Where's Waldouche: Go Frogs Edition
Somewhere in this pic of cheery All-American goodness, and by goodness I mean abs, I’ve carefully hidden a budding ‘bagling little scrotey boy.
Look closely. Click on the pic itself for closer examination.
Can you find him?
And yes, these cuties are college students, even if they look highschooly. So leer away, fellow ‘bag hunters. Leer away.
And don’t forget, voting in the HCwD of the Week is open all day, so scroll down and get yer vote in, slacker ‘bag. And stop leering already. Perv.
The Moldy Pear
I used to live near Haymarket, a farmer’s market in Boston, when I was a little kid. Every Sunday the fruit and vegetable guys would be out selling off whatever crates they had left over from the week. Giant stacked boxes of unsold or overripe fruits and vegetables, whatever you wanted, give ’em two bucks and take the whole thing. No looking, buy it and deal with it on your own time. They lined up their trucks and were selling off the boxes to anyone who would bid and be willing to go through all the saggy and overripe product to find the good ones that were always mixed in there. If you were willing to look.
My Dad and I would walk around all morning, eating popcorn and watching the free market chaos in all its loud, shouty glory. We would buy an entire box of cucumbers for a few bucks and then dig through and pull out the eight or nine good ones like we’d won the lottery. We’d tally up how much each would’ve cost in the supermarket and figure out how much we’d saved with our Sunday morning ingenuity. My dad would negotiate with whatever was being slung out of the trucks no matter how little we actually wanted it. An entire crate of week old oranges or a huge waxed box filled with rapidly softening pears. But he’d buy it for three or four bucks and then we’d go through it like it was Christmas. It was part bargain hunt, part weekend adventure. Down by Faneuil Hall. Down by the wharf with my Dad.
I bring that nostalgic and fond memory because once we bought a box of peaches that appeared okay when we glanced at it, but when we went through it it was completely unsalvageable. The only time that had ever happened to me and my Dad. We’d only paid a few bucks for it, but still. We were always able to find at least five or six perfectly good fruits or vegetables in the box. In this case, not one. This time they were all rotten, saggy and moldy.
Which brings me back to the douchebag featured in this pic. Rotten, saggy and moldy. Unsalvageable.
But hey, at least it brought back a fond memory of me and my dad.
Champagne Superdouchebag IV
Champagne Super-D, aka Michael J. Fox ‘Bag, received some love on the site last summer, and by love I mean pink Killers t-shirts. Check out his scrotey party ways
here here, and here.
Looking at those three pics in succession was like being punched in the face by a giant inflatable boxing glove. Filled with yak spittle. I feel dirty, cold, emotionally unfulfilled and spiritually bereft of direction. Or, for the cheap seats, like I have leeches attached to my ballsack.
And I’m not just posting this pic because the submitter is a total hottie model type who promised to hang with me when next she’s in L.A.
You bought that, right? That I didn’t post the pic to score brownie points with a hot model?
Yeah. You’re just saying that.
Sulu
I know what you’re thinking. See the Asian guy, go for the Sulu reference. But that’s not why I’m knighting Douche Sulu here with his moniker. Okay, yes it is partially why. But it’s also due to that disturbingly mutant “Shocker” gesture.
It’s the official Douche Vulcan “live long and rub up against hotties” gesture. And for that alone, Douche Sulu earns a place at the ‘bag table.
Exactly who is D.S. planning to “shock” with that gesture? Has Douche Sulu even seen a cervix before? Perhaps he parallels the real Sulu in more ways than one.
Chocolate Luv is an absolute milkshake of sweet perfection. Her perky hint of boobage goodness and plump shoulder send my spine into shivers of revelatory anticipation. Either that or I stepped on a fork.
Guns n' Assface
Axl Rose ‘Bag smirks up an unholy cloud of douchebaggery. Those black painted nails have definitely made prior appearances on the site, I can tell by the slightly acidic PH+8 balance of my throat bile. That level of acidity only happens in the presence of this metal wank.
That douchey mug could inspire The Sisters of the Calcutta Motherhouse to start punching orphans in the balls. It is that level of wrong.
That dark haired princess can Jennifer my Connolly any day of the week.
'Bag / Not a 'Bag
And while you’re meditating, ruminating and pondering your critical vote in the HCwDotW contest, toss another one at Scrotey Boy ‘bagling here. I can’t decide if the scrub brush hair and fact his face looks like the Narnia lion are enough to qualify him. The fact two sexy brussel sprouts are fondling him in strange and highly undeserving ways aren’t really enough to stamp him as an official ‘bag.
I go back and forth. I’m leaning no, since he’s not really demonstrating any actual ‘baggitude, but figured I’d throw it out on the floor and see what the verdict is.
