HCwDB
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Wednesday, May 6, 2009
No More Wednesday Limerick
All right, all you complaining that the freaky guy I included for creative fun for a Wednesday Limerick wasn’t strictly “douchey” enough on the purity test scale, I’m pulling it.
Instead you get this underwear revealing frattool, and a tasty girl next door.
A little classic fratchoad/hott to slap you upside the head.
Smell it. Smell it.
Now take it.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009White Boy
Excuse me, Mr. Boy?
The Crips are on line two.
They’d like to know if Tuesday at 3pm works for you to receive the proverbial cap in your ass.
EDIT: I’m gonna go find an ATM.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009The Alex-es Shoot… and Score!!
Turns out these two Bottle Service ordering choadclowns are some NHL hockey players named “Ovechkinbag” and “Seminbag.”
Again, I don’t begrudge farmworkers from Kazakhstan celebrating their newfound fame and glory in the NHL by dropping $9,000 on alcohol and lapdances.
I only ask that they not wear the ripped jeans that Gorky Park threw out in 1992.
Bang!! Say da da.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009HCwDB of the Week: Popeye the Scroter Man
While the hottness of Tattoo’s hott was strong, the ultimate Aqua-Velva doucheyness of Popeye carried him to victory. The voters speak:
Business-Casual Douche: The bottom line is, Popeye deserves to win because his picture, in all its douchiness, is seared into my brain. The others? Not so much.
Notadouche: Popeye. Who cares about 5 gorgeous women? Popeye has guns, and that’s what’s important here people.
Vin Douchal: Popeye the Scroter Man for the win on sheer audacity alone. He looks like a Russian mobster that doesn’t quite understand what the Witness Protection Program is all about as he mugs for the camera surrounded by ‘Zona hotts that have been on his tab since lunch.
Jac Doucheteau: I’ve changed my mind. Tattoo FTW. I could stare at that copious consortium of mammary tissue until I die of consumption. The wind generated by the passing flight of a cliff swallow could overwhelm the structural integrity of that bikini.
Dead End: Tatoo says I want my $2
M: Popeye inflicts pain and anger. He’s like a midgetized version of the guy in the Charles Atlas ads that ran in the back of old comics, who has completely worn out his schtick and now pleads with his soulless eyes (and his shirt) for the sweet release of death. Only a douchebag of the highest magnitude could block out 5 delectable hotts with such a practiced scrotiferous ease.
Archidouchies: Popeye managed to score himself 5 does. And while they all aren’t delectable, they are all there with him. But I do get a Euro feeling from the picture. It’s very…German, or Russian, or one of those former Soviet Union states.
The Donger: The “anti-tobacco” groups could not have picked a better spokesperson to scare kids straight. Of course, the “anti-HGH”, “anti-Ed Hardy shirts that are two sizes small”, “anti-normal sized testicles”, and “anti-I shave my arms” groups would have a field day with this pic too. Popeye FTW.
ImageWrangler: Popeye. For all the right reasons, and several wrong ones.
Dr. Bunsen Honeydouche: Popeye – FTW. What kind of assmunch blocks a potential bevy of hotts?? Especially blondie on the left. For all we know she could be Ass Pear the Goddess, or here sister, or her neighbor, or her gardener’s, nephew’s, uncle’s friend who works with a friend of hers from 31 flavors… Because he blocks her, he needs a barbed wire enema.
Well said, panel. Nicely dissected, but why so little love for the uberhott blonde on the right? Granted she’s hard to see with Popeye’s doucheyness blocking the view. But from where I’m sitting, she’s a biteworthy pear.
As to the runners up, Tattoo and Fantasy Hottland had their share of fans, and came in a close second. And by fans, I mean mockers:
Sergeant Scrote Stain: The smugness. And the Booby. When applying these two criteria, Tattoo is the clear cut winner. And by “winner” I mean anal sore. He “thinks” that he is “cool.” Yet we “know” that he is a “douche.” Conversely, she made sure to eat her sandwiches, and her boobies thank her for that. And so does my wiener.
JayKay: Tattoo for sure. Neckdana, stupid glasses, that hair? And possibly the hottest hott I’ve ever seen on this site.
Sky: But wait! What is this I see in #3? (rhyming unintentional) Ultra-super-hottie + monsterous scrote? Bandana, douche glasses, spiked hair, a t-shirt about partying????? #3 seems to me the most abhorrent. Vote cast.
Bag A: Tattoo FTW. The neckdana and zebra shades did it for me. Oh, and boobies. And ass pear.
sir douchealot: Tattoo FTW. Mandana, Elton John glasses, a shirt implying he’s something bigger, cactus hair, and a hott whose boobies hold the secret to the meaning of life. I just have to smush my face between them for several days to see it…
Indeed, Tattoo’s hot does well have smushy face planting boobiers, good sir. Yet the potential Gaybaggery held the Tattoo back.
And the sad splashy doucheyness of Chia Hawk came in a distant third. Dead End makes the case for why:
I’m sorry, but Chia Hawk can’t even lick Rusty the Frill-Necked Lizard’s scrote taint, let alone win pig f&cking douche scrote of the week.
Well said, Mr. End, and I heartily agree.
And so we give the crown to Popeye the Scroter Man and his five lovely, if hard to see, Olive Oyl Thighs in the background. KeirNotKeir takes us home:
I have to go with Popeye this week. Not just because he is a flexing, Ed Hardy sporting douche nozzle. But because of him, I have no idea what the hotts behind him fully look like. And by them, I mean their collective bosoms.
This is a classic hott/douche pic, and we should appreciate the too tight Ed Hardy Tee. And by appreciate, I mean mock heartily. Then repose with a tasty Pibb Xtra.
Chalk it up. We’ll see Popeye and his quintet of ambiguous hot girls in the Monthly.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009More Choadpoo
More from the douche-next-door Choadpoo collection. Think of this as the “America’s Got Taintent” portion of the show.
The part where he mugs a girl in a gnaw-worthy light blue dress that is pure cotton candy. But I did love Choadpoo back when he was a child star playing Jonathan on Who’s the Boss?
Yeah, I just made a Who’s the Boss? reference. And I even included the “?” in the title. Because I’m punctual like that.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Ask DB1: Britbags and Jacques Derrida
Reader Elizabeth Darling writes in from England:
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Dear DB1-
Sitting in a pub in Camden the other day across from my leather-jacket-clad, quiff-sculpting, indoor-glasses-wearing friend, I realised two things.
The first was akin to Darwin as he tracked the evolutional progress of primordial slime into swamp creatures; there exists in England a phenomenon which I am certain has been repeated the world over in the many variations of douchal hybrids.
The specimen I observed that sunny morning in London was of the mod-punk-rock-douche variety. The self-assurance, eyeliner and ego of the douche coupled with the “‘tude” of an ageing Sex Pistol made him utterly punchable, and it suddenly dawned upon me: my college friend is a douchebag.
The second, and more significant realisation, was that the reason why i was friends with him was his acceptance of self. He was fully aware of the metaphorical choad protruding from his forehead, getting choadier and choadier every day as he contrived a new ‘accidental’ rip in his T-shirt or purposefully sprayed a little Stella Artois down his front to give the illusion of a ‘don’t-give-a-f&ck’ alcoholic nihilist. He knew of the soft, nougaty, malodorous core of ‘bag that lay thinly concealed beneath half-formed pretensions of psuedo-intellectual philosophical rambling. And yet, using the poor bullet-riddled corpse of Irony as a shield from ‘bag-haters, he continues in this ridiculous fashion.
The crux of the matter, the great question I pose to the Oracle of all that is Hot and Douchey, is: Is the self-aware douchebag really such a douchebag after all? Like Derrida’s binary position of phenomonological meaning, does the self-declaration of douchebaggery actually nullify, or indeed counter-act it? If one proclaims “I am a douchebag”, does this in fact mean that one is… not?
My theory is that self-deprecation and consciousness of the inner choad may ameliorate, however slightly, the catastrophical social canker of douchebaggery that threatens to infect England with increasing fatality since Jack Wills launched their latest crusade. But alas, this theory is nothing without your confirmation or rejection; pray continue to lead us through the complexities of douche-kind as Virgil once led Dante through the Inferno.
England needs you, DB1.
God Speed,
Elizabeth Darling
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It is interesting you engage Derrida, E.D. as he may posit the key to understanding why the ironodouche does not gain an exemption for authentobaggery.
In his seminal text Scroters of Marx, Derrida examined the notion of the spectral haunting of past texts upon present thought, signified at the moment of both recognition and simultaneous negation. This entanglement with the past and present suggests a shifting signifier operating complexly. We can neither negate the originary meaning of the sign, nor repurpose it as douche.
As such, Derrida’s “differance” within post-structuralist understandings of subjectivity does not mean an inversion of douchological signification through the rupture of self-awareness. It simply means that the act of realization, conversion from phantasm into the realm of the linguistic or corporeal, summons the real as it destroys the spectral.
In short, boobies are bouncy.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009The Frying-Pan-to-the-Head 'Bag
Some categories of ‘Bag that we mock here at HCwDB defy archetype.
For these greasy mugs who dare to curl up with dark haired girl-next-door Raven cutes, we place them in the Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag category.
Because, well, I’d like to… yeah. I suppose it is pretty self explanatory.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009The Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag
Some categories of ‘Bag that we mock here at HCwDB defy archetype.
For these greasy mugs who dare to curl up with dark haired girl-next-door Raven cutes, we place them in the Frying-Pan-to-the-Head ‘Bag category.
Because, well, I’d like to… yeah. I suppose it is pretty self explanatory.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Waxy McBrow
There’s three things Waxy McBrow knows before he heads off to the club to mack on the European Hotts:
1. One’s brows must be perfectly waxed and sculpted
2. No seriously, like, perfectly waxed and sculpted
3. He likes turtles
A little later, Waxy McBrow will present an argument on the merit of his phallus by fondling a large bottle of Grey Goose.
And even later, Lamey McFriend and his girl will come by and crash their bottle service.
Where they will talk about turtles.
And yes, I’m all too gut-painfully aware of the level of insane uberhott that is Rachelle. My sonnets will compose to her mammalians all afternoon as I descend into latent alcoholism by 3pm.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009Breaking: Marissa Miller Still Married to Douche Cactus
2008 Douchie Award Finalist for “Douchiest Celebrity Couple,” Marissa Miller and Cactus are still married.
Repeat… still married.
HCwDB News will keep you updated with the latest as it unfolds in this developing story.
By which we mean the moment Marissa Miller wakes up one morning and says, “I’m Marissa Miller. wtf.”
If you’re curious who won the 2008 Douchie Award for Douchiest Celebrity Couple, the answer is here. As if you had to ask.
