Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Classic HCwDB: The Oompa Prompas

I know there’s no reason to run this pic again. But it’s hilarious. So lets enjoy.

The Oompa Prompas first hit the site last year in a candid capture as they nervously waited in prom-line, and then this genius pic of the Prompas oranging out with their dates arrived last October. It wasn’t long before they earned a coveted spot in our hallowed Hall of Scrote.

But I just had to post it again. I mean, look at this.

AIEEEEE!!!

Sorry. That was a tiny part of my soul dying.

The Prompas just never get old, do they? And by old, I mean less orange.

Benny's Night Out

Good for Benny.

It’s tough spending all your day working the T-Mobile kiosk at the mall. Handling all those old ladies. Spending your half hour lunch break in the food court wolfing down a hot dog on a stick and a lemonade.

Sometimes you just gotta put on your best plastic shirt, your sexxy “virility” necklace you bought in Jamaica, and mack on the barely legals.

Friday Thoughts: Chug Life

I have nothing profound to offer up this week, other than my recent meditations on the boobie hottie suckle thigh.

The boobie hottie suckle thigh are many, but they are also one. They are the female confused by male douchebaggery. The young perky thing who knows not why she allows the simian greasewank to fondle her roughly.

She privileges Chug Life because Chug life embodies the televisual overwhelm. She is confused, and his spectacle confuses.

But Chug Life is simply culturally constructed illusion. Chug Life is, how you say, a tool.

Once we pull back the digital curtain, he’s just a pale-ass choad with a stupid tattoo.

And so we mock, as another rotation spins us into evening.

I crack my PBR and tip it to Big Sarge and every other ‘bag hunter and hunterette who sees the cultural douchecay. And who mocks with irreverent wit and hopeful rumination.

Bagwatch Nights

Another solid week of submissions, props to all who sent in emails of hott/douche wrongness.

Monday’s Monthly should be a tough vote, although the early line in Vegas is Bra!! 2:1.

I’m sitting on my floor enjoying a tasty Trader Joes Blood Orange Soda and reflecting on whether this Beach Haiku group is Joey Porsche related, or just so greasy I can’t tell the difference.

Hard to say. But I do know this.

Boobs.

In “HCwDB in the News” updates, the site was featured on the following French site here (NSFW). Given “douche” is French for “shower,” I’d imagine there’s some confusion over there. Those wacky French. First Foucault, then this.

Props to mc 900 foot douchebag for noting in the comments threads that HCwDB made it into the pages of Metro New York.

Also emails are pouring in that HCwDB legend, The Gator (new pic), has a character in Grand Theft Auto IV based on his preening douchery. My first question in response, “Can you kill him?” Sadly, no. But you do get to mock him, apparently. Props to the GTA guys if they really did base a character on this HCwDB Hall of Scrote mainstay, and 2007 Irving Thallbag Douchie Award Winner.

Phantastic

Seriously, Phan, I get that you want to break out of classic Asian stereotypes and prove that you’re more than a Princeton attending math major who can’t drive very well.

I can support that.

Asian stereotypes are damaging and unfair, and other than in 1980s John Hughes movies (where they’re genius), have no place in a civil society.

But must you prove your stereotype shattering ways by grabbing annoyed Amazonian blonde hotts in clubs? Surely there are other ways to improve the discourse. This method only renders your tie-under-silk-shirt look even sillier.

The Woo Playah

And lo, in the hour betwixt the witching and the dawn, there shall come a Playah by the name of Woo.

And the wrongness shall spread to all corners like a gaseous fungus, lest it be stopped by extensive mocking on the internets.

— Nostradouchemas, 1563

Friday Haiku

Beach, waves, heat sparkles,
Ocean water crests like milk,
Grease Douche proves no God.

Eight sundrenched boobs
shoes keep sand off greasy feet
wristband is so cool

— the grateful douche

Greazy douche drips oil
Let me grab a bucket quick
My car’s a quart low

– maximus douchemus meridius

They say there’s a ‘bag
for every grain of sand
not hard to believe

— k-dog

Summer is coming
Living in New Jersey sucks
Shoes on the beach, die.

— hopscloud

Big day at the beach
Sippin’ Windex and hangin’
With rolling grease waves

— mr. white

Thug Life: Suburbia

Because it ain’t easy survivin’ on the mean streets of Decatur, Illinois.

Lord of the Liprings

It took awhile to decipher the actual Elvish translation of the tattoo on this Hobbit’s upper chest, but it reads: One Lip Ring to Drool Them All.

Not the cleverest reference on a Thursday, but your humble narrator on all things douchey/sexy, The DB1, is battling a killer Night Train hangover. So Lord of the Rings references it is.

Reader Mail: Big Sarge

Big Sarge writes in all the way from his furlough in Iraq to weigh in on the use of army gear in the clubs:

—-
DB1 —

Big Sarge
—–

Well put, Big Sarge, and glad to hear they hook you guys up with PBRs over there.

What you’re describing is another horrifying facet of the douchescrote’s attempt to construct his masculinity through store-bought image construction rather than authenticity or grounding in “the real.” Appropriating military icons devoid of context are simply another option on their palette of douchal selection.

It could just as easily be 80s punk insignias like mohawks and bomber jackets as it could be military dog-tags made by Armani, or stylized crypto-fascist jack boots — to the doucheface, it’s all just grist for the mill.

Simply recoding the charged icons of authenticity into media-age performative spectacle in the hopes of landing the boobie hott.

Get back here safe and sound Big Sarge, and I’ll keep mocking the scrotewanks over here trying to use your insignias as a marketing strategy to cash in and score some tail while you’re away. And when you get back, punch one in the nads. For me.