Douchie Awards
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Friday, December 9, 2011
2011 Mascot of the Year: Douchpug
From just last month, let us honor The ‘Pug.
Long may he Woof.
Excellent work all around this week, fellow ‘Bag Hunters. The 2011 Douchie Awards will continue all weekend, and voting is still open in all categories.
Next week will bring Hottest Hott of the Year voting, as well as the finals for the 2011 HCwDB of the Year, hosted by Don Knotts and…
Friday, December 9, 2011Most Vegasy Vegasbag: Lancelot Boy Melvin
Las Vegas’s own Choad the Douche Sprocket gives out the Award:
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VEGAS-Y VEGAS DOUCHEBAG
Master of Ceremonies Richard Greico: Thank you, thank you ladies and gentlemen. In the category of Vegas-y Vegas Douche, the nominees are:
Prince Meatwad of Prince Meatwad Gives Orders, whose harem of hotts (making up in quantity what it lacks in quality) demonstrate, nay epitomize the pull of the monied thugs who keeps Vegas’ coffers full by day and night. With nipples as stiff as his upper lip (and about as large), stupid stomach tatt, ginormous designer shades, camo trunks and ubiquitous Bud Lite, his highness wants you to know he is large and in charge — of a flunky and four stippers from Larry’s Villa.
Captain Lubing of Captain Lubing and Tracy Gnaw, who wants everyone to know he was established in 1984. And that he shaves his groin. But then he asks: “Why Me?” Why you indeed captain? Why does the otherwise exquisite Tracey Gnaw see fit to shiver your timber? Can epistemological relativism give us the answers? Or must we seek a higher truth from the oracle that is the ubiquitous red cup. For perhaps, only rc can divine what causes such sweet-natured girls to acquire arm scurvy in their quest for acceptance…and cling to your hideousness like barnacles to to a dingy. For a dingy is all you will ever be Captain Lubing, sailing across the desert sands into douchebag oblivion.
Poppin’ Fresh of It’s Shark Week on HCwDB whose entreaties to “Stay Classy” whilst pool-siding it at a “C’-list hotel, with a “B”-list hott sporting ink that screams “truck stop mechanic” tells you all you need to know about Vegas day-club culture.
…and finally, Lancelot Boy Melvin:
whose run of douche-i-tude this year included: Buddha Took a Dump, Lancelot Boyz Speak to Perfectly Hot PTA Mom Vanessa in Monosyllabic Grunts, and Lancelot Boy Melvin Pretends to Get Lucky for a Nearby Camera.
And the winner of the 2011 Douchie Award for Vegas’y Vegas Douche is (drum roll please)….. Lancelot Boy Melvin!
(Announcer in voiceover):
Yes, it seems Lancelot Boy Melvin’s body of work this year was just too strong to ignore. And by strong we mean the stench emanating from whatever day club let this pile of pint-sized, preening, paid-to-pose poo hang out at it’s pool.
Wherever Melvin found himself in 2011, and from the looks of things, you could find him all over Vegas, a certain smell wafted through the air like a Rev Chad fart after three helpings of turducken garnished with Aunt Yvonne’s fava bean and fig casserole.
Like moths to the proverbial flame (or is it mayflies to piles of manure?) poolside hotts cannot resist the bronzed, lacquered arrogance of this smirking fecal matter — constantly looking up at you from wherever his homunculun form has been deposited. He is the embodiment of all that makes Las Vegas the breeding ground for narcissistic, lowest-common-denominator behavior – the petri dish for putrid performance art, if you will – that takes place every May-September outdoors up and down the Strip.
Like the booze and tanning factories he frequents, Melvin’s very presence embodies the lowering of society’s IQ, and stands for the proposition that all shirtless show-offs are not created equal – some have to work extra hard to insure that anyone with a brain (or a soul) would like to clean him off the bottom of their shoe.
