Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Ask DB1: Muscles=Autoscrote?

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DB1,

B.A.G. du Bois

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Ubermuscle is not autobag, but it does shift the burden of proof of a nottabag onto the pumped up schlort so displaying his physiognomic wares. I would mark Pumpitude as a highly suggestive, but not proven, douchal signifier. An early warning sign that “Here There May Be Scrote.”

Reader Mail: The ‘Bagmitzvah

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DB1,

– Hasteez
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The first step is acknowledging your child has been possessed by the nascent emergence of the Grieco Virus, Hasteez. Now normally this is the part of my post where I pimp my book as your solution, but since I shamelessly plug that thing worse than a French Quarter hooker two weeks after Spring Break, I will instead pimp the works of Baruch Spinoza, whose experience of alienation as an outsider and pariah after his Bar Mitzvah led him to some of the most important philosophical breakthoughs introducing rationality and science into the realm of the spirtual/transcendent. With your encouragement, your son will begin to throw off the shackles of mass-culture douchal mimicry and become an independent thinker of intellectual challenge. Just like Spinoza. Who mocked the Eurobags of Amsterdam with pensive aplomb.

Reader Mail: The 'Bagmitzvah

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DB1,

– Hasteez

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The first step is acknowledging your child has been possessed by the nascent emergence of the Grieco Virus, Hasteez. Now normally this is the part of my post where I pimp my book as your solution, but since I shamelessly plug that thing worse than a French Quarter hooker two weeks after Spring Break, I will instead pimp the works of Baruch Spinoza, whose experience of alienation as an outsider and pariah after his Bar Mitzvah led him to some of the most important philosophical breakthoughs introducing rationality and science into the realm of the spirtual/transcendent. With your encouragement, your son will begin to throw off the shackles of mass-culture douchal mimicry and become an independent thinker of intellectual challenge. Just like Spinoza. Who mocked the Eurobags of Amsterdam with pensive aplomb.

Herpy McFly

This whole remaking Back to the Future thing with a Jersey Shore vibe is just doomed to failure.

Oh Brunette Brenda.

How I weep quietly in your not-so-flaxen hair while you sleep, and then softly touch your boobie with my pinky. Until you awaken, and realize I didn’t leave the party with your other friends. And then you call our mutual friend Jenna, and complain that I’m annoying, and ask Jenna why I didn’t leave when everyone else left. And Jenna agrees I’m annoying. And then you and Jenna go out for mani/pedis.

Wednesday Limerick

Ass Pear in the Vegas of Las,

To use her bikini as floss.

Yup. I need a coffee.

HCwDB of the Month: Grillzilla and Lady Gwendolyn

While the three other contestants in the Monthly brought consistency, multiple douche pics and variations on scrotal theme, Grillzilla and Lady Gwen powered by them on the strength of one single, toxic, hottie/douchey pic. Which is pure testament to its power of pudd.

The voters speak:

Dicy: I’m going to have to go with Grillzilla. He pisses me off with his stupid teeth and lame ass sleeve. How the hell does he even get girls to come near him?Also Lady Gwendolyn is all that is good and sweet in the world. I would be her best friend and ask her to have a sleepover at my place so I could French braid her lovely hair.

Amerigo Vesdouchey: My vote goes to Grillz and Gwen. By far, this pic exhibits the most powerful dichotomy. And by powerful, I mean depressing, perplexing, confounding, aggravating, and nauseating. Gwen appears to be a sweet woman of sound judgement and above averages looks, but somehow is impressed by this putrid clown. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry; so I cry.

End the Haberdouchery: Grillz. Because it’s 2010 and even Paul Wall thinks grillz are stupid now. He has moved on to icing out codpieces.

Fatness: Grillz is what should be at the bottom of a toilet bowl.

Medusa Oblongata: This time I must go with the pairing that confuses my lizard brain the most and that would be Grillzilla and Lady Gwendolyn. It’s like a grizzly bear with ballet slippers. It doesn’t fit and the delicate little thing is going to get shredded. Grillzilla FTW.

Flounder: all I see when I look at this choad is a horrible parody of the Bond villain, Jaws. All we can hope for is Richard Kiel to track him down and show him how a proper metal mouth man should behave. Then like in Moonraker he will fall for and save poor Lady Gwendolyn from her fate of being sacrificed for an new Affliction shirt.

Anonne Huntress: Grillz has to take it. Your kind of doucheosity, you can mostly wash off or hide, but the stuff Grillz did to his mouth and ear are just offensive. Grillz for the monthly.

Scott: Grillzilla. And his dentist.

Wedgie: Grillie gets the nod in a squeaker over Quiz Roid. And by squeaker, I mean that high-pitched, Chuck-Mangione-hitting-a-high-C-note fart.

Big: After an extensive period of “consideration”, I have to go with Grillz, because his pained smirk actually makes it seem his alloyed dental work actually causes him physical discomfort, which I can only celebrate with a vote for his exalted ludicrosity.

Em: Grillz. I puke, therefore he’s dousche.

Mr. Scrotato Head: Grillz are about as fresh as sleeveless flannel shirts, zebra seat covers in a ‘92 Honda Civic, or Lady Gaga’s gooder. And nothing says douchebag more than photobombing the camera with your lips peeled back like fruit leather and your sweet hotness playing “Deal or No Deal” with the pointy finger and all. Because, you know, under normal circumstances you don’t even realize someone has a grill in until the stink of last week’s calcified leftovers hits you in the face like a corner kick from David Beckham. Oh wait, he’s done…and SO ARE GRILLZ!

