2020 Thoughts and Links
So what would Hot Chicks with Douchebags actually look like in the age of selfies and social media image awareness?
Good question.
And who better to answer it than legendary Hall of Scrote ubersquat, the one and only The Gator?
Now your typical’choadal bagscrote might have a brief moment of douchey Vegas Greasewank ascendance in chasing the ladies. But that’s all it is. A brief moment of youth. A grasp at the douche ring before they eventually fade quickly into suburban ennui and CostCo runs.
But the true ‘bag legends? They shmear snail slime on suckle thigh forever.
Just leatherier. And with more skin cancer.
And who is Grator than the Gator?
Here we see The Gator 2020, replete with latest conquest, Leopard Selfie Hott taking inspiration from 80s teen comedies.
Gotta give mad respek to his sandbaggery visage for staying in the ‘bag game all these years. And by respek I mean poop.
To paraphrase the immortal words of Wooderson, The Gator might get wrinklier and leatherier, but them hotts, they stay the same age.
Just like the Gator’s leathery appendages and saggy pec mounds, so too do we find ourselves in 2020. Still here. Still lumpy. Still present. But hanging on to past glories even as the ‘roids begin to turn to ashes and colon cancer.
It is I. Your humble narrator. The originary Douchebag1. And you. Loyal ‘Bag Hunter, Mocker of Choad. You have come back. Perhaps hopeful. Perhaps melancholic. Hoping to figure out when the playful innocence of the early 2000s gave way to an epic, lurid global clownshow. The world might be burning. But we still have each other.
The DB1 might not have all the answers for you. We have moved on to greener pastures. But every so often we check back whimsically on the time when social media had not yet been commoditized, monitized, caramelized, and Liza Minnelli with a scary clown at a birthday party in the 1950sized.
Here are your 2020 Thoughts and Links:
If you like and miss the rants of your humble narrator, check out an article I wrote on growing up in Boston for a new magazine called Fifty Grande. I’m honored to be in the first issue. You should subscribe. Then you’ll be into these dudes before anybody.
This leaked clip from the upcoming Judd Apatow directed Pete Davidson movie looks hilarious and promising.
I’m so tired of all the racism on TV these days. From now on I’m only letting my daughters watch The Flintstones.
Someone sent me this interview of me from 2007 the other day and I don’t remember it at all. But then again I don’t remember most of 2007. I was jacked up on Night Train and HoHos and other assorted tasty Hostess snack cakes while sitting on my rug in my one bedroom in the not-yet-cool neighborhood of Los Feliz, grappling angrily with where it all went choady/hottie.
If you want to see the imitation palatial apartment building where the DB1 lived for most of the years writing this site, here it is. The fact a UPS truck blocked the Google Camera pretty much sums up those years.
Los Feliz is now a trendy enclave where annoying fake nerd sexual abusers live and they shoot ironic self-aware serial killer TV shows. But back when the DB1 lived there, Los Feliz was mostly just sitting around and having coffee at House of Pies.
I miss those days. Now it’s Family life in the valley.
Speaking of the Valley, this is how they make love in Tarzana.
At what point is mid-career Eminem just Max Perlich in Beautiful Girls?
No joke, speaking of