Honorable Mention goes to Creepy Vegas Hippie, who proved that no matter how old or wise you become, the pull of Vegas pudwackery can claim any victim — geriatric or otherwise. Creepy Vegas hippie created a paradox — a doucheadox if you will — giving hope while, at the same time, confirming our worst fears about the spreading plague of over-arching exhibitionism that infects society’s every strata. Yes, he is a walking embarrassment to his grandchildren, but on the other hand, if you can look this bad, at this age, and still pull some quality trim, there is hope for us all.
Greico: “That concludes our Vegas-y Vegas Awards for this year ladies and gentlemen. If any of you remember who I am, I’ll be signing autographs outside my cabana at Circus Circus…and if any of you hotties run with the Goose, I’ll be glad to oblige…as long as you pay me first.”
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Douchiest ‘Bag Trend: The “Ink Dicky”
Mr. Scrotato Head hands out the award:
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If there’s one thing Douchebags aren’t its original. If they were, Christian Audiger would be standing on a street corner in his own thread worn designs waiving a sign that reads “Will destroy your way of life for pretentious vodka”.
Trapped in their extended adolescence, nut muggers express their individuality by aping the behaviors of those they aspire to both hang with and ultimately replace in the Vegas pool-side pecking order. But it’s never enough to just copy the repulsive trends of scrotestain society. In order to achieve true individuality, each douchal signifier must be pushed to a new level of absurdity, to go, if you will, to “11” on the scale of remove-my-eyes-with-a-rusty-urine-coated-melon baller.
And so it is that the Full Circle Neck Tatt, or “Ink Dicky”, is crowned 2011 Douchiest Bag Trend.
What started with the Maori arm sleeve has now been pushed so over the top that as a form of self loathing and lack of intelligence it is literally spilling over the tops of more and more Ed Hardy v-neck tee shirts.
It takes real balls to spend your last unemployment check on a tattoo that will ensure that you never qualify for unemployment again. And these guys have got them. Look close. They’re tattooed on their Adams Apples.
Friday, December 9, 2011Most Euro Eurobag: Dieter Von Choaalsmark
The Reverend Chad Kroeger hands out the award:
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Like the festering drippings of summer sausage from Angela Merkel’s soiled panties while she is called again to Brussels to save the PIGS at a luncheon of ouzo-swilling octopus-eating pantywastes. Or the soul-numbing techno beat pounding at a corner pub of Chinese leather and chain wearing zombies reeking of limberger and duck confit in Marseilles.
To the bondage ghettos of Austria filled with torture machines and fisting men under the control of vaseline-weilding raven-haired doms named Gretchen feeding them dog faeces as they beg for another schnitzel enema while another Friday afternoon fills up with Vienna sausage fresh out of Seville Row business suits.
And the youth rise up against the Eurozone and austerity like a mob of ham-fisted teens at a Morissey show and enrage me with the memories of how rotten Europe is. Filled with unwashed entitleds waiting for pensions, free health care, and death.
Nietzsche wishes that Deiter Von Choaalsmark never existed and that is why he is the Most Euro Eurobag. His tight Aryan sweater with the square pseudo-intellectual glasses and earrings and that f#cking smirk fill me with rage as much as his accomplice fills my balls and make me yearn for a good spanking. And the neo-nazis rage against Zion with the vitriol of a hundred years and empty promises of post-Cold War rhetoric.
Bringin up the rear. And by rear I mean used crotchless man chaps with studs are Jan Lärggmän Watches, Sven Counts to Two, and Greasy Ramon for the greasy fail of the Euro.
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Most Expensive First Date Hott: Champagne Katie
Doctor Bunsen Honeydouche hands out the 2011 Douchie Award:
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Your mutual friend who loves to play match maker tells you that she has someone that would be perfect for you. She’s gorgeous and has a great personality (“Which is it?” you think.) but she’s never been able to find “the right guy”. So you say “Sure, what the hell. How bad can it be?” and throw caution to the wind…
After exchanging some brief texts to get her phone number and set up the date, you give her a ring to see if she’s ready. She tells you she’s running 10 minutes late as you’re making your way over to her place.
OK, no big deal.
I’ll look good by stopping off at the flower store and get her some flowers. What woman doesn’t like flowers, right? So you drop $20 on a small but non-descript arrangement.
