HCwDB of the Month
Yes kids, it’s that time of month. Since the genius of Peaches has already made the Hall of Scrote, Peaches need not lend his sloping caveman brow, his fixed stare, and his Zen Douche powers of unbroken point concentration to the Monthly’s festivities.
Instead we have four worthy servings of corn meal douche and the hotties that roll them on wax paper and bake for twenty minutes at 350 degrees. Four frozen digital images of a culture gone horribly wrong, a wasteland of confusion, hair gel, and most importantly, tatas I’d motorboat like a sumabitch.
Yes, it’s early on a Monday morning, and the DB1 hasn’t had his coffee to kill last night’s hangover. So without further ado, I give you your four Monthly finalists:
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Meet Joe Douche
What more can be said about Z-list celebrities attempting to score youthful balls of cotton hott while busting gel induced side-overs with their receding hairlines? A lot, actually. I could make fun of Joe Douche until the cows actually did come home. And by cows I mean hotties.
The genius of the orangutan head, the sideways hand gesture and the douche-face all contribute to the DB1’s deep depression that can only be treated with extensive doses of cheap alcohol.
The hotties have that stern taskmaster quality that always makes my toes tingle with glorious anticipation. Like they’re about to slap my outer thigh with a ruler and tell me God hates me for fondling myself. What can I say? I dig on dominatrix chickas. Don’t count out Joe Douche as a Monthly winner. He’s got the glow, got the glow, got the glow. He’s the last Douche-Dragon.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: King Douchuous IV
All hail the King of Scrotuousness. And by hail, I mean mock mercilessly, then drool over the pushed together Bed, Bath and Beyond skin pillows directly to Douchuous the IV’s left.
I would take my time loving each and every one of these gorgeous blond party girls in deep, nihilistic and existential ways. Just like Alvy Singer, while the Ph.Ds in the other room discussed modes of alienation, I would be in here, quietly humping.
After I stripped King Douchuousness of his power and exiled him to the island of St. Helena, that is.
What a silly douched out uberscroad King Douchuous is. It’s not that I’m ragingly jealous of the king. I just want to sew up the rip in his jeans with poison ivy, then honk polka-dot’s bumper like a clown horn.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: The Trainwreck and Snuggles
The odds-on favorite in this week’s contest, The Trainwreck not only introduced us to the new douche-position of The Doggie ‘Bag, but offered us a surreal cacaphony of imagery that rivals and echoes Salvador Dali’s famous self portrait photograph.
Toss in Snuggles, the Fabric Softened Hot Chick, and this is one hell of an overwhelming HCwDB pic. Probably borderline Hall of Scrote in its own right. And by right I mean wrong. And by wrong I mean douchey.
Which just confirms the high quality of submitted pics over the past month. Which reconfirms that I need to stop sitting around on my floor and drooling over pink perfect derrières in pixelated frozen form and at least hit the gym once in awhile. Stupid gut.
Stupid Trainwreck. Nice douche bandana. Nice douche wristdana. Nice douche-face. Nice douche everything.
You piss me off in new and profound ways, Trainwreck. And that’s impressive indeed.
HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Lei Hotties and the Puberchoad
What can be said about three sexy extremely feminine cuties in grass skirts? Not much. What can be said tossing in a younger brother dropping trou to douche up the pic with his scrotey charms? A lot more.
Add in his grinny best friend Potzie clutching his beer but still able to slip in the rare ‘bag hand gesture #301 (the pinky finger drop), and all the elements come together for award winning cleavitey/doucheyness.
Also, blonde on the left wants me. I know I say that about a lot of cuties, but this time I can tell. It’s not all a deluded and extensive fantasy narrative I’ve constructed out of one glance. A glance that wasn’t even at me, but at a camera, which I’ve now projected my notion of the self into as a form of Lacanian mirror stage echo via the simulacrum. She still wants me.
I can tell. She knows she wants me.
Okay, lest my fantasies get any more absurd, I’m turning the floor over to you, the reader. Which one of these four Weekly winners combines the most toxic combination of innocent young boobaliscious flowers and greased up mackchoad halibuts?
Rage, rage against the douching of the blight.
Let your sloping brow lose all expression as you reach out and point at one of these pics to win the Monthly. Don’t just do it for yourself. Do it for Peaches. Do it for Fish Slap. Do it for all previous winners who need a worthy winner to join them in the hallowed circle of Monthly winners.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
