HCwDB
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Tuesday, January 12, 2021
The Dao of Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott
Many moons ago, when mocking douchebags and lusting hotts without their consent was still considered an appropriate form of cultural adjudication, an usual thread was born on this website.
A thread that has since become legend. And by legend, I mean the spikey, yellow and greasy kind. The kind you never really forget, no matter how many years of therapy your Aunt Sarah pays for.
I speak, of course, of two of the most important icons of early twenty-first century art, philosophy, alchemy, and pedantry, Samurai Scrote and Sexy Sequin Hott.
Not since Bra!! enjoyed a tasty cola beverage, had the HCwDB mockers found poetic inspiration.
S.S.’s preternatural calm, doucheface, Reservoir Dogs suit and absurd mandana held court in the presence of luscious sequined sunshine perfection.
The toxic cohabit was instantly iconic.
When S.S. and S.S.H. first appeared on this page, he was but a hard partying legion of misplaced cool gone choadally sunglasses tie-on-forehead awkward. She was sweet delightful honeysuckle suckle thigh.
Together, they formed… well… a hot chick with a douchebag.
Dozens of comments in the comments thread gradually became hundreds. Hundreds became well over a thousand.
People came from across the land and betwixt the seas to sing the mellifluous praises and mock the rank douchechoadery of the ethereal presence of one Mr. Scrote as he stood in Zen-like repose next to the delightfully tasty, if poorly named, Sexy Sequin Hott.
They won HCwDB of the Week.
They won HCwDB of the Month.
The comments continued. The legend grew. Here’s a sampling of the elegiac praise and poetic chunder as produced by the regulars in voting for the HCwDB of the Month:
clementine of cappadoucha: He is Kihon Douchebag, His yin is choad and he yangs of smeg. There is no beginning, there is no end. Little old men in South East Asia ponder his wankiness to release Taiji energies. I ponder his hottie. Samurai means “To Serve” in Japanese, and he serves poo. Samurai FTW.
Anonymous: When climbing the mountain of poo to ask the chosen one “Which one should I vote for?” he said, “Grasshoppper, close your eyes and experience the douchness. Only when the doucheness enters your mind and cannot be eradicated can you make the proper choice.” After many days I cannot get the image of a Napoleonic, mandana-wearing samurai out of my head. And besides, even though his hott doesn’t have the funbags of the others, I would strangle baby otters with Shamwows just to pick the lint out of the drier used to dry her underwear. The Samurai it is.
douchetoevsky: rock beats scissors, paper beats rock, phils beat rays, samurai scrote destroys shiva, and laughs mockingly at the mere mortals who dare stand against him in opposition, wee wee wee all the way home.
paper or plastic?: Much like a recent election of lesser consequence, the results of this monthly will be celebrated on a global scale and usher in a new douche order. Samurai in a landslide.
douchepac shakur: Samurai Scrote is subtle. Samurai Scrote is genuine. Samurai Scrote is rage. Samurai Scrote is Monthly.
jonezy: samurai scrote because he is the everyman’s douche. There is a samurai scrote in all of us- we are all one, yet all of us are douchey in our own singularity. Like a katana blade to the face, Samurai Scrote slashes deep beyond my flesh and reveals the true nature of douche within me.
crucial head: I was once a non-believer in Şǻmǚřǽ Ŝcrœtə. An infidel, if you will. My miniscule mind simply could not comprehend the possibility of a power that exceeded the limits of rational consciousness. But alas, dear brothers and sisters, those foolish thoughts were vanquished the night Şậmΰѓǽ ♀♂ made a personal visit to my bedroom.
The non-disclosure agreement Ŝαmu®åï made me sign renders most of the details from that night moot. But, I have been mercifully allowed to say that it involved bacon grease, a rack of lamb and a lamp. When all was said and done, I had asked the §äмứѓǽ into my heart and he had washed me free of all doubt.
Crucial Head’s conversion spoke for all of us ‘bag hunters in those heady prepubescent days of miracle and wonder.
The site continued to mock new hott/douche cohabits.
But the Samurai Scrote thread continued to grow.
Mr. Scrote even joined us again for an epic Friday Haiku a few months later.
