Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

One-Pac

Oh Tiny Dancer Hott, with your dual Ubiquitous Red Cup action, your New Wave Tie and your hint of pokey red satin bra.

Be warned.

What lurks in the night is not a monster from your darkest childhood fears.

What lurks in the night is actually some goofy-ass white suburban fratchoad wearing the douchiest manifest of all — the 2-Pac Shirt underneath the partially removed football jersey.

I repeat: White Guys in 2-Pac shirts with partially removed football jerseys. Douche 4 Eva.

And with tumbler in wristdanna’d hand, One-Pac will come for you. So beware his chin-pubes, Tiny Dancer. For they are very tickley.

Oh yeah, and his friend Frank came, too. But no one pays attention to Frank.

The Lumpy Cheesecloth

Does anyone have an eye-gouger and a retroactive memory erasure device on them? My corneas and psyche have both been irreparably singed.

He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks: Summer Poet

And while you mull your vote in the Weekly, here’s a small advance sample from HCwDB poet emeritus He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks‘ upcoming poetry book, “I Once Had a Thing For Brunettes”:

(cue bongos)

—-
Bad kissers turn me off.

Pretty much I’m the f@#king man and if you hear other wise it’s cuz they jealous I’m doin my thang while they suckin that d@#k of envy.
—-

HCwDB of the Week

There was much to choose from over the past two weeks while culling down the finalists. But this was also a breakthrough week for multimedia HCwDB.

There was both the brilliant I’m a Big Douche at the Scottsdale Bars YouTube, as well as the audio grease that is the Legendary Pickup Artist Scrotebag, Dimitri.

Methinks both are in line for 2008 Douchie Awards at the Douchies in December. It’s Monday morning, and while the DB1 nurses a nasty hangover, here’s your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Gunter and Klaus

These two European chest shavers suggest all that is wrong in Bratwurst, while Sister Christian suggests all that is future Soccer Mom Hott in Scottsdale.

But for G&K, something in their smug expression just reeks of prune.

And the daring attempt by Gunter to affect the Patented Peaches Point deserves an additional serving of powdered scorn.

At fist I was worried that the Hott was a bit too nice girl to inspire lustful thoughts, but the more I stare, the more I’d gnaw some beef chaw just for the chance to spittoon some gak in the Old West near her great grandmother’s former cattle ranch.

Or something like that.

Hey, it’s Monday morning. My brain’s still a bit foggy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Droopy McScrote

A classic in hott/douche wrongness.

Yes, I could elaborate further on those who sagg and cling to hip-hop wigga glory.

But do I need to?

You got the Droop.

You got the bling, tatts and hand gestures, complete with nerd-glasses and Houston Astros (?) hat tilt.

Then you’ve got Surfer Kelly, with the rock-hard abs and the strangest swatch of bikini bottom this side of Logan Five’s Sanctuary.

But what pushes this pic into greatness is that tiny swatch of red underwear above the cargo pants.

Stay classy, Droopy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Preppiebags

Something about being transported back to a 1980s teen comedy, in which Teddy Beckerstead is teaming up with Ken from Bachelor Party was enough to set off our collective psyche douche-alarms.

Then there’s two lucious little cutes, and the wrongness is complete.

Irono-scrotery?

This issue comes up a lot.

But as many in the comments thread observed, even the ironic “Bar Golf” gag still requires the purchasing of aqua sweaters and tight pink pants that suggest the Alpha-Betas are planning another attack on the Tri-Lambda house.

But are the Golfbag Twins and their sweet suburban bar hotts enough to take the Weekly?

That, my friends, fellow ‘bag hunters and choice hotts, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Where's Waldouche?: Butts Ahoy Edition

And for indulging my DJ rant, lets play another round of Where’s Waldouche: Butts Edition.

Somewhere in this picture of six cheeks of firm yet pouty goodness, I’ve carefully hidden a Miami Beachchoad Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

The Thing About DJs

Here’s the problem.

DJs can play a great role in the club experience. Being a DJ is not auto-douche, and many are extremely good at what they do. DJs are entertainers. DJs can create and facilitate a great club vibe.

What DJs are not, however, are musicians. They are a trade. And the problem lies when they try to confuse the two.

I’m talking to you, trust fund ecstasy taking DJ pseudo-artist. Learn what a seventh chord is. Learn what the “circle of fifths” is. Learn to play an actual instrument. Until then, you are no more a musician than a printing press is an author.

You are a facilitator. A middle man. A bureaucrat in creative drag. An intermediary disguised as producer.

Even the great postmodern artists learned how to produce traditional classically trained art. Warhol was a graphic designer. Picasso and Dali learned classical realism before experimenting with form. DJs desire to tap into the societal myth of “rock star” without having to bother with learning the chords or put in the creative energy in coming up with any music on their own.

And I understand that.

Who wouldn’t want the benefits of being rock-star famous without having to have the musical talent or creativity to back it up? It’s auto-fame without merit. Like characters out of Vonnegut’s Harrison Bergeron, they give hope to the talentless by spreading the wealth equally, no matter one’s innate abilities. They offer a gateway to fame through random egalitarian lottery.

Get the right haircut and hold a set of retro 80s headphone to one ear and you too can stand on a pedestal and play the star.

But therein lies the problem. They want to roll out of bed with perfectly tussled hair at 1pm, turn on their iPod turntable with the retro-analog speakers and call themselves an artist. But no amount of carefully placed tribal tatts and stubble will turn you into a genuine production point, sample-boy. You are an empty vessel set to other people’s beats. A shell of human form emulating the authentic under the rubric of postmodern refraction and reinvention. Because you’re not willing to put in the work that will lead to genuine inspiration.

I’m not saying you DJs don’t have your place. You’re like my aural waiter. You bring me the sonics, and I appreciate it. If I could tip, I’d definitely go over 15%. Provided you play some Fishbone and De La Soul.

Know your place, sonic proletariat, and all will be well in the witching hour.

Put on delusions of grandeur, claim the role of creator instead of what you really are, an ambulatory iPod with a stupid haircut and no health insurance, and God will keep you out of Israel forever.

PSA

It’s Saturday evening.

Do you know where your shirt is?

Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Guy Fieri

File this one under “Captain Obvious.”

Chef, TGI Friday’s spokesman and TV personality Guy Fieri is a heaping serving of fried douche sandwich served in a greasy ashtray.

And since he keeps interrupting my TiVo’d Battlestar Gallactica episodes with his ridiculous first-person date advice ads for TGI Friday’s, I’m giving him a well deserved Honorary Douche of the Month.

I know you already knew that Guy Fieri was a huge douche. But it needed to be said.

Now Rachel Ray is one extra plump but very tasty serving of steak tar-tar that I would dip in wasabe, soufflé her Napoleons, and then continue making food references that were really euphemisms for sexual deviancy. She is all sorts of Young Martha Stewart raunch.

Mullets

Mullets.

Do they ever really go out of style?

Vegas says no.

EDIT: And if you missed the genius of pickup-artist voicemail leaving Dimitri, Here’s the link again. Enjoy the audio scrotitude.

Long Island Boat Choad II

When the first pic of Sneery McBoat-tatt ran on the site as a Friday Haiku a few weeks ago, many of you thought to yourselves one of two thoughts:

1. bleeeeechhhhhhhh.

2. I wonder if this smug, flexing boat douche really does have spindly-ass legs to go with his trampy Long Island hott?

The answers to both questions have now been answered.

We also might need to consider a 2008 Douchie Nom for innovating a consistent ‘bag hand gesture in multiple pics ala Peaches in 2007.