HCwD of the Week: 'Bag Mysticism Edition
This may be one of the hardest weekly contests we’ve ever had here at HCwDB. Each pic offers its own unique pungency of hottie/douchey wrongess. Each of our three sexy lotus flower and rotting fetid fish combos brings forth unique aesthetic appreciations. Art critics celebrate their primitive foregrounding of sexual confusion and chaos. Aspiring Douchebags pilgrimage to witness their superior douchey/hottie wrongness in person from as far away as Coconut Grove.
This is not an easy choice fellow ‘bags, ‘bag hunters and hotties. Choose wisely. The fate of sixteen gallons of Tag Bodyshots and popped collar pink I-Zods hang in the balance. Study each pic. Consider the hotness. Consider the stomach churning wrongess. Which of these three reaches douche transcendence? That, my friends, is up to you.
But enough of your humble narrator’s ramblings. On to the finalists:
HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: The Dharma ‘Bag
There are certain pics where the hottie/douchey comingling is so righteously wrong, so transcendently unholy, that bathing in lysol can’t even cleanse the odor.
This is one of those times.
The Dharma ‘Bag journeys out of a lost Kerouac novel on 1950s douchebags and finds himself in the present day, using his spiritual douche transcendence to cause the hotties to swarm Dean Moriarity style to his earthly manifestation.
Someday 10th graders across this nation will be forced to read of the journeys of The Dharma ‘Bag, and write 3-5 page essays on it when they’d rather be playing basketball. Hang in there kids. College gets much much better.
But until that day when our education system comes to appreciate the alternative literary classics on the douchebag plague, it’ll only be here, at HCwDB.com, that we’ll examine the semiotic and linguistic ramifications of such an eastern Zen Douche Master as The Dharma here.
HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: Platoon aka Army of Scrote
It is rare that we get such a choice platter of douchitude all within one pic. Each iconic stereotype of the douche plague neatly represented and compartmentalized, as if we’ve ordered the PuPu Platter at Fei Ma Restaurant. Except the chicken wings and spare ribs in this PuPu Platter are actual Poo.
Yeah, I went for that joke. So sue me.
If Helen of Troy’s face were abs, that’s what they would look like. The Abs That Launched A Thousand Scrotes.
Hmm. I like that. I should write an epic novel with that theme.
HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Velveeta ‘Bag
Nothing says European mystical charm like an enormous upturned black collar, a velvet jacket, bizarre Euro-bling and the cut jawline of Guy Pierce prepping for his role in L.A. Confidouchebags.
Maria Von Trapp is bright bosomy goodness. The hills are alive with the sound of cleavite.
This creepy pairing almost doesn’t make me wonder why a giant glowing alien UFO is flying through frame.
So there you have it, kids. What’ll it be? Which of these three HCwDB pics are worthy of taking the next step into the upcoming HCwD of the Month smack-off?
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Married with Douchebag
I discovered Grand Marnier last night. Or five of them, if memory serves. And memory doesn’t serve. It’s more like a buffet line.
I’d never really done the “sweetened” drink stuff before. Now I know why. It’s like a hangover mixed with a sugar rush. My liver just hired Re/max to help with the move. Stupid liver, you ain’t going nowhere. Suck it up like a proper organ and deal with it.
Speaking of sucking it up like a proper organ, someone’s digestive tract has been unusually active over the past, say, ten years. I don’t know if Hank’s really a ‘bag per se, but he’s big and funny looking, and for a Sunday that’ll have to do. Not to mention his lime is stuck in his bottle’s neck. That’s gotta earn at least a few points on the douche scale.
And she’s got a sweet Christina Applegate thing going. So to Kelly Bundy Cutie, I toast my morning bowl of the ‘Charms and say challo to her big, big friend.
Scaroth
It’s almost inhuman.
I haven’t been this disturbed by a face since Doctor Who battled Scaroth, Last of the Jaguroth, in City of Death.
What, too obscure?
Simon and Douchefunkle
Hello doucheness my old friend…
I’ve come to rag on you again…
There comes a time in every scrotebag’s life when he must choose whether or not to bust the unearned dog tags, the 10 degree hat tilt, the douchey facial expression, and of course, the aviator glasses. Thinking, as every aspiring ‘bag does, that such accoutrement will summon the hottie to his dark sleazy flame, he makes that choice. He pulls that lever. He wanks that pud.
And… uhm…. it worked.
sigh
Dammit.
I would light bonfires in the dried cackle brush of the Serengeti until the smoke signals summoned the rare white tailed mongoose. I would then explain in graphic and lurid detail to that mongoose how much I’d like to lick a pair of black short-shorts with white trim. Sure the mongoose wouldn’t understand. But I would. I would.