S.S. was so inspirational, he even produced this Garbage Pail Kid inspired fan art:
And yet…
Alas…
Alack…
Aladeen…
When HCwDB was transferred to a new server in 2011, while your humble narrator fumbled once again to figure out the technology that makes this series of tubes work, all comments threads were lost.
Just as the Daoist monks construct intricate sand paintings, only to blow them back to dust, so too did Samurai Scrote’s thread disincorporate into the unconscious ecotone.
And yet.
On some voluminous transcendental chrono-synclastic infundibulum, S.S. lives on.
In each of us. In our hearts. In our minds. In our uvulas.
Whenever we lust a hott, Sexy Sequin is there.
Whenever we mock a choad, Samurai Scrote’s face remains expressionless.
For wherever he wanders today, Samura Scrote’s Zen transcends.
For it is here, in this very expression of expressionless whereby we find the sound of one hand clapping. Sisyphus pushing Cookie Puss up Xenu’s Paradox. The silly mandana makes no sound as the tree falls in the forest alone.
Buddha’s belly burps Samurai Scrote with every gurgle.
For herein is the universal om. The chord that pleased the lord. The digeridoo of regurgitative poo that reverberates across our collective phantasms.
It is here that we contemplate all that is and all that ever will be.
And within such contemplation, the loss and erasure of that which came before becomes, seemingly paradoxically but actually quite logically, the only truly marker of the universal eternal oneness where lies Hashem.
Thursday, August 6, 2020
Twelve Years a Potato
It’s nice to be remembered. Even by a spud.
Wednesday, January 30, 2019The Gator Snorts
Somewhere, just a skosh on the outskirts of a small Bulgarian shtetl, within a semi-crumbled wasteland of a half-constructed tanning salon, a deep guttural cry pierces the pre-dawn greyness. It is a pure, atonal inchoate note of dissatisfaction. A foghorn clarion call that rises like a smokestack into the turgid, Eastern European air.
“Grrrmmmmmphhhhhh!!”
A large, lumpy swatch of leathery orange is visible amidst the ruins.
It is The Gator.
The former king of scrote-choadal greasewankery tilts his leathery visage. Surveys the ruins of his once exalted kingdom.
His face-lumps pulse in contemplation. Rough hewn veins bulge from decades of chemical abuse locked in perpetual battle with Botoxian preservation.
The Woo Hotts, long gone.
The Axe Bodyspray long ago exhausted its pyrrhic scent like a lingering, somnambulant roadkill exhaling one last misty gasp before ending its mortal coil.
The once pulsing techno soundtrack to a life of perpetual motion has been replaced only by the faint howls of wind and failed purchasing power. The echoing, phantasmic boom-siss-boom-siss lurks within the Gater’s mind like the tinny drums of a Ramada Inn 80s cover band doing injustice to early Thomas Dolby. The outdated iPod headphones that once struggled to contain the Gator’s greasy veiny head-visage now hang only limply. Sadly. Discarded. For sale on Ebay.
A moment of silence.
A grackle lands on a wooden stump. Regards the sagging, semi-hulken slugworth slumped in front of it like a discarded baggage of unrecycled cookie dough.
The Gator looks up. His ruddy eyes fixate on the small bird through wrinkled, heavy, tangelo-colored eyelids.
The Gator sniffs. Snuffs. Huffs. Then scratches his leathery orange pec-hide with a coarse, ripping sound. The ragged skin undulates like a vomiting coelacanth.
The grackle knows.
Oh yes, the grackle knows.
Orange is the head that once wore the crown.
Like a rumbling subway station that smells vaguely of yesteryear’s bottle service, the noise begins to rise from within his energy-drink stained sternum. And then, as if a rusty windpipe in a post-Lynch landscape, the Gator’s weary lungs exhale, emitting yet another inhuman, atonal note of dispair.
“Grrrrrrmmmmppphhhhh….”
The grackle flies off.
Too much time has passed for the Gator to still be here.
All that’s left is his thought.
Which means nothing. Nothing is left.
The Gator is exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Roidally. Scrotally.
Long live The Gator.
Friday, December 23, 2016Your Christmas/Hannukah HCwDB Trump Cleanse
Yeeeeeech.
It’s like a fourth grade purple nurple delivered by Timmy Flynn to poor Gavin MacGarninkle mated with a greased up Arizona cactus and then that hybrid being vomited up a Poltergeist II tequila worm, only to see that purple cactus worm vomit hybridity coalesce into human form just to pinch Victoria’s tooter.