You get to her building and the doorman lets you in. The lobby is huge and VERY clean. You ring her apartment and she tells you to come up but she’s not quite ready. No big deal, you’ve built in some time because this has happened before. What was 10 minutes suddenly turns into an hour. She comes out and looks hotter than a solar flare. It’s gonna be tight but you’ll be able to make those reservations you made at that new Polynesian fusion place that everyone has been raving about lately. She takes the flowers and throws them on her kitchen counter without even so much as a sniff…
As soon as you get there she asks “Is this where we’re stopping for drinks before dinner? I ate here last week and I didn’t like anything”. Sh!t! Time to make plan “B” on the fly.
You excuse yourself and head over to the bar and ask for the phonebook. You find THE most expensive place in town and secretly beg God that you can get in. You’re put on a waiting list that’s 20 deep. Screw it! Just go there and hope that a huge “tip” for the maitre’ d will get you a table. Luckily you hit the ATM before going on this excursion so you assume that you’re OK. You get there, announce your reservation loudly, and shake hands with the maitre’ d secretly passing him $100. He snorts derisively and gently whispers “What the f@#k am I going to do with this? Double it and you can sit near the kitchen.” You do and then promptly get seated at the table where the swinging doors will be hitting you for the entire meal. A waiter hands you the menus and you start to panic.
THERE ARE NO PRICES ANYWHERE ON THE GODDMAN THING!
You pull the menu up closer to your face in the hope that she didn’t just see all the blood run out of your face. You take a sip of water (Is it free or is it $50 a glass???) and try to compose yourself. Just as your getting your bearings back you hear her tell the waiter, “I’ll have one of these, one of these, this and I’ll start with that.”
Good Lord, what did she just do? The waiter approaches you and asks what you’ll be having. You can’t find a small salad anywhere on the menu (stupid French), realize you’re screwed and just mumble “I’ll have the same.” “To drink?” asks Pepe. She chimes in “We’ll take a bottle of this” ever so helpfully. Great. The idea of working seven other jobs is now starting to have some appeal. You surreptitiously reach for your phone under the table and go to the AMEX site. You apply for a Platinum AMEX card but have to wait 30 minutes for approval. You pat yourself on the back for your resourcefulness and quick thinking.
During dinner she yammers on and on and on about superficial things that no one cares about (Did Kim really marry for love or was it really for the money? Bieber totally couldn’t have had a baby with that skank. I hope the color palette for this spring is more neutral than pastel because I look better in those. Will heels go higher or lower? BLAH BLAH BLAH…) to the point you contemplate jumping up on the table and yelling “Shut your stupid vapid mouth you inconsiderate moron! You’re the reason why birth control should be mandatory for people who have no sense about anyone other than themselves!” You gobble your dinner (she doesn’t even notice OR stop talking) when she says she wants dessert. Why not? Keep it coming. Your phone vibrates. You look and AMEX will give you a card with a $2000 line of credit. Will this be enough? You hope so. The bill comes and you have $5 to spare. Great googly moogly that was close. With interest you can pay it off in about 8 months. Now it is time to get out of here…
You fake a migraine and head out of the restaurant. As she’s walking out the door she rips a heel off one of her shoes. Really? Now you’re stuck. She wants you to carry her down to her favorite boutique so she can get another pair of shoes. You notice the bag she is carrying isn’t even big enough to hold a tic tac and figure this one’s on you too. So what else is new? She finds a pair of Manolo Blahniks that she’s “had her eye on for a while” and makes the puppy dog eyes at you. The clerk looks expectantly at you for your card and you hand your Visa over. She squeals with delight at her new $618 pair of shoes. Sex is the furthest thing from your mind now.
You’re starting to feel like a third-world country that is in the stages of a bloodless coup and inflation is rising. But wait the night isn’t over. No, not by a long shot. Just before you enter the parking garage, a cab splashes her head-to-toe in gutter water. You stifle a laugh (cough cough) but she’s absolutely livid. Luckily another boutique ($2500 for new dress) and a dry cleaner are right around the corner. That sting you now feel on your ass you recognize as the AMEX and VISA logos being branded to you because your cards are so f@#king hot.
