The Douchies: Scariest Scrote
This a vote for those HCwD pics that illicit pure horror and fear. So this isn’t “scary” in the sense of a horrifying White Chocolate pic. We’ll have another category for that type of fear/revulsion. This is the Horror ‘Bag category of the Douchies.
Without further ado, the nominees are…
Scariest Scrote Nominee #1: Old No. 7
A classic HCwD from last summer, I would like to reiterate that Old No. 7 is a class act, a scholar and a gentleman who is by no means a douchebag on any level whatsoever.
Please do not break me in half, Cro ‘Bagnon Man.
Scariest Scrote Nominee #2: Wake Up!!
Holy crap, this ‘bag goes beyond ordinary creepiness into another level of scrotery. But I do love this wholesome tomato. She’s corn-fed Midwestern goodness.
This pic makes no sense. Which makes it a glorious contribution to the HCwD canon.
Scariest Scrote Nominee #3: The Angry ‘Bag
Maybe Angry ‘Bag doesn’t quite create the visceral horror of the other two pics, but he’s frightening in his own right, and he’s protecting quite the little ball of hot wax with his angry gaze. Plus he’s got hair issues and a sweat stain that frighten children like Michael-Jackson-Nose.
While it’s true that this creepy knob may not be on the stomach churning level of the other two pics, lets also not forget his absolutely fantastic hottie.
Oh hell, I’m stretching. I couldn’t find a pic to live up to the other two but I needed a third to round out the category.
So here you go. Douchie Award voting is open…. now.
Scariest Scrote Nominee #4: The Warthog
EDIT: Crap, I can’t believe I forgot The Warthog. Dammit, I knew sorting throw all the pics of the last year was going to be tough. If anyone’s already voted and wants to redo their vote for this Planet of the Hog, do so in the comments thread.
Damn, I forgot how fantastic a pic this is. It’s like being punched in the face, and yet I like it. Must be the grey plastic sportscoat and American flag bandana.
The Douchies: Lifetime Douchievement Award, Richard Grieco
Skeezier than even that other contender for the source-douche crown, Micky Rourke’bag, The Grieco’s overwhelming power of douchosity ripples and refracts across all corners of the pop culture spectrum.
From the early 1990s with his bling, facial pubes and bizarre t-shirts, The Grieco set the standard by which all other douchebags only hope to live up to.
He scrotes with the power of a thousand nuclear suns.
He is the Source.
He is the Origin.
He is The Holy Douche by which all others are measured. Do not doubt Him. For He has powers of ‘baggery you can’t even begin to fathom.
Let us all bow our heads on this Christmas Day and solemnly hand out our very first Douchey Award for Lifetime Douchievement to the ur-scrote Himself, Richard Grieco. Come let us a-douche Him.
I feel humbled merely being in His greasy presence. I am touched by His ‘baggery. Remember kids, every time a Grieco rings, a douchebag gets his bling.
Douchemas Eve
‘Twas the night before douchemas,
and all through the house,
not a scrotebag was stirring,
not even this hairy sleeveless shirt wearing tool.
Okay that’s it on the poem, there’s no way I’m attempting the next seven verses when I feel like I’ve been kicked in the head by too many Rolling Rocks. Can’t get a Rolling Rock on the West Coast so gotta stock up and abuse the liver while I’m here.
This sweet reindeer won’t survive long. Note the Izod with collars about to pop up like a hungry titmouse on Christmas morn.
Yeah, I just analogized a collar to a titmouse. Because it’s the holidays. And when I’m looking at a mustachioed tool like this oval headed Village Person, I can do that.
I do appreciate anyone who wears the Snake Plissken shirt, tho.
Merry Christmas!! And to all a ‘bagless and hottie filled night.
The Twelve 'Bags of Christmas
At first I was gonna do a twelve post daily countdown of the twelve ‘bags of Christmas, but that would entail all sorts of conceptual breakdowns of HCwD ‘baggery along metaphorical lines (what exactly is a douchebag in a pear tree, anyways?).
So instead you simply get this pic.
With three douchebags instead of twelve.
But how much do you want to punch ‘bag hand gesture #113? What is that, anyways? A “Westside”? A distorted “Shocker”? Or just confirmation that aqua-blue silk zoot suits can not hide the soul of a scrote?
As for the two knobs fondling inflatable santa, that’s all you two choads are gonna get this Christmas. Inflatable Santa ass.