Happy Holidays!!
Wednesday, December 7, 2016The Shunning of the Trump Voter
You. Yes, you.
You voted for Trump?
You are a human Zika virus. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. Every pixel of your online presence. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. Forever.
I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. I expunge you with every ounce of my soul, my shmeg, and my spirit. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition.
You deserve no forgiveness.
You deserve no retrial.
You are hereby cast out.
You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society. And you are certainly not invited to my next birthday party. And that party will be awesome. It will contain real people. It will have cheese dip. And premium gouda. And tasty Hostess treats. Yes, even Chocodiles. And people with actual souls. People with consciousness. From Socrates to Billy Ocean. The collective progress of Humankind. Of which you are no longer a member. Sorry, toad pimple. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race.
You are douche.
But not just any douche. We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. You are not merely standard issue douche. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. You fall neither hither nor thither on the spectrum of ‘bag.
You are a new form of pimple lick. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, each a differing shade of fecal brown. The collective effect is one of patchwork shite. To name you a single feces is to do a disservice to the many sphincters and colons that collectively excreted the various elements that make up your kaleidoscopic dung discharge.
As such, we are at an impasse. For there are not enough neologisms to express my contempt for your retched life choices that you exemplify, occupy, taint, or otherwise smear with the vile spittle that pours forth like mildewy Mountain Dew from your scaly manure-built form.
You have an excuse for your actions, I’m sure. You hated Hillary. You just wanted a tax break. You wanted a certain kind of Supreme Court justice or just thought it would be hi-larious to mix it up by voting for an orange simian rhesus hemorrhoid.
Unacceptable.
Shove it up your ass like a week old slurpee stained dumpster outside a 7-11 in Sheboygan. Even if that 7-11 was once a White Castle. And even if the memories of those savory square burgers still haunts its myopic walls. The dumpster don’t lie. Once you pulled the lever for a preening con-man sexual abuser, you exemplified the narcissistic diuretic spew of that most craven core embodiment of American Douchebaggery.
For what is a douchebag if not you? Douches ignore the larger world in favor of the narcissistic self. ‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And so is the Trump vote.
And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you. You sorry, pathetic milk teat on the taint of a toad.
Douche.
You.
I’m talking to you.
You never shaved your chest but voted for Trump? You are douche. You never chugged a Bud Light Lime while calling a girl “bro” but voted for Trump? Douche.
I hereby micturate on your rug for all eternity. Because you live in the age of infinite, accessible information laying at your fingertips. And yet you chose ignorance and hysteria over consciousness and thought. Enlightenment beckoned. And you chose the Great Orange Darkness.
There is only one course of action left.
“Hot Chicks with Douchebags” calls for a complete and total shunning of all Trump voters from every aspect of respectable life. You aren’t just to be mocked for eternity. You are to be held in utter fucking contempt by all that value anything beyond the navel gaze. All that value the notion of humanity above primal animal urges and violent impulses of the jungle.
To the millions of us on the side of righteousness, I call on you to join me. Participate in this collective shunning of those that deserve nothing but shun. De-friend any Trumpdouches in your midst. If they’re family? Cut them off. Scientology style.
Gone. Dismissed. Forever.
They do not deserve reasoning. They do not deserve negotiation. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek.
Christian Audigier and Ed Hardy are dead now. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on.
In the Trumpdouche. The faux tribal tattoo on the bicep of humanity. They deserve to be scrubbed off and flushed down the toilet as soon as possible. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. Forever.
This is our next challenge. Our calling. This is a war. Choose your side. And do not go weak kneed simply because a meat-sack in human form resembles an actual human when justifying their Faustian bargain.
View them for what they are. Condemn them for failing to be what could so easily have been theirs. A world of knowledge. Intelligence. Humanity.
They rejected the modern world. We reject them.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016Game Review: Tony Hawk’s Bro-Skater 5
Because we here at HCwDB are nothing but timely with our three-times-a-year updates, here’s our review of the recent Playstation game Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5:
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Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5 occasionally flirts with the joy of choadwankery and attitude that made the original four douche classics, but the gel quickly comes off.
There are a disappointing number of design and technical problems that range from inappropriate burping to flat-out untreatable STDs, making this attempt at returning the series to glory a non-starter.
