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Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Most Annoying ‘Bagling: Little Skippy
There will never be another He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks. But we can dream. Nancy Dreuche hands out the award:
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Dear T. Mills,
Your music is horrible and here is why you suck.
First off, who brags about f#@king a white girl? News flash guy, everybodys done that. In fact as I type this at least 10 white girls are seeing the business end of schling schlong. So no, I give you no street cred points for that. And who cares if she’s got a neck tattoo? You’ve got a neck tattoo. Is anyone singing about banging you? No, because they keep their shame to themselves. Rap about pounding some nun meat and I might buy your album.
Which brings me to my second point. According to Wikipedia (damn you for making me do extra outside research on you, you little douchebag.) Mills second album was released for free under Colombia Records. Damn right it was released FOR FREE. At least you have your finger on the pulse of your fans. Noones willing to pay you for your ear garbage you caucasian schtooping white boy from the “mean streets” of Riverside, California. Ooh Riverside, I heard they had a Dairy Queen that got robbed pretty bad awhile back.
And finally, what do you think you’re gonna end up doing once your “music” career doesn’t take off. My prediction? You’re gonna end up selling yourself and shitty weed to anybody that will pay for it. Because who would hire an entitled, no talent freak whose self confidence is purely chemically generated and not derived from actual accomplishments or any real artistic talent?
Word to your poor single mother,
Nancy Dreuche
P.S. Leave a dimebag for me at the usual pick up spot. Thanks in advance.
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Greatest Crisis of Modernity: The Cell Phone Bathroom Self Portrait
Hermit hands out the award:
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In earlier times, wealthy industrialists would commission talented artists to paint portraits of themselves and their families, usually in the formal parlor, and always dressed in their finery. Later, with the invention of the camera, the family portrait became more readily available to the masses. Mother, Father and the children would don their best apparel, and a local photographer would capture their image with primitive, bulky equipment. These grainy, monochrome photos were treasured heirlooms, displayed with pride over the mantle or pressed between pages of the family scrapbook.
The industrial revolution changed the young country. Factories churned out Model T’s and waffle irons, the Middle Class expanded, and by the turn of The Twentieth Century Eastman Kodak introduced the Brownie camera. Low-cost photography and the concept of the “snapshot” became available to the average Joe. The family portrait became a little less formal. People would still dress in their Sunday best while Uncle Walter snapped the picture, often on the front lawn. Life was good.
Sadly at some point, an unknown, self-centered innovator turned that Brownie upon himself and took his own photo, forever changing the course of history. When that seemingly innocent flashbulb went off, the foundations of modern culture began to irreversibly crumble. At that precise moment the sun was temporarily blotted from the sky, and in the distant mountains of Peru, a baby llama, blind since birth, coughed up a bloody wad of 35 mm film and part of a tuna fish sandwich.
As technology advanced, cultural values and decency regressed in corresponding measure. From elegantly-clad ladies and stately gentlemen posing in stylish attire, we are now reduced to the spectacle of pathetic, shirtless narcissists creating digital images with hand-held devices, reflected from a filthy mirror flecked with toothpaste and zit puss. The setting is no longer the formal, tastefully furnished parlor, but the very room where they vomit, urinate and go to take a gaseous, foul-smelling dump.
Far away, in an Amsterdam museum, Van Gogh’s self portrait is busily hacking off it’s other ear.
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HCwDB of the Year: Bracket #3
Your third and final bracket to set next week’s Finals. Make it count.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #1: Joey Lumpcrustowitz and Kate
This heaping service of Vegas backwash in presence of flexi-hott Kate is well worthy of consideration for the Finals.
And lets not forget Joey Lumpcrustowitz Gives You the Finger.
That’s a tag-team of pictorial uberdouche.
For classic Vegas suck, I punch a kitten.
And spit on a spastic spatula.
Because that’s how I roll when filling up the text part that many don’t bother to read, despite my slavish wordsmithery.
On to the next one.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #2: The Herpster and Librarian Laura
The Herpster birthed an entire subcategory of 2011 Douchery with Hot Chickery.
The Herpster.
Part Hipster.
Part Herpdouche.
Total tuxedo crotch.
For patenting douche face, douche stubble, insanely stupid chest tatt, hipster ethos, and vinyl listening Echo Park parties that make me retch just thinking about, The Herpster is all that is wrong in Odessa.
