple semiotic transference.
So in summation, my argument is boobies.
Boobies.
The Surreal Life
It’s like the Douche Circus just came to town.
A bearded choad trying to eat the nose off an absolutely gorgeous hottie, and a leering Harry Beaver appearance, a fan favorite. How is any of this possible?
Is this really happening? Or am I having a twinkie induced sugar fever-dream? It’s like a cornucopia of all the classic HCwDB tropes, yet nothing’s quite congealing into any logical form. The fact this hirsute blowish is gnawing on the cutest little blond button would be torture enough. But Harry Beaver? Where’d he come from? What’s he doing there?
And even more importantly, is he part of your In Network?
Stewie
Stewie doesn’t like it when the girls try to kiss him.
Stewie gets angry when the girls try to rub his bloated, saggy stomach.
Stewie thinks girls are gross.
Stewie is in his 20s.
Stewie is a,… oh what’s the word I’m searching for… putz. I was gonna go with douchebag, but he’s not. Putz works. Lets go with putz.
Full Metal Douchebags
Hey, look who showed up to thank you for voting them the HCwDB of the week!
Even more importantly, look who got the hell out of there as soon as she could.
HCwDB of the Week: Douche Platoon
Another tight vote in which all three HCwDB finalists received solid arguments and excellent deconstructions and dissections by the panel discussants. It came down to one or two votes, and after applying a slightly weighted formula to discount for the possibility of multiple voting, the winner is the Douche Platoon.
Give it up to these four soldiers of scrote. Mercenaries of mold. Generals of gel.
As if inspired by a speech from Puka-Shell Patton himself, they surround their outgunned hottie and, like the painting of the Last Supper, they pose for eternity with their douchey charms on full display.
There is a touch of poetry to this picture. A moment of unearthly delight surrounded by rank douchebaggery on all sides. A statement of hope amidst dystopian blight. Of potential amidst greasy carnage.
As el douchablo makes the case:
Got to vote for the platoon. You get four uber-douchebags where each one is a competition on it’s own. They douche as a well oiled team. And with all their games and pickups they snagged an ubber hottie with a perfect body. In my mind other contestants don’t come close.
Strong points E.D. However, Velveeta ‘Bag’s Euro charms also brought him plenty of verbal bowel movements, as jeffpack9 demonstrates:
I have to go with Velveeta. Although, realistically, Eurodouche is more than likely her brother, everything about this “fella” is douche. And well, she has a sweetness to her that screams “I don’t care if you’re a douche, I love you anyway big bro!” And that’s gotta speak for something. I would vote for Platoon on any other given day, but I’ve no sympathy for her, in fact, she seems quite pleased with her score o’ scrote. And that shouldn’t be rewarded.
mitch meats opens a can of philoso whoopass and comes up Dharma:
Dharma ‘Bag: What is the sound of one douche fapping? If a bag falls in the woods when nobody is around, does anyone care? For some reason, I am envisioning a swimming pool chicken fight with one side being Dharma riding astraddle Ol’ Number Seven vs. Douche Lee atop the Donk. ‘Cause I’m just that sick. And his chicks are lovely, never underestimate the power of a nice back. OH! I just noticed the poster for Umphrey’s McGee, aka Sh@$y Jam Band #379. That pretty much seals the deal. Dharma FTW.
But nostradouchemus consulted the mystical prognosticators to settle in on the Douche Platoon:
For the frail sinner Velveeta, we must speak for him, for he has, in ignorance of his sins, provided us no voice. So we seek the truths found in this image: two fair-haired youths much as is found in far northern european lands; verily, the fairer one might respond with an effervescent “Ja!” upon looking ‘neath this monks robes (auto-flagellation followed by self-flagellation again to-night); the cigarette held in non-new world manner; and lastly, the “Hollywood” illumination also uncommon in the new world. Perhaps we might allow the Romeo of Reykjavik some dispensation -for ignornace of the standard by which he is judged- and for not putting the pork to a Bjork.
This leaves the examiner with the varied stellae de scrota collapsing inward toward the sun, our Phoebe, sol solis, puella pulchrituda. Damn the heavens if you dare, but damn these scoundrels to HCwD of the Week infamy because you must.
Excellent visionary work, Nostradouchemas. In the end, the Platoon stormed the beaches of Douchemandy and took home the win. As Disciple of Scrote sums it up:
Platoon deservedly takes the cake for me this week. they all show signs of late-stage bag syndrome here..there is NO chance of reversal at this point. I wish Tom Berrenger was there to kick each of them in the nads with his combat boots while willem dafoe eloquently lectured a speech upon the moral atrocities which these bags have committed.
Dharma ‘Bag came close, but Platoon went over the top and took home hotness. So lets give it up to the Army from Miami, raise their collective greased up jerseys to the rafters, and let ’em rest up for the monthly contest, where they will face some stiff competition. And by stiff competition, I mean something that implies stiff means penis.
Dear God
Dear God,
Please smite Punk Rock ‘Bag immediately. With a giant meteorite made of condensed iron. Aimed preferably at his scrotum.
If you do this God, I promise to stop thinking impure thoughts about 19 year old hotties for at least one hour each day. The other twenty three hours will be reserved for the usual mixture of thoughts, emotions and base impulses: Where did I leave my car keys? Why does my foot smell funny? Boy I’d like to mount a Wesleyan chick while reading her excerpts from Spinoza’s theories on Nature and God. Wow do I love Lucky Charms. Do I prefer to nibble or lick a woman’s shoulder blade? Can frogs comprehend their own existence? Mmm… boobies. I have to pee.
God, if you smite this douchebag infidel, I will sing your praises from a mountaintop in Istanbul while romancing this blonde ball of perfection with strawberries, grape Manishevitz wine and various illicit lotions they sell only in Bangkok and Amsterdam.
Thank you, God. And I just wanted to say you’re doing a fantastic job producing hotties. Of course you impart many of them with that one fatal flaw — terminal attraction for the greased up ‘bag. But I view that as simply your existential challenge posed to us mortals. Our quest. Our Holy Grail of philosophic understanding.
So for that, I appreciate everything you do for us, your humble servants.
Now send a space rock into this douchebag’s balls.
Sincerely,
DB1
Newlybags
It’s like the douchebag version of the Nick Lachey-Jessica Simpson wedding.
Someone call MTV3, I smell a reality show. Oh wait, it’s just a Tag Bodyshot.