Developer AsswanksOfFlorida started with a good idea: paring Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater back down to the basics of inappropriate thigh fondle of Kelly-Anne in presence of a professional photographer. You won’t be hopping off your Red Cup, exploring open clubs, or standing on a weird piece of body grease. Instead, Bro Skater 5 leaves you to test your ability to chain together monosyllabic grunts, overpriced shots, and large hair spike, much like classic Hawk. It almost works. At times, I found myself getting back into that familiar choadal rhythm that made me fall in love with the original ‘baggery. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.
But any of that nostalgia was quickly erased by Bro Skater 5’s frustrating job prospects, bland personality, and over-reliance on a trust fund. For example, the one major addition to your arsenal is a physically impossible grope move that sends your ‘bagger rocketing down to the hotts at the press of a button. The problem here is that grope is mapped to the same button as grind, and it can’t be changed. I can’t count the number of times I intended on continuing a grope with a grind, only to accidentally slam down to the ground and end the being prosecuted for roofies. Frustrating moments pulled me out of my groove far too often.
But the most glaring thing that consistently thwarted my attempts to enjoy Bro Skater 5 were the rampant performance issues. It’s appallingly rife with alcoholism, bouts of inchoate rage, and a deep rooted hatred for one’s father, which are particularly noticeable in a game that’s primarily about how the human douchebag interacts with the hotts when traveling at high speeds. Far too often, I witnessed my character pass through academia instead of slamming into it, fly straight up into the air as though he’d stepped on a French midget named Herve, or fall on the ground for no apparent reason.
** 1/2
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Politics Got You Down? Shmegma McWankpuddle and Clarissa Might Have Your Cure
Depressed?
Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives?
You are not alone.
Take solace, my friends.
For this strange odyssey we call 2016 can at least be ameliorated by the shared experience. The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not?
And so here it is. My humble offering of digital solace.
A moment that bridges the divide. An experience writ communal through the bonds of empathy, communication, and tasty snack cake products made by underpaid and unamused assembly line workers.
Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality.
And so I give you Shmegma McWankpuddle commingling holistically with Pert Clarissa. For within this toxic cohabit, each of us can experience a communal revulsion. Her soft talcum booty sullied by tatted up upchuckery. Together, it becomes a collective illogic beyond comprehension. But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. For if you and I can both comprehend this neon titty twister of inanity then surely there is shared experience in this dark journey of life.
Let that collective revulsion be your soothing balm in a hottie/douchey world gone increasingly cray cray. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis. But at least it’s something.
Friday, December 19, 2014HCwDB Holiday Gift Guide for 2014!
DarkSock here, with a timely article for the Faithful Reader.
The final hours are drawing nigh for you procrastinating shoppers, but worry not – we’ve worked tirelessly to compile excellent last-minute gift ideas for your kids, whether they’re yours or abducted.
Shall we?
Number 1: “Baby’s First Baby”:
Because your kid’s not getting cast for “15 and Pregnant” unless you start ’em early…
Number 2: “Breast Milk Baby”:
This reminds me of the Irish Potato Famine of 1845. Because, y’know, lack-taters…
Number 3: “Pee-n-Poo Plushies”:
What do you get that 7 year old you just can’t seem to potty train? Why, it’s alimentary, my Dear Watson!
Number 4: “Real Human Teeth Dolls”:
Just because Gramma’s gone doesn’t mean parts of her can’t stay with your tikes…in their nightmares…
Number 5: “Road Kill Kitty Stocking Treats”:
Help Little Timmy relive the pain of ol’ drunk Uncle John-Earl backing over his beloved Fluffy as he made another beer run last Thanksgiving morning.
“But Darksock”, you wheedle, “what about our kids entering the magic of puberty?” I gotcha covered.
Number 6: “You Can Shave The Baby”:
Cuz it ain’t gonna shave itself…
Number 7: “Testicle & Prostate Plushies”:
Or as Hannibal Lecter calls them, “The Sweet Meats”.
Number 8: “Frat Party Barbie Playset”:
Consider this popular expansion pack to Frat Party Barbie also:
and of course the surprise free bonus -“Venereals Plushies”:
Although sometimes we fail to remember that the most special gifts are not those solid tangible objects we can hold in our hands, but rather something more ethereal…such as a wi-fi connected laptop behind Junior’s constantly locked bedroom door.
Gawker Flies Its Freakademic Flag, Tries to Summarize ‘Douchebag’
Some pseudo-intellectual warghlebarghle ‘culture’ critic named Michael Mark Cohen over at Gawker has attempted to write the history of ‘douchebag’ in popular use.
His conclusion? The term ‘douchebag’ has become a variation of a socially acceptable ethnic insult. To call someone a douchebag is, according to this pop culture Nostradamus, a coded way to racialize whiteness.
Allow me to retort.
A douchebag says no.
Critiquing the term douchebag on ethnic terms ignores the far more obvious and self-evident gender binary taking place. The perjorative context of ‘douchebag’ lies entirely in its critique of masculine ego by referencing a feminine hygiene product. To try to relocate this obvious gender interplay as a template for racial power embedded in media artifacts is to overdetermine meaning based on pre-established crotch fondle.
Let me repeat. No.
Douchebag is not a code for whiteness. It has never been used that way. If you want to project some idiotic screed on racial hierarchies and linguistic subtext onto a concept you don’t understand, I suggest entering the rarified air of Lena Dunham think pieces and Miley Cyrus twerking deconstructions. I hear Commentary and Dissent have merged to form low paying clickbait troll spew.
Ascribing douchemock to race to heat up the outrage machine and you’re just phishing for pixel chum. And no, I’m not referring to a 1990s noodle jazz fusion band that never should have left Vermont. I’m referring to an outdated mode of ethnicity studies that can’t account for convergence culture.
How do I know what ‘douchebag’ means? Because I’m the guy that redefined it back in 2006. Back then it meant either a feminine hygiene product or a rarely used insult akin to asshole. In its redefinition, douchebaggery became a term used to describe a certain type of preening hyper-masculinity. The point at which human males (and certain females) transformed into Michaelbay-ian cyborgian explosions of cartoonish idiocy and narrative incoherence. All in an effort to get the ladies by turning their bodies into neon day-glo advertisements and pop culture tinsel.
I needed a word to describe male spectacle in the age of over-saturated media stimulation. And I found it.
But there was barely a tip of the hat to the importance of HCwDB in Gawker’s rambling unthinkpiece. If you’re gonna break down the ‘bag and you don’t credit Hot Chicks with Douchebags, you’re talking out of your proverbial Foucauldian peeper steeper.
The facts is the facts. The HCwDB community is what introduced ‘douche’ analysis to contemporary discourse. Not just me. All the regs in the comments threads over the years. We parsed douchebaggery in all its hottie/douchey dialectical formulations.
Heck, I even wrote a book on the subject. So I know of what I speak. At least when it comes to frivolous colloquialisms written as satirical mock.
So put down that Fanon and Chomsky, digi-media whore, and come back to the realities of the pop culture pizza. Sometimes a slice of mushroom and roasted red peppers is just a slice of mushroom and roasted red peppers. Especially when it tans and shaves and rubs its pecs with various sundry bodylotions in the hope of attracting a party chick woo hottie.
Them’s the post-structural Derridian deconstruction. Put that in Freud’s cigar and smoke it.
So let it be written. So let it be done.
TL;DR EDIT: For those of you coming to Hot Chicks with Douchebags for the first time via that Gawker article, Gawker is the sucky. You can read the real history of the sordid, complex introduction of douchebaggery as mock in the history of Hot Chicks with Douchebags, my last daily post on this site, written last February.
Monday, July 7, 2014Douchebags are Apparently Back
I’m not okay with this.
Not.
Okay.
With this.
Unironic braggadocio with stupid hat and doucheface. Performed by shamelessly moronic hip hop suburban choadwanks. Flashin’ Benjamins, luxury (rented) cars, and lots of paid-to-boobs as proof of alpha male package.
The stupid. It burns.
Yet The Huffington Post just called this the proverbial jam of the summer.
Not okay.
Reeks like foot fung. Like donkey dung. Like the absolute worst of the mid 2000s.
I’m not saying HCwDB is back. I’m focused on my Podcast these days.
But after we’d accomplished so much over the years, I am not okay with this. A pile of rank taintstain. A pustulous music ‘video.’ It is a step back into a fetid pile of sheep piddle. It rankles the cockles of my benevolent soul.