And by Odessa, I mean that’s the nickname for his ’92 Yugo, which he painted ironic lime green.
And let us not forget that while Librarian Laura shows terrifying signs of Bleething, the purity of Pear is award winning and gnaw.
Gnaw.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #3: The Garglebag and Nadia
Our most recent of douchal winners, The Garglebag brings heinous nipplecentric douchetatt into play.
Then, just as Superman has Clark Kent, Garglebag has Leny Freaux, his alter-ego, and its own heaping serving of wretched douchey wretchitude.
Perhaps a long shot.
Perhaps not.
The twin pics of douchery really play with the mind and piss on the culture.
And by piss on the culture, I mean micterate on the rug.
Lebowski forever.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #4: Poppa Squatter and Tendon Tina
Banished almost instantly to the flushed Closet of Poo, the heinosity of Poppa Squatter and relative tastyness of Tendon Tina never really got their due in the Weekly or the Monthly.
Witness the epic run of pumped up orangosity and heinous douchery.
The initial appearance of Poppa Squatter and Tina in July.
Poppa Squatter and Tendon Tina Win at the Game of Life
The Squat and Tina Celebrate
Perhaps their most cheesecackle photo with Poppa Squatter Gettin’ Jiggy with Tina
And then The Popp Squat and Tina laughing at one of our Weekly winners.
That’s an epic run of rimjob douchery and poo flush spastastity.
In fact, looking back, Tina was quite the tasty morsel. And Popps could grab the Wild Card.
But will they?
Vote for our final entrant in the Yearly, as always, in the comments thread.
Monday, December 12, 2011The Yellowtail: Morty
Mandouchian Candidate hands out the 2011 Douchie Award for “The Yellowtail,” aka The Oldbag:
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In my humble opinion, in spite of fierce, grey balled competition, there is one true winner in the game of Oldbag. Morty.
We don’t even have to elaborate on Morty by calling him by more than one name. Morty is kind of like when you are banging a hot Masseuse and she has super annoying kid who is always up in your business. Except he’s not her kid. He’s her grandpa. And he wants to hang out and bang all of his grandaughters friends, or buy them enough beer to where they will at least make out with each other while he jerks off. It doesn’t get much better than Morty – it is that don’t take no for an answer attitude, even when incontinence and toe fungus make his odor unbearable, that has made Morty not only the top salesman at your local CarHop, but a VIP at Peter Dragon’s Massage Parlor.
Honorable Mention:
Old Man Liver, White Guy Willie, The Veiner Sausage, and Frank The RV Salesman.
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Douchiest ‘Bag Who May Be a Lesbian in Drag: Troll Dog
Wedgie hands out the 2011 Douchie Award:
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Fellow Baghunters, this year’s category of Douchiest Bag Who May Be A Lesbian In Drag was chosen by me because I thought this would be a no-brainer. It was going to be 4-Prong, and then everybody else a distant second.
Then, I remembered that Mr. Reeve gave the 2010 Douchie to this marvel of evolution, thus eliminating him/her from my consideration.
Not that there’s any rule on it that I know of, but to avoid the mocking of my peers, who would have (correctly) pointed out my abject slovenliness. And while sloth is my favorite deadly sin, I don’t want to be guilty of it in this case.
That said, here’s your contenters, in no particular order:
From September, Wiggas & The Pear. Nothing like twin dykes to get your motor running.
From August, The Time Traveling Blintzes (Left Blintz Only). Wasn’t this guy once married to Sylvester Stallone?
From May, Between A Schmuck & A Soft Place. If that thing on the left isn’t a former East German Pole Vaulter, I don’t know what is.
From April, Dieter. And Dieter’s Lips.
Also From April, Poindouchester. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.
Valid entries, every one. With honorable mentions to November’s Douchepug (Duh) and Karen’s Mom, that bull dyke who will no doubt be suing us all as soon as Brooke’s lawyer gets around to it.
But this year’s winner, and my personal favorite, has to be March’s Troll Dog. The only challenger worthy of following in the footsteps of the great 4-Prong. Pat nods in approval. The rest of us are still asking ourselves “What the hell is that?”
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Orangest Orange: Dieter
While Orangeness has faded amonst the douchal populace, and that is undoubtedly a good thing, 2011 still saw it’s fair share of turd blossoms of a crimson hue.