Well dissected, team. The pure wrongness of sweet, ass-graby worthy feminine purity and asstastic pseudo-rebellious suburban doucheclownery was too much to ignore. Coming in a solid second place, the Euro performativity of Quiz Roid and Princess Lickmah:

El Caganer: Princess Likmah is the gal for me. No “look” is too ridiculous for her to find it un-attractive. I now have found a use for that robot costume, I made out of carboard and tin foil. Princess Lickmah and the Quiz man for the win.

Mr. White: I’ll go with Quizroid, because Princess Lickmah makes my pants hobbit feel like a mighty ent.

Justin: Quiz Roid FTW! You can’t make the “tough-guy” face whilst donning fuckin’ candy-raver bracelets, Quizzy. ‘Nuff said.

I thought Quiz Roid had a shot at the Yearly with his epic run of stone-face, but it was not to be. Coming in third and fourth (dis)respectively, but with solid support, were David Crapperfield and Rachel Hottowitz, and Captain Rehab and Luane, who were too skanked out to really contend.

Horace Dangleballs: David Crapperfield and Rachel. All worthy contestants this month, but the bizarre combo of an over-methadoned Ray Liotta zombie, plus the voodoo mama that made him, plus Rachel being the only female with an inkling of fear or distaste in her expression… how could I go against all that?

Jurassic Douche: David Crapperfield is my pick. That is what happens when the average fratdouche is fed a diet of Douche Nine enriched corn and beans.

jonezy: Luane and the uber-rott stank infested waters of Captain Rehab for the Monthly. Although her boobs are spaced like down-syndrome eyes, her Hott is still enticing, no matter how skanktastic. Have American Indians not suffered enough that these douches must desecrate their traditions in a rude attempt at spectacle and “style”?

Cock-a-doodle-douche: What I don’t like about voting for Crapperfield is that it might result in him sticking around. I’d much rather make him disappear. Regardless, I give my vote to Crapperfield. Ugh.

Colossus of Choads: Captain FTW. He’s the only one who clearly is douched-to-the-nines in conflict with his environment, he has no intention of going swimming, and that’s just sickening.

Fat, Drunk and Douchey: David Crapperfield FTW. Sometimes a douche is more than the sum of his parts. And somethimes he is exactly the sum of his parts. And his parts scream Douchebag!

little beaver: Captain and Luanne. I want to invite Luanne to the Tribeca film festival. While I don’t have tickets, I do have access to a Subaru Tribeca. We could watch movies on DVD in a secluded parking spot. I imagine that after a night in a car with Luanne, it would need to be reported stolen and torched on the side of the road. Isn’t that what insurance is for y’all.

Nicely played, little beav. But the power of douche grills in the presence of sweet suckle thigh is what this site is all about. Lets let doucheywallnuts take us home:

It’s got to be Grillzilla…I didn’t vote for him as a DBotW, but I am a big enough man to admit my mistake. As I see him juxtaposed against the other colossal douches he is clearly worthy of the DBotM honor. He has the body, tatts, gear, shirt, accessories and bleeth – in short he surpasses all the other candidates, worthy as they may be. Crapperfield is a close second, and perhaps if he wore an Affliction shirt or some other label to give him the mark of the douchebag he may have gotten my vote. Quiz doesn’t have the build and neither does Capt Rehab, and Rehab’s chick is more bleech than bleeth. And so it’s Grillzilla for DBotM and an early nominee for DBotY.

Well argued, DW. And while the voting was light since the site moved (many are still updating RSS feeds), a worthy contender to take on Stackhouse in the Yearly has been found. Grillzilla is all that is the monstrous id of douchescrotery. And your humble narrator will now gnaw on Gwen’s shoulder in celebration of her victory. And by victory, I mean humpty hump.

Natalie Tags a Jersey Shore Douche

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So, my best ladies and I were at an ed hardy store opening party in cancun during spring break aka douchebag mecca when some overly spray tanned guy with a tribal band tattoo accidentally ripped out one of liz’s (the hot chick pictured with Jersey Shore’s dj pauly d) extensions with his nipple ring (obviously, people are walking around shirtless, it’s mexico). she threw her cup of hypnotiq in his face and screamed “f*ck you, you f*cking dragonslaying ez-tagger!”

– Natalie

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Early candidate for Hieroglyphic Email of the Year.

Happy St. Patricks Day!

Mock them, they’re Douchish! Well, the dude on the right is. I’ll give guy on the left a nottadouche and a go in peace. And I’ll surreptitiously stare at Maggie’s rack when she’s busy taking their beer order.

But seriously. Happy St. Pats Day. From your humble alcoholic narrator, to you.

Having grown up among the dysfunctional, alcoholic and amusingly self-destructive Irish of Boston, Massachusetts, even though I myself am not Irish, I can safely say that, after 364 days of depression, repression, Catholic guilt and beer induced self medication, the Irish deserve a day of partying.

Kissy Lips

Still out there.

Still douchey.

Thunderbags are Go!

We need to bring back the puppet show.

I’m serious. Wooden tactile analog talismans of human exaggeration would serve as parable for tales of morality, sin, redemption and stupid hair.

Enough with the CGI. Yes, Tron: Legacy looks like the shneebling. But I’m calling for a return to the analog. The puppet.

As in, Puppetchoad Theater, pictured here.

No more Avatars and Pixars. Bring back the real. Bring back the Benjaminian aura that may be replicated, but can never be reproduced.