HCwD of the Month
Well, it’s that time of month, and unlike that other time of month that involves you getting yelled at and ice-cream runs, this one is the douche-off of douche-offs. The ultimate ‘bag race. The whole Griecorama.
Yes, it’s the HCwD of the Month contest, where you, the reader, get to determine which pic of douchitude and hotness is truly unique in its combination of utter wrongness. Which pic makes you pick up a golf club and run screaming down the P.C.H. smashing in windows.
Yes, I know. All of them do.
But you have to pick one and only one and cast your vote in the comments section to this thread. Now if you’re too darn lazy to create a profile, you can vote anonymously, but be sure to add your reasons for voting and what tipped the scrote balance in the direction you chose.
HCwD of the Month #1: Disco Pilgrim
It’s definitely rare to find a ‘bag who actually emulates the cleavage on his date. That’s probably what put D.P. over the edge here. Not to mention two of the best legs I’ve seen since seafood night at the Sizzler.
Oh, and those stains on the jeans. What the hell is up with those jeans? I’ve known homeless mutant crack babies on crack who smoke a lot of crack who wear cleaner jeans.
HCwD of the Month #2: Spanky
A lot of confusion sprung up over Spanky’s apparent Arthur Ashe costume in what does not, on any level, appear to be a costume party. The Hendrix bandana doesn’t help his case, nor does his apparently greased up and shaved legs.
Blondie, one of the hottest ever to grace our digital pages, may have put Spanky over the top with her utter hotness. That cleavite is gold medal winning Betty Crocker Bakeoff hot.
HCwD of the Month #3: The Dung Beetle
Wow, I almost forgot about The Dung Beetle here. Now I’m slightly mad at myself that he’s reentered my consciousness on any level. This is one of those “I’d like to jab ice-picks into my face” pics, which if I ever followed through on that threat I’d… well… have jabbed a lot of ice-picks into my face.
Those sunglasses. That snarl. That G.I. Joe Kung-Fu Douche Grip.
And that blond ball of perfection.
It hurts, Johnny. It hurts.
HCwD of the Month #4: Labor Day ‘Bag
This pic is like the Bud Lite of HCwD pics. Or Coca Cola. It almost defines the brand. it’s so hottie/douchey on so many head exploding levels that it’s like the template for all things HC and DB.
The pink hat. The fungle on the face.
And abs I would hunt down and kill a Chilean Sea Bass for.
Megods that’s some hotness and scroteness just way to close for comfort.
This pic just makes me weep for humanity.
So there you have it people. Four shining examples of the best and worst of the HCwD combo. All four deserve our respect and future enshrinement in the Hall of Scrote, but for now they’re facing off against each other in a doucho-a-doucho smackdown event that should be on Pay Per View. So what say you? Which one gets to wear the hallowed crown, the “HCwD of the Month”?
No more Ween'Bag
Boo!!
Sorry folks, Ween’Bag wrote in and complained so I had to take that pic down. Not to mention the girls were apparently in high school, even though the alcohol fooled me into thinking it was a college pic. Damn, they sure didn’t look highschool.
So instead, I give you this Shocked out scrote to end your Halloween festivities. No hotties in this one. But a glass of ice cold Pepsi-Cola.
And who doesn’t love a glass of ice cold Pepsi-Cola?
'WeenBag
PIC DELETED
Okay kids, before you go trick-or-treating, make sure you toast your Mike-n-Ike Fun Paks to bandana boy here, a true ‘ween bag for the Hallow’s Eve.
Yes, faced with the fantastic fact that hotties dress like total sluts on Halloween, ‘WeenBag instead prefers to star vacantly into the camera. Even with the best child bearing thighs I’ve seen since my last trip to Tuscany staring him in the face.
And hotties, if you dress like slutty princesses, half naked cats, or french maids tonight, I have one thing to say to you… god bless you. And I’ll take the “treat.” To go.
Head
I don’t know how douchebaggy this dude is, he just sort of looks happy to be there, but man alive is that a big forehead. I could land planes on that thing.
The head puns run through my mind, yet I must resist…
He’s a fan of the book, “How to Get ahead in Advertising.” Stop it. Head on, apply directly to the douchebag. Enough. If he studies hard he’ll get a good headucation. His favorite director is Head Wood.
That’s it. I quit.
Great.
Where's Waldouche: Halloween Edition
Boo!
Happy Halloween fellow hotties, ‘bags and ‘bag hunters.
For your treat, I’ve hidden a total and complete douchebag somewhere in this pic filled with Halloween Hotties. Can you find him?