You finally make it to your car and speed back to her place. You drop her off (Yeah, I had a great time. I’ll call you after I get back from the trip I have to make to Botswana. Sure, we’ll get together then. No problem.) You’re about to curl up into the fetal position when your mutual friends calls. “So, how did it go?” she asks. She says that she can’t make out what you’re saying between all the sobbing and gurgling noises and to act like a man. You scream “F@#K YOU!” into the phone and then hang up.
Later you get an email from Katie@goldigger.com and you achieve total enlightenment. (Total = $5333)
Our runners up include:
The NBA… it’s creeeeeppppptastic!
and Fratpud Juan Can’t Believe His Luck
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Hottest Librarian Hott: Megan
The Dude hands out the award:
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2011 saw drastic budget cuts to libraries across the nation and the world, making the search for librarian hotts like trying to find a clean needle in a tattoo parlor. Skimming through the archives took a long time; you can easily forget the initial purpose of the search, and by that I mean, what was the point?
Oh yeah, I started wondering to myself, “self? What if there are no obvious choices?” There were some Hall of Hott candidates that would look great in anyone’s library, and one could certainly – uhm, stretch the imagination as to what kind of hott you’d like to find in your personal library.
In March, there was discussion of the Librarian Conundrum. In May, there was Smarty Pear.
Then came Megan from August 2.
Muttonchop Max asks Megan if she Likes To, Like, Listen to Snow Patrol, and if, maybe later, she’d wanna go smoke up together
Megan said no.
And wins the 2011 Hottest Librarian Hott.
Some highlights from the comments thread:
The Dude (me): Her glasses are so librarian the Higgs Boson element passes thru it on a regular basis. And by regular I mean huge. glasses. (I noticed her potential right away.)
DoucheyWallnuts had a different take: I think while the glasses get the attention, it’s the goolie shorts that seal the deal…and by “seal the deal” I mean “cause ejaculation.”
Megan lives on in posteriority, and by that I mean “seals the deal”.
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Froiest Fro: D.J. Froholio
From early October. Because D.J.s are annoying.
And because the Brothabags gotta get at least one Douchie Award they can call their own.
Thursday, December 8, 2011HCwDB of the Year: Bracket #2
Your second round of semi-finalists:
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #1: The Most Interesting Douchebag in the World and Brittney
He may not always shave his body, but when he does, he prefers Crisco.
Our second Brittney Hott in this grouping (she spells it differently).
For sheer veinal excellence in douchevegasry and tasty if enhanced and Bleethy hottitude, TMIDITW and Britt made a huge impact when they first appeared on the site in August, and are solid contenders for the Yearly.
But can they make the HCwDB of the Year on the strength of a single pic?
It’s been done before.
But rarely.
Still, three more semi-finalists to go.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #2: Clifford The Big Red ‘Bag and Bethany and Brittany
Some have argued Clifford is Paid-to-Doucheclown Clown.
This may be true.
But uber-tight jorts are toxic no matter what language you speak.
That, combined with lobster skin and douche face was enough to win a Monthly back in July.
The ladies are giggle hotts of the Long Island persuasion.
They should not be discounted.
Except after they’ve had a few Bud Light Limes.
Then they’re quite discounted.
“Woooo!”
Moving on.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #3: Peter Pumpin’Head and Mary Mammtastic
This inflated coupling of Pumpy-esque echo already grace the 2011 Douchies trophy (as per Medusa Oblongata).
But will that be enough to drag their hottie/douchey combo into the Finals?
The run was epic:
Pumpin’Head and Mary #2, Pumpin’Head and Mary #3.
Prior iterations of this uberdouche cartoonery began in 2010 as Veg Armstrong and UberArm and Pauline.
But do not let an earlier year appearance disqualify this.
Let the Pumpin’Head and Mamms stand on their own two trust fund enhanced feetsies.
For they are inflated and large.
HCwDB of the Year Finalist #4 (Wildcard): Carla and the Bros ™
The bros made a number of appearances with Carla way back in January, rendering themselves a toxic swill of Candian shirtless uberstank.
The run included Carla and One Bro ™ on the Beach and a reader recognizing his proximity to uberdouche.
And lets not forget Sabio’s ™ mocking response from his balcony in Mexico.
That’s alotta douchery. And Carla is tasty gnaw.
But enough to make it to the Yearly?
Which of these four couplings most deserves to compete in the Yearly?
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011Best Golden Globes (Bracket #2)
Because one vote wasn’t enough to appreciate the mammtastic year we’ve had, here’s your second round.
Best Golden Globes Finalist #1 (Bracket #2): Tiny Dancer Maria
From mid-November, Fratpud Juan simply doesn’t deserve this.
Tiny Dancer Maria is all that is golden about globedom.
I drink of her perktactiums, and beg for a powder in the green room.
I have no idea what that means.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Best Golden Globes Finalist #2 (Bracket #2): Asian Melons
From late October, these soft, pillowy mamms offer respite from a cold and harsh universe.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
gazangas.
bazzzzzooooooooooooooogas.
I poke them softly with a feather and a spork.
Best Golden Globes Finalist #3 (Bracket #2): Melanie
From back in February’s Winged Shirts and Melon Salutations.
Melanie’s Melons are so strong of curvature, they’re one of the few to ever make the finals in this category without any major skin reveal.
Enhanced? Perhaps. Unsure. Unsure of myself. Unsure of anything you’re saying.
Gaghhrrrrghhhhhhh…..
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Best Golden Globes Finalist #4 (Bracket #2): Gesthemane Boobies
From May’s Bird Poo on a Shirt, the consensus in the thread was fake, but I think real is also a possibility. Either way, they are firm and succulent and shine with Holy Cleavite. And so they are in the finals.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Boobs.
Boobies.
Honorable mention to the rest who deserve recognition, including The Holy Breasteses of Avalon, Female Ubergnaw, Grampa Joel’s niece Kelly, and The Jordanbag’s Heather.
Vote, as always, in the comments thread.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011The Ricky: Morty the Happy Rocker
Named after our hallowed clueless dancer from way back in 2007, Ricky, The Ricky is for the everyman that boogies within us all.
Mr White hands out the award:
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When combing through the entire year’s worth of archives for this reward, I had one question in mind: “Why did I volunteer to give myself eye syphilis?” But after that, a second question presented itself: “What is the essence of The Ricky?”
To me, the essence of The Ricky is a few borderline douche traits that are not affected to attract the hott, but adopted because The Ricky actually likes them. The Ricky isn’t after the appearance of cool–he does what he likes. The Ricky may be a true countercultural figure, adopting bits and pieces of douche culture and rendering them meaningless by stripping them of all intent. But yet, paradoxically, it’s very likely that at some point, teachers and guidance counselors decided to “mainstream” The Ricky instead of putting him in special ed, but only by a very close vote. You want to mock, but in the end, all you can say is, “Look at that happy, goofy bastard.” In that sense, perhaps all of us should try to embrace our own Inner Rickys.
That said, there was one clear choice this year: Morty the Happy Rocker, who actually graced these pages twice.
Yes, yes, he has a fauxhawk, but look into his eyes. He didn’t do this to get chicks. He just thinks its bad ass. When he combs it down during the day, he becomes a respectable citizen.
At the Jiffy Lube, he won the coveted “Employee Most Likely to Remember to Actually Put New Oil in the Car” four times in a row. He takes it as a complement when people say he reminds them of Private Pyle in “Full Metal Jacket.” He hopes he can take Kim on a third date so he can smooch her chastely on the cheek, in spite of the fact that Kim is clearly demonstrating that she’d be up for some erotic asphyxiation on the zeroth date.
For that, I celebrate Morty. Good on you, bro, for being a gentleman to Kim while I stole money and Percocet out of her purse.
There were no other candidates even close to Morty, in my opinion, but distant runners up include Happy Skippy and Far Left Guy from Boobies and Stupid Glasses.
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