Pizza 'Bag
A guy walks into a bar.
The bartender says, “Hey, wanna see a picture of a total and complete douchebag oozing scrote over a group of cute little college cuties?”
The guy says, “Sure!”
The bartender pulls out this pic.
And they both spontaneously burst into flames and die.
Hey, so I’m not the best joke teller. Maybe it’s in the delivery.
May your Christmas weekends be ‘bag free and full of pure, uncut hotness. And may you avoid creepy stalkerbags like that weird dude in the back left of the pic. I don’t even want to know what kind of toys are in that kid’s closet.
Hot Dog: The Douchebags
All we need to make this pic a complete journey into the darkest depths of the douche ski patrol is dancing monkeys flinging poo. Or perhaps we already have that in this pic. I started to count the wrong, but once I hit the combo revelation of that rarest of species, the fantastus assicus attempting to grapple with that most common of fungii, the scumbagus douchebagus, my head Buckaroo Bonzaid into the 8th dimension with headache inducing speed.
It’s bad enough broken wristed ski-bag is attempting to fondle that tall stalk of corn. But toss in a pucca shell tonguebag more interested in a flashing digital camera than the round perfection below him, and you have the perfect pic to cause the entire HCwD fanbase to collectively slam their heads into their monitors on a Friday afternoon.
Please, do not go Peter Gibbons on this PC Load Letter. It’s not worth it.
Santa 'Bagging
With Christmas rapidly approaching, I thought I would share a heartwarming tale of attempted douchebaggery brought to us by our very own Douchestar Runner, who put on the Santa outfit as his means of engaging a stage-1 ‘bag strategy to meet the hotties. Gotta give him points for originality. Not too many ‘bags running around using the highly unusual “Santa Strategy.” Especially Presbyterian Ministers on the make.
As DR recounts the tale:
Friday night my roommate and I have his brother and our mutual friend from high school over at our place for good old boozing. My roomie’s bro arrives carrying two Santa costumes because he and his brother are going to an event called “SantaCon” (which is held in Manhattan every year) the next morning. It’s an all day affair where several hundred Santas roam all over Manhattan getting drunk and causing all kinds of debauchery. My buddy from high school–who happens to be a Presbyterian minister–shows up, and with very little convincing he and roomie’s bro start getting into the Santa suits because we are going to hit the local bar. My roommate and I tell them–“c’mon, Santa ALWAYS gets laid!”
So we put the two Santas in the backseat of my huge ’62 Pontiac and we drive down to the bar and park right in front in order to cause the biggest scene. We aren’t in the bar for 2 minutes when these chicks come over to have their pictures taken with the Santas.
And there you have it. Trouble is–wouldn’t ya know it–these chicks were with some total douchebags, complete with elbow tats and cigs behind the ears, who were NOT enjoying all the attention we were getting in the bar. Unfortunately I didn’t get any pics of them–we were probably very close to a fight just by being in there.
–DR
Nice try, DR. Santa’Bagging is only a stage-1 ‘bag strategy. Looks like tribal tats, gel and bling beat a Santa suit any day of the week.
Friday Haiku
Silky, preening knob,
Shaved chest, existential quake,
‘Bag headlock, doves cry.
Popeye
There’s been a noted lack of popped collars on the site lately and I am to correct that with this pic. Which is kind of like turning on a light by setting off a neutron bomb. This exploding light-blue ball of popped “L.A. Looks” Tag body O.D.ing poppy seed is a nice way to wake myself up on a Friday by punching myself in the conceptual nutsack.
This little chicklet has taken her first step down the dark road of ‘baggery with her sadly cute attempt at a tonguebag pose and fondling of Popeye’s poppedness. Like a toddler taking her first tentative steps, she is dipping her toe in the douche pool. We are witnessing one of the earliest stages of a Grieco infection right here.
I’m thinking we need a Jerry Lewis telethon.
Train Wreck
‘Bag Rule #06: If you’re wearing a conductor hat and Liberace garage sale sunglasses, your ur-douche power is beyond source douche to an almost Grieco level of luminosity.
Observe this douche sun-God’s unholy power taking out two hotties and rendering them instant stage-4 Bleethers. Very sad.
This turd reminds me of a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em robot, scrote style. I want to click-punch his head until it pops up.
As to the long lost hotties, they may have gone down the dark road of douchitude, but man alive I’d munch on that yellow bikini-top with a nice strawberry topping.