Speaking of Halloween Hotties, when did halloween became a chance for sexy little things to suddenly dress as porn-star slutty as humanly possible and have it be completely socially acceptable? And who can I thank for making up that rule?
Classic 'Bag Sandwich #523
I apologize for subjecting you to this so early in the morning. Please don’t be mad at me. But I can’t tell if the Backstreet Boys let themselves go or if Scrote’s Anonymous got out early. I thought of a number of names for these two wankers but then I got hungry and made myself breakfast.
But it’s vital that we sear our eyeballs every day with the pain of our societal scrote. To study the douchebag in its natural habit so we can learn from our communal tragedy and perhaps change course. Maybe we can hunt down those ‘bags still in the wild like Double-Fisty here, and his partner, Look At My Shaved Chest and Dimples. And at least rescue their hotties.
There’s one thing for certain in this crazy mixed up world. That gorgeous slice of turkey in the middle could freeze vodka. I love her. I’d marry her and let her divorce me and take half my money. She’s my soul mate. For at least the next fifteen seconds I will dream of spending the rest of my life with her. Then I will move on to the next pic.
Death Metal and Skinny Hot
The last time I saw this ‘bag I was aiming my laser gun at his forehead while playing “The House of the Dead” in the lobby of the Loews discount movie theater on 52nd Street and 9th Ave in the mid 90s. I’m still pissed about having to pay 75 cents to play that game. Although blowing off this undead scrote’s head was worth any amount of quarters.
I’m not sure that that facial hair is human. Busting the “death metal t-shirt + sportscoat” look has to qualify for uberdouche status. And look at how he holds that drink. It’s wrong. So terribly wrong.
Blondie’s skinnyness makes me see and appreciate bulimia in a whole new light.
Sir Douche-a-lot
All hail Sir Douche-a-lot, King of all Scrote!
Slaying dragons and saving hottie maidens wherever he may go, Sir Douche-a-lot has no need for armor or fancy clothes. His simple untucked white shirt and old-man-in-Miami
shorts simply work to conceal his enormous power in an aura of pathetic and weak k-mart douchitude.
But Sir Douche-a-lot is not to be trifled with. He hides behind the clothes of the Kathy Lee Gifford ‘Bag product line to belie his powerful presence and kingly demeanor.
So bow! Bow to Sir Douche-a-lot!
I see you’re still fooled by the extensive facial pubes and sub-Supercuts Flowbee haircut. Sir Douche-a-Lot cares not for outward appearances. Sir Douche-a-lot simply lets his scrote do the talking.
And what tales that scrote can tell. What fables those balls can spin. Listen closely for Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrotum sings the poems and fables of ancient lands where douchitude runs free and hotties are Bleethed out beyond all recognition.
Listen.
Listen to Sir Douche-a-lot’s scrote. For it weaves a magic tapestry of rhythmic delights and eternal longing. Of years of fruitless quest and loneliness and isolation. Of unchanged underwear.
He is Sir Douche-a-lot. And he is saluting you right now in ways you can not, and would prefer not, see. Hail to his kingly presence once and for all! Lest he pull his sword from its stone. And believe me, that’s not a pretty sight.
Pravdouche
I’m not sure when twelve year olds with mutant ears are allowed to cuddle with three Soviet hotties as absolutely perfect as these three. But I do know Carlsberg Boy hasn’t had it this good since he won his Junior High Halo II tourney, beating Chet, Bradley and Scooter. You go, Master Chief.
I would read Marx and contemplate the inadequacies of hegemony simply to fondle their bikini tops in inappropriate ways. They would break me, Ivan Drago style. I would embargo their Cuban Missiles. I would Gorbechev their Yeltsins. I would vodka their Dostoyevsky.
The Helmet
There are douchebags. There are uber-douchebags. There’s Pat. And there’s Helmet. Helmet performs the Triple Lindig of douche, engaging in ‘bag hand gesture #17, ‘bag face gesture #4, and ‘bag mouth toothpick variation #A53. Toss in douche glasses and only the lack of popped collar prevents scrote orbit from being achieved.
Oh yeah. I forgot.
The hottie. Who is super smoking fantastalicious. I know what you’re thinking. “DB1 said this about other hotties.” And I have. And I will again.
And I’m saying it now.
I would scramble eggs on her stomach, and make a pot of chai tea. She is butter stick hot. Pancakes sexy.
Mmm… time to hit up Ihop for the rutty tooty fresh and fruity. Yup. My life is pathetic.
