Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

The Gator for "Hall of Scrote"

I think it’s high time to promote The Gator to the Hall of Scrote.

And by high time, I mean douche time. And by douche time, I mean kicking Gator in the nads and doing the 6-boob bongo dance, which reached #12 on the charts back in ’92.

Megods. Look at this monstrosity of choad.

This pic crystallizes all that is the ephemeral about the cultural trainwreck of hottie/douchebaggy commingling. In what fair and just theological framework do women this hot congregate in the presence of one with Nerf football head, greased up shaven chest, and the low cut black garb worn by Zod in Superman II? Why, in hottie/douche land, of course.

I would nuzzle in Pink’s flesh pillows like a homeless sparrow seeking regurgitated food from its sparrow mother. Peep. Peep.

I put it to the floor.

Any objections to The Gator for the hallowed “Hall of Scrote” (found in the left-hand column by scrolling down), speak now, or forever hold your grease.

Or, better yet, use this thread to laud the genius of The Gator’s supreme douchebaggery. And by laud, I mean mock.

Wednesday Limerick

There once was a Rocker Douche named Jammin’,
Whose dreads smelled vaguely like salmon,
He trolled the high schools,
To find teenage jewels,
To get drunk like a poor Alabaman.

The Hovering VampireBag

Okay. There’s the Middle Finger Choadbag with annoying t-shirt and dog-tags. There’s the scrumptuous little pancake hottie that looks like the hot chick on “Crossing Jordan” if she were from, well, Jordan.

But I’m genuinely frightened by Creepy Hovering Window Vampirebag. It’s like the “I Buried Paul” of HCwDB.

The Vampirebag just takes this pic to the next level. There’s the proper hottie/douchey dual reactions of rage and attraction. But now with Supernatural Fear.

It’s a whole new ‘bag, baybee.

Ask DB1

Chris writes in with the following question:

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The Pink I-Zod (and its compatriot, The Pink Polo) does not in and of itself confer inherent douche status, but it is a warning sign of potential douchebaggery. Like the growl of the Amur Tiger of Uttar Pradesh or a hooker named Candii saying “Hi!” it presages potential disaster if you make the wrong choice.

Any popped collar, on the other hand, confers auto stage-1 douche status.

Without exception.

And Pink I-Zod Popped Collar reverberates across the douchological spectrum exponentially, scaring old ladies, causing milk to go bad and punching a really, really cute possum in the face.

Dante's Assferno

If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.

— Dante Alighieri

I looked in me for the root cause of our societal decay, Dante. But I still want to rent a condo inside of Brunette’s buttocks and move in for a fortnight.

— DB1

HCwDB of the Week: Velvet Jones

Despite a groundswell of cheer for the people’s princess, Ricky, Smmove Velvet Jones’s power of classic douche stench was far too much to overcome.

Velvet takes the weekly with ease.

Was it the bling? The Velvet? Or that heinous ‘stache? Or perhaps the other side of the equation? That smooth slice of strawberry goodness on his arm that makes you want to slam your head in a car door.

sir scrotesly makes the case:

Velvet has what may be the most dizzying array of ‘bag signifiers ever captured in one digital image.

He’s one mandana away from a complete sensory overload. And this made all the worse by the fact that he’s clutching a pouty-lipped pink ball of cleavite with eyes sensuous enough to cause even the proudest of homosexuals to feel an explosion of self-loathing.

Well said, my friend. All the classic douche/hott dialectics are present. douchetonic agrees:

Velvet Jones. Although I am very tempted to vote for Ricky, Velvet pulls through with the imitation-Dolomite image, an image I rarely see among D-Bags.

Excellent Dolomite reference, D.T. A long neglected film that deserves its place in the canon.

But the legend of Ricky may remain with us long past this Weekly. There are special Douchies I hand out to people like Ricky. So he may stay with us after all. Like a rash. On my groin.

As douchette1 puts it:

ricky! he’s all “sup?!” and hottie’s all turning away and going “NOOOO! don’t take my picture with this wanker!” and ricky’s still all “sup?!”

Yes. Yes he is. Or, as bcs puts it:

He is the Indiana nightclub version of Rudy. He is the everyday man, who somehow finds himself on a path to fornicating with greatness. Who are we to stop him?

I vote for him, not because he is a douche, but because there is a little Ricky inside of us all.

Indeed bcs, I think that’s Ricky’s pick-up line. “Would you like a little Ricky inside you all?” Or, as The Arch Douche eloquently put it:

Wherever I am, for as long as I live, Ricky will always be dancing behind me. It can’t be undone, so it must be mourned.

Yes he will, T.A.D. Just like a scrunt, use a mirror. But while Ricky came in second, and BOING! a disappointingly distant third, this is Velvet’s moment to shine, along with Strawberry Cheesecake. As Col. John “Hannibal” Douche wisely sums it up with a back to basics appeal:

How is this even a question. Velvet Jones. Hes a pro – the total package.

Yes. Yes he is. So pour yourself a frosty cold mug of the classy Colt 45 and toast Velvet’s pro-douche game, as well as Strawberry Cheesecake’s wondrous mounds of feminine signification.

They’re this week’s Weekly winner. And bringin’ their A-Game to the Monthly.

The Waxen Choad

She’s a little too Darryl Hannah for my tastes, but still possesses impressively enhanced child feeding ability.

He, however, is a Waxen Choad.

Normally one would assume that looking like a douched out version of Liza Minelli’s ex-husband and animated wax figurine, David Gest, would be a detriment to one’s goals of scoring a hott ball of boobie pie.

However we don’t live in normal times, now do we?

Porkpie

Listen up, Porkpie Steve Zahn. As much as I loved you when you came out of the closet in Winona Ryder’s integrity filled video doc in Reality Bites, the leather wristband? Lose it.

As to Gwynneth?

Some people dream of world peace.

Some people dream of ending global poverty.

I dream of tapping out Ringo Starr’s drum solo from The End on her lower clavicles with licorice drum sticks while butt grinding her hoop earrings and calling her “granmama… my granmama…” in a falsetto sing-song voice.

Uhm, yeah. I need help.

Doucheband of the Year: Buckcherry

Molten hot ‘Bagma writes in:

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Dear DB1:

Molten hot ‘Bagma
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Excellent work, MhB. This video just blasted me with cheap tatts and body odor mixed with Tag Bodyshots. There is no doubt this video is extreme douchosity and deserves our collective observation of its post-Kid-Rock festering swamp of trashbaggery.

Congratulations are in order for Buckcherry, you’ve just be crowned official anthem of Douche for 2007.

Expect an Honorary Douchie at the Douchie Awards in December.

(warning: video is NSFW)

Roadkill and Boobies

“Roadkill and boobies.”

Where have I heard that before? Either that was a classic album by Stevie Ray Vaughn, or it describes this pic.

His runover porcupine corpse on I-5. Her boobies of firm succulent early morning dew and honeysuckle glow.

Together. Roadkill and boobies.

Cue guitar solo.