Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Soc says, Happy New Years!

One of the first breakout doucherstars here at HCwDB, Socrates — legendary thinker/philosopher of all that is ‘bag, wanted to drop by and wish you all an oil free and hottie filled New Years.

Soc doesn’t look up to his usual scrotey standards anymore. Either that, or our ‘bag hunting skills have gotten so much stronger since he first made an appearance on this site. To paraphrase The Dude, how can we go back to the family farm after seeing the Gator?

Then again, Soc’s hair is prepped into a linear X-Y-Z graph, ready for charting economic growth and international trade patterns in 2008.

Your humble ferryman on our collective journey through societal rot, The DB1 is planning a lovely evening of Manhattan debauchery for the New Years.

I will charm Downtown Soho Hotts with tales of adventures on the far seas battling gel pirates while saving the Vivian Girls in the Realms of the Unreal.

I will dazzle them with Ricky Jay inspired card tricks that I learned from a drunken merchant during my travels on a spice ship off the Madagascar flats.

Then drool on their ample cleavage while passing out at 2am and crying out for my lost stuffed panda, “Pandy,” that I left behind at a Toys R’ Us back in 1983.

I Heart Huckabag

And by heart, I mean laugh at.

I’m not sure whether Jason Schwartzbag really annoys on any level, or is just a clown. Then again, white belt.

White belts fray my soul. Like fishermen hunting the coelacanth. It is ancient, and wrong.

But I do love Angular Cheekboned Swede with the power of a Nordic Viking funeral. Yes, her push-up halter top is ill fitting and mushy. But making saline mashed potatoes is not something to be simply dismissed as edgy fusion cuisine from the downtown New York boobie scene.

I present for dessert: The most suckable hip bone on the menu.

The Cat Eyed Hott and Three Turtle Turds

If, in your journeys this New Year’s Eve, you come across a cat eyed minx being polluted on all sides by douche-faced chin-pubed fratknobs, do what it is that I do.

Mutter angrily, and sip your gin and tonica.

She is a pixie stick of sugary purple sugar powder that I’d wash down with a Jolt soda outside the 7-11. Because sugar is good.

Ted, The Drunk Freeloading Roommate

I’m convinced there’s an elaborate backstory behind this pic. It involves smuggling armadillo furs through the rebel territories of upper Paraguay, a small cache of microfilm, and a Russian model-turned-assassin, Natasha.

But that could be me. Projecting.

It’s probably just a couple of frat puds and a sexy little Cro-Hottnon, bored, on a Thursday afternoon in the frat house.

Either way, that’s a suckable inner thigh on the Hottnon.

And then there’s Ted, the drunk freeloading roommate, wandering in. Close the door, Ted. Che Guevarbag thinks he’s got a shot.

Swing Lohan

And while we’re treading into celebutant waters, if John Mayer still isn’t clear on the concept of douchebaggery, here’s Exhibit A.

Chin pubes. Smirk. Yankee insignia as claim to “urban” ethos. Shocker hand gesture. And dating a celebrity former hott so polluted by exposure to douchebaggery, she now looks vaguely like Dirk Nowitzki.

Abstract ill-defined concept?

Methinks not.

It is this unholy putrid lamb turd and his former hott, personified as crystalline clear specificity.

John Mayer Is Still a Douchebag

Folk singing emo turd John Mayer has made an entry on his blog about the word “douchebag.”

In this entry, dated 12/26, Mayerdouche seeks to subvert any attempts to hoist him on the petard of his own uberdouche by preempting the word using ironic meta-commentary.

This strategy is common among the rocker douches. Embrace their douche, then hope their annoying antics are innoculated from ‘bag deconstruction.

Not so fast, Mayerbag. Any faux-emotional tool who sings a song called “Your Body is a Wonderland” has tread into Michael Bolton douchebaggery. And any attempts to backdate such douchal spew with retrofit irony must be met with a swift and decisive response.

I am that response.

That foot is me.

First, Mayer attempts to claim that he is only one of a large number of musicians who have been tagged with the proverbial “douchebag” term. Mayer writes:

And “douchebag” was on the vinegary tips of everyone’s tongues this year. Trouble is, I’m not really clear on what it means, and I don’t know that anyone does. I know that I get called one. Pete Wentz from Fallout Boy, by measure of a google search, is a douchebag 11,100 times over, or the number of results that the search engine says exist. Zach Braff, who himself wrote one of the better films I’ve seen in the last decade is also frequently ‘bagged, as is some guy named Brody Jenner.

Poor John Mayer.

Tagged unfairly by a group smear using a trendy word. Unclear on the term, and the victim of a rash of driveby “douchebag” terms along with a number of talented individuals. Like Zach Braff and… Brody Jenner.

Nicely played, Mayerdouche. Who can argue with the Brody Jenner example?

Mayer’s whine continues:

Are you as confused as I am as to what the common denominator of douchiness is? Is it someone that comes off obnoxious? Self aggrandizing? Ignorant? Or is it just someone who exists out of another person’s comfort zone? And doesn’t that account for almost everyone in the world, celebrity or otherwise?

The common denominator is a preening male tool who presents a false spectacle to dazzle and confuse a female into thinking he is an object of cultural desire. In other words you, guitar hero. What’s so hard to get?

Mayerscrote whines on:

Ohhhhh…OR…is being a douchebag actually all about having a bigger smile than someone else deems you deserve to in life?

No. It’s not that at all. It’s not jealousy, and your response is the equivalent of “talk to the hand.” You’re getting called out for your falseness, your spectacle, Mayerdouche. It’s not about a word. It’s about you.

Mayer concludes his defense of douchebaggery with the following:

Maybe I should take this opportunity to define douchebag once and for all; I think if enjoying your life as you choose happens to spill over into treating others without respect, then you’re a total, world-class douchebag.

“Respek” isn’t what defines douchebaggery, Mayerchoad. Nor does “enjoying your life.” Brad Pitt doesn’t get called a douchebag, just as Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole. There is confidence, and there is douchebaggery.

There are musicians, and then there are no talent hacks running around with Jessica Simpson to Teen Choice Awards afterparties.

There are talented rock stars, and guys who sing falsetto three chord odes to running through the halls of their high schools.

You aren’t a major douche, Mayer. More on the minor annoyance scale. But your clubgoing buy-in to the no talent Hollywood party scene, the TMZ spectacles, the fame-without-talent auditions, the herpfests with Jessica Simpson and the Lohan/Hilton clown-shows, render any claim you have to non-douchebaggery to be laughable at best.

You are the musical Brody Jenner, Mayer. You strum a chord and have long hair, and are in the middle of your five year run. Good on you.

But don’t claim with detached irony to be so world weary as to not understand why people call you out for your Hollywood douchebaggery. You are every bit the preening tool with delusions of grandeur about whatever modicum of talent you managed to cash in on.

There is a reason people call you douche. It isn’t some catch-all term that needs defining. It is the essence of the performative spectacle of preening male pseudo-celebs in the age of internet culture. It is the defining characteristic of those men clawing their way to the top within a media saturated car crash spectacle of internet fueled viral “fame.”

You buy in hook line and sinker. You date Jessica Simpson, douche up the hair, hit the party scenes, and then whine when people call you out about it? Please.

It’s not the word that needs further definition, Mayer. It’s your personality.

Put down the gear, jump off the Lohan party circuit, and write a song that isn’t about getting laid or your high school, that has poetry and art to it, and we’ll talk. You produce some great art, and there’s a lot of leeway granted if you want to douche it up on the side. Until then, you’re a douchebag.

Friday Haiku

Holiday week slow,
Yet shirtless fools grease onward,
So I mock Vinnie.

Jesus bling sparkles
sends hott’s eyes rolling backwards
douche has a chick’s ring.

— the douche is alright

Bring Malibu back
For another “excellent
Hit” on this jerkoff.

— douche of new york

Where can a bag go
where no shirt is accepted?
No dress code, no taste.

— d. baggins

Vinnie loves Christmas
Magical time of the year:
“Day the Bling was Born”

— squatch

Oh sweet prince of peace.
Why have thou abandoned me,
For this greasey chest?

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Jamie-Lynn's Baby Daddy

I don’t know if this white trash surfer douche has a name. All I know is if you impregnate a 16 year old, you are a heaping flame pile of scrote.

And I rendered that judgment before I saw that sunglasses and puka-shell look.

Trying to Cash (Warren) in using your little spermies as your investment strategy is beyond uberdouche. Even Joey Porsche wears a jimmy hat.

So for knocking up a child, even one as cursed by bad genes and atrocious parenting as Britney Jr. is, you get an Honorary Douchebag of the Month award, toolface.

Someday, someone will kick your ass outside the back of the Hamburger Hamlet where you work. And on that day, God will chuckle.

Old Yeller

Fetch, Old Yeller, fetch!!

Good boy.

Now papa’s gonna take you out back and shoot ya while little Travis cries.

Nothing personal. It’s the chin pubes.

Old Cactus Head

Oh, Old Cactus Head! What wacky hijinks did you get into this time?

She is a chain link leather fence of my love. Her pouty vacant stare says, “I do not poo.”

I know that, Brunette Sex Spirit of the Netherworld. You cannot poo. Poo does not exist in your perfect, clean poo-free world.

You haunt my waking hours with your otherness. Your boobies strain against leather boundaries to simply say hi.

“Hi.”

Hi boobies straining against leather fishnet.

“How are you?”

I’m fine. How are you?

“Pretty good.”

That’s good.

“Yeah, I know.”

Me, too.