And while there were obvious and more garish contenders like The Greasepitz, Clifford The Big Red ‘Bag, Asian Orange, something about Dieter just freaks me out.
From back in March. When he bothered Minnesota Marnie. With a tasy cola on the fridge. Just all sorts of hottie/douchey wrongness dialectic at work here. And thus, the well deserved and surprise 2011 Douchie Award is its.
Monday, December 12, 2011Hottest Hott of the Year: Bracket 1
Since so many ladies of quality repose pass through these virtual gates, I’m gonna follow last year’s modus operboobi and give out two awards for hottness. But I need your vote.
Here’s your finalists for Bracket #1.
Hottest Hott of the Year #1: Nadijka
Perhaps unfairly booted out of a chance at the Monthly, here’s Nadijka’s chance to prove her merits as a Eurocentric ethereal vision that any spawn of Douchebag Trump could only hope to resemble (and no, it’s not her).
From November. Hers is a vision of bobble bobbs.
Hers is the tasty milky skin of nibble graze.
I slap a ferret with a hoe.
Then I hog tie a gundark.
All to bother her cousin, Miranda, who hates men and won’t give me her address now that she’s unlisted and moved to Denver.
Oh, and Entrepenis Doug still sucks. Yeah, I said Entrepenis. It’s like Ludwig Von Mises meets Larry Flynt.
At least that’s how I’m pitching it to networks.
Hottest Hott of the Year #2: Sucklechomp Amanda
From August’s ‘bag/Nottabag debate over Sunset Dusty, Sucklechomp Amanda brings bright-eyed and taily bushed innocence to the Finals.
For hers is the purity of lakewater beauty, the kind that inspires Rabelasian poetry and pervs to stalk her on the subway.
For she is tasty.
Hot.
Hot.
Hot.
I’m stalling to fill up the page to get to the next nom.
And here it is.
Hottest Hott of the Year #3: Champagne Katie
What a tasty little ball of hot minx this fiery firecracker is.
Pouty.
Giggley.
Alcoholic.
And with a thing for Billy Dee Villhelm and brothabags in nerdy sweaters.
A tasty run, but will her candidacy be tempered by her lawsuit threats against HCwDB for slandolibelishness?
Hottest Hott of the Year #4: Cheerleader Kelly
From May’s The NBA… It’s Creeeeeeptastic!, Cheerleader Kelly may be the finest of Paid-to-Pose professional hotties circulating among the elite of NBA attending 1%-ers who just fired your mom for being too old, but she still brings A-Level Heat to the finals.
Pouty cheeks.
Taut hints of butt bobble in the collective Jungian unconscious.
A worthy #4.
Which H.C. in our first bracket deserves to be enshrined with a 2011 Douchie Award?
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Douchiest Video of the Year: Lil’ Wang
Over the past year we’ve watched many Sunday HCwDB movies, but no video quite captures the ethos of hot chicks with douchebags like this overproduced disgrace of a “video.”
Featuring some ‘bagling clown and an inordinate amount of writhing paid-to-pose hot chickery, it is all that remains toxic and festering in our culture.
(Dis)honorable mention to the white trashery of Riff Raff, the 1% elitist arrogance of A. Samuels (who, in other historical eras, would end up guillotined by the masses), the hilarious dance lessons of Chee, and the boxing montage of Turkish douchitude who gets his comeuppance, The Shishkabag.
Funniest video of the year has to go to the genius that is Jedibags, with an honorable mention to the I Lift Things Up and Put Things Down ad.
And a hearty WTF to Hassan’s Old Man Frolic, shot in some dystopian lower middle class nightmarish household den somewhere in Glendale.
Saturday, December 10, 2011Best Haiku: Darksock
idfma hands out the Douchie Award for best Haiku, accompanying this porny pic of speedoschlong and Sheen-chick:
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As everyone knows the Haiku is originally a Japanese form of poetry characterized in English as 17 syllables arranged in three lines: 5-7-5. What you might not know is that one of Haiku’s earliest masters—before it was even officially known as ‘haiku’ used it to warn us against douchebags.
During the 1600’s Matsuo Bashō, wrote the following lines:
the first cold shower
even the monkey seems to want
a little coat of straw
As you can plainly see, Bashō anticipated our application of Haiku here at HCwDB.
