Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

HCwDB in NYC — Monday August 11th

Fellow ‘bag hunters, after a number of venue changes I’m finally able to announce the date and location of the New York City HCwDB book signing.

Yes, your humble narrator on all things scrotey/suckle-thigh will be appearing Monday, August 11th, at The Cutting Room starting at 6:30pm.

Yours truly will read select excerpts from the book and then sign anything and everything offered within reach of my pen. I will have books for sale, or bring your own if you’ve already bought one at your local Borders Bookstire, as one reader did after snapping this juxtapositional pic.

No cover charge, and drinks and boobies will be for sale at the bar.

Represent, NYC/NJ HCwDB fans. I’d hate to sip my ‘Train and munch on my HoHos all by lonesome.

HCwDB of the Week: Mooby Dick

At first I’d hoped to forget the trauma of the Mooby Dick experience as fast as possible. But then I remembered our collective mission quest.

We must face scrote/hott commingling in all its innovations. Like tracking a mutating virus, we must highlight douchal innovation and expose to the sanitizing light of the collective mock.

The scrotal power of Mooby Dick’s innovation in next-level douchebaggery, all with fondling hott along for the ride, was too much to ignore. And in a week when the hotts were all secondary, the power of pec-douche was simply too rank.

doucheous nero explains:

The smoking deflators have been done before. Earwig is merely archetype scrota. The dick, on the other hand, is pushing the envelope; a next step in the evolution of ‘bagrine manamals. The shirt is a wholly new douchal artifact. And the acid washed bell bottoms? My disgust turns to anger. This, good sirs, is an abomination. Such expansion of the douche arsenal, while not well deployed here, must be mocked at least with level of mocking accorded in the weekly, and thus stamped out. If we fail to act now the puffery we see here could become common scrotal conduct.

We should pile upon the dick’s white shirt the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by this whole ‘bag-hunting race; if my chest was a mortar, I would burst my hot heart’s shell upon such exposed moobies.

Or as Scrotiserie Chicken puts it:

Mooby dick has to take it, simply because that shirt is reserved for two types of people: the first is BREASTFEEDING MOTHERS IN THE COMFORT OF THEIR OWN HOME, and the second is the people that will spend eternity in the 7th circle of hell. Mooby ftw

Well said, S.C. The pain of the Moobs are deep and lasting, and lost in his pectoral scrotitude is the very delightful hott that’s fondling them. snoop douchey douche explains why SDB voted for The Earwig:

Look, I … um … vote for Earwig for two reasons. 1, I am in awe that the Sleestack from “Land of the Lost” can pull tail.

I simply can’t vote for Mooby. I am going for the quantity and irritability of Earwig over that pec tsunami that torments my soul. I … just … f-ing … can’t … vote … for … him.

The pain is very real, SDD. However Michael Douchekakis makes an important point about the Smog Magog Experience:

Smog Magogs. Any place that appears to have a security camera attached to a palm tree must be fool of douches and bleeths.

Indeed it does, M.D. The always present anonymous agrees:

I’ve seen a lot of douche’s on this site but The Smog Magogs are the first to make me want to give them a smack of biblical proportions.

And douchey howser m.d. also casts in with the Magogs:

Smog Magogs…this is also a tip the armani fedora towards them for a vote in the Hall of Scrote. Take a closer look at these chaod up waste cases…30+ still hanging on to their rockin 20s, nasty greasy chesty stretch marks, white trash hott who they probably tag teamed that night (and im kinda jealous), nipple rings hanging off of pecs like a drunken sherpa guide on the side of Everest that resemble my grandad’s ballsack. And don’t ask how I know what my grandad’s ballsack looks like.

Well argued, DHMD. The Magogs will likely get a 2008 Douchie nom in December, so we will have another chance to mock their deflated balloonery. Earwig also found fervent mock, as batou throws down:

Earwig FTW. Smog Magogs are truly vomit inducing, and no words will ever fully describe the horror that is Mooby. Like combat vets, all who saw this monstrosity will share a bond that no one else who wasn’t there will never fully understand.

Earwig alone, however, inspires an overwhelming impulse to kill: I want to grab him by the ankles and swing his greasy face repeatedly into a building. That his hott is apparently not beyond redemption and lingering in a fully recovery-capable

But reader whoop-d-douche takes it home for the innovation of the Moobster:

Mooby Dick: There is NO way to even describe his total-scrotal douchiness, his clownface tongue and the obsession with cut-outs: removed piece of shirt to expose Moobs, sewn-in piece of something to expand jeans into bell-bottoms, pointy-toed shoes, YIKES. No matter which way he leans, he is still MALE and the FEMALE grabbing his Moob is a laughing, giggling Hott, although not steaming-Hott.

It’s Mooby Dick, hands down, as in how he grabs the hottie’s thigh while dipping the dance move, no less. And she just laughs and laughs. While the rest of us puke.

Or, as the everpresent anonymous explains:

it must be mooby, even a douche would stop and have a second look

Very true, EA. Very true. And finally, grumpy llama posits a hypothetical:

If Mooby fell in the woods and no one was there to see it, would he still be a douche?

Mooby, FTW.

Mooby’s scrotal pecs have earned their place in the next Monthly, and he’s bringing along Scrunchy Hott for the ride. We can’t avoid this reality, much as we might try.

So we witness. And punch those pecs a slot in the Monthly.

Velcro Flabulous

There’s a number of factors that should cause our collective psyches to melt down upon witnessing this doucheflab mugging the most exciting Danish plaything since the Lego Rocket Launcher.

The Dolce underwear.

The smackworthy douche-face.

The bling, hang gesture, fauxhawk and stupid-ass reflection sunglasses.

The fact she is a melting-pot of fondue brie cheese hott.

But it’s the velcro sneakers that task me. That, and the fact that I’d suffer the slings and agonies of outrageous fortune and take arms against a sea of tribbles, just for the chance to ham her lets.

Yeah, I made a Hamlet double entendre mixed with a nod to Tribbles. Oh, like you’ve never used the classic Hamlet/Star Trek combo for sexual euphemisms before.

Man, I need a drink. I think those boobies just caused a verbal meltdown.

Donkey Douche and Cultural Capital

There’s a certain giddyness I get when I get a new picture of legendary Hall of Scrote member Donkey Douche in my inbox.

Watching the Donkster’s primal ooze and garish style in the presence of sweet suckable boobie hottie powder thigh no longer infuriates. The Donkster simply illuminates.

For Donkey Douche and his Ukranian hottbag accessory are no longer simply a couple. Within our collective simulacrum, they are the douche-id of scrotal modernity. Watching his progressive devolution while his Ukranian Hott tries to keep up speaks to a much broader cultural journey.

As noted cultural theorist Pierre Bourdieu describes it, Donkey Douche has acquired symbolic capital through absorption of media sanctified signifiers within his habitus. Witness the Donkster’s recently added ginormous shoulder tribal tatt. His hairstyle change to vertical fauxhawk. These symbols communicate the Donk’s acquired cultural capital within the symbolic realm.

As such, the Donkster’s body no longer exists as physical presence. It becomes untethered. A douchal hyperlink, if you will.

Donkey Douche engages his own body as scrotal Rorsharch Test offered up for societal decoding. His primitive cluelessness and lack of awareness of his own agency become the blank canvas with which our culture inscribes its trendlines. The Donkster doesn’t choose douchosity. He is simply a blank receptacle for societal imposition. The Donk’s body, a nexus point of social reception.

Or, as famed philosopher Tawny Kitaen once said, “Unnnnmmgghhhhhhh.”

Exactly, Tawny Kitaen. Exactly.

'Bag / Not a 'Bag

Yes, Chester is the drunk annoying guy at the Rare-Ass Blue Cup kegger frat party. But is he true scrote?

There’s ‘bag hand gesture #68. And the skinny Elvis Costello tie + satin shirt combo, which isn’t douchey per se, but violates at least six aesthetic factors.

And of course there’s the fact he’s macking on blonde 1989 Paula Abdul. She has that sultry slight curl to her smile that says, I will stay up all night powdering your bottom with talcum powder, then spanking you with a wet tennis racket, only to get into grad school in the morning.

Or, to get totally obscure, she’s Bootsy From the 1985 Tom Hanks classic, Volunteers. Someone show me some love on this reference. Don’t leave me hangin’.

Caption This Pic

Some called them a trio of douche and Bleeth, but to their critics, Kendra, Suze and Trey had a simple five letter response: IAEWE.
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The Vegamite Sandwich

I love the passion for hottie/douchey hunting that comes from the site’s fans in Australia.

Our friends in Oz, in addition to producing lunchmeat legs like the actress hotts featured in 1992’s Flirting (introduced us to Thandie Newton, Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts), share a keen passion for mocking all that is scrote.

Enjoy the two Aussie Birds, featured here. I can only imagine their twangy dialect as they order another local brew before going off on a drunken rant about how “Fosters tastes like piss,” then passing out in a puddle of their own vomit.

As to the douche? Nothing says “urban gangsta” like working at a fashion mall in Melbourne. Give it up, Russell.

Reader Mail: Carbaggery

Amber/Lotus writes in:

—-
Hey DB1, how ya doin’?

Love, hugs and boobies,
Amber/Lotus
—-

Great question Amber, and yes. Yes it is.

Problem #1 in examining your situation: Tuscon. Escape. Fast. Come let the DB1 protect you from the douchal plague. By offering you cheap wine in a plastic red cup. And staring at your boobs while you’re watching T.V., and, when caught, pretend I was just looking for the remote.

The Porcupine and Michelle

While you’re mulling your vote in the Weekly, here’s The Porcupine and Michelle.

I’m pretty sure there’s a less well known children’s tale by Maurice Sendak that covers this pic. It involves teaching children an important lesson about sharing, humility, and hair gel. Where the Douchey Follicles Are.

But before you go knocking the girl as a nottahott, there’s a very good chance she’d clean up nicely. And besides, with the Porc’s blowout, there was no way I wasn’t running this pic.

HCwDB of the Week

Last week was so overwhelming in its hottie/douchey totality that I’m nearly at a loss as to what to select for the Weekly. Good thing I’m in NYC, prepping for a book signing (details changing, but will be announced in a day or two), and drinking heavily on Avenue B.

And yes, we all need to drink heavily after Douchebag Beach and hearing Cro ‘Bagnon speak on Saturday.

The Weekly after a Monthly is always doubly interesting because it features two weeks of pics to cull down. Indubitably, some faves will be left out. Either that, or I just like typing the word “indubitably.”

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Earwig

Because one can’t douche properly if not hydrated.

The Earwig brings us the rocker scrote in action. Everything that went wrong somewhere between the death of grunge and the rise of American Idol. Plus nasty-ass freedom trail.

The two delightful Karen-From-Staten-Island bridge and tunnel hotts remind us that the truly ascendant HCwDB pic must feature both hott and choad in unholy dialectic. This is one of the reasons the excoriating A.D: Artificial Douchetelligence missed a victory in the Monthly, and why The Earwig has a legit shot.

For rage inducing “real-douche” polarities, this pic has it all.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Smog Magogs

Originally appearing as a Friday Haiku, this pic has haunted me like a naked Kathy Bates in About Schmidt. These two punctured balloons have appeared on the site before here and here (props to Darksock for the finds).

Their greasy scrotosity is overwhelming. And she’ll get drunk and make out with six guys at the bar. And yes, I’m saying that like it’s a good thing. Even though it isn’t.

For their body of work, and by body of work I mean chest sag in the presence of hott perk, the Magogs deserve consideration not just for a Weekly, but possibly for the Hall of Scrote.

And she is an understated tasty dessert of trampy delights.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Mooby Dick

I don’t like this as much as you don’t like this. This pic is our penance. It is cruelty outside of mockable douchuousness, and for that, I apologize.

I wish this pic would just go away. It pains me somewhere deep in my cerebellum.

And yet we must witness. For we are the ‘bag hunters. We are the hott savers. And if ever there needed the collective fire hose of societal rejection, it is this picture.

Does that mean it’s worthy of winning a Weekly? I’m not sure.

Can we turn the other pec? Can we ignore the monstrosity of mooby fondling by a brunette scrunchy hott?

Did I just write a sentence that actually contained the sequential wording, “monstrosity of mooby fondling”? Take that, James Joyce.

I disqualified The Nipper on account of possible legit Maori origin (and skanky hott), And Oldbag was just too “Roger Ebert talks about Hermione in Harry Potter” creepy. Boa Arthur and the Errand Twins were also painful near misses. Finally, Fermented Mead, Glare of the Emo and Staten Island legend Tai Chia, the hardest to leave off of all.

What an incredible few weeks of hottie/scrotey commingling, a testament to the submissions I’ve been getting lately. But also a tough task to cull down to a final three. Nonetheless, my highly scientific methods have determined your finalists.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.