I chose the Haiku of the year based on two things: best imagery coupled with best funniness. Darksock wins. For those of you who think it was rigged, it is — he held me out of a window by my ankles and threatened to drop me 2 stories, if I didn’t give him the prize, so here it is:
His pink dong-sling-bling:
So horrific, his asshole
Flees to beige hut’s wall
Darksock opens the haiku every Friday for a reason, and it’s because his are some of the best.
The runner up: Claude Douchenburg from May 20, 2011.
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Raging neon burns
Hair on fire without flames
tuck in your shirt douche
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Claude only threatened my family, so he was merely a runner up.
And last, the guy who didn’t threaten me at all, but came up with some funny sh*t, Douche Wayne on August 26, 2011 captures what it is we are always mocking and fighting against here—those who:
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Search and destroy all:
Taste style decency tact thought
Job almost complete.
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As with all the awards, this is not to say I didn’t pass over many great haikus—these were just the best in my humble estimation. Thanks to DB1 for giving me the opportunity to hand out a douchie.
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The Douchebaguette: Tokidoki Barbie
Keeping the Douchies going on this 2011 Douchie Award weekend, Mr. Scrotato Head hands out his second award of the ceremonies:
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Say what you will about 2011. It was many things. But one thing it was not was a year replete with douchebaguettes.
Sure, there were plenty of paid-to-pose strippers sporting duck face and wounded souls. And the taint that is over-tatting is infecting the fairer sex faster than genital warts. But for the most part we were spared the blight that is Bleeth.
I said, “for the most part”.
No year is completely free of the taint that is the ruined woman, the beauty that once was, the hottie turned hurlie. Here are the best of the worst that the Boss saw fit to burden our souls and eyes with.
What red-blooded boy didn’t steal his sister’s Barbie doll, sneak away to the back of the garage, and with guilt and lust raging through his veins, pull down Barbie’s top to see what was underneath? I always thought Barbie would get nipples before she’d get tattoos. What’s next? Vajazzling her non-existent vajayjay?
For ruining what was once an enduring American icon, Mattel captures 2011’s Douchebaguette, plastic hands down.
Runner Up #1: Billy Dee Willhelm and Champagne Katie
Not all bleeth come in nasty packages. No, not all bleeth are repulsive, burned out shells of once adorable young daughters whose daddies somehow managed to screw them up sometime around the 3rd grade. Some, like Champagne Katie, are all sugar, glitter, and nom-nom-nom chompy goodness on the outside. But behind the $5,000 smile and beneath the flawless “Bath and Bodyworks” pampered skin is a 102 lb. core withered and blackened by too much attention from the more greased and tatted sex.
Oh Champagne Katie, how we would have all showered you with gilded rose petals, adorned your boner-inducing body with wrappings of the finest silk, and fought naked in the gladiator pits just for the chance to see you pout those soft, plump lips in our general direction. We would have built monuments of porch meat as a testament to your beauty, crafted poem and song in homage to that which is you, which is perfection, phrases and stanzas to make the very angels in heaven weep and all the demons in hell rend their sack cloth and wail in eternal jealousy of all that is you, that is hottie perfection.
And then you went and texted us.
Runner up #2: The “Lifestyle” Takes Its Toll
Brittle blonde hair from a bottle. Too small a top. Too short a skirt. Botox lips. Smell of cheap vodka on her breath and a look that says “Do me now ‘cuz in about 20 minutes I’m gonna be curled around the toilet in the ladies room”. The only thing missing is her four-year-old son who’s staying with grandma while mom’s “works another shift”. Oh, and we never even got to know her name. Honestly, what’s not to like? Well, just about everything.
Runner up #3: Buddha Took a Dump
There’s only so much the magnificent and resilient human body can endure before it reaches its zenith of energy, beauty, and luster, and then begins the inevitable decline into decrepitude. Roasting yourself in the sun, putting ink where ink shouldn’t go, and letting a hack Venezuelan plastic surgeon go to town on your face just pushes the expiration date forward faster than working in a slaughter house and smoking four packs of bare ass camels a day. Life’s doing a bad enough job on you on its own, no need to hurry it along all for the sake of another morning of “Why didn’t he call me? He said he loved me! God this happens every f*cking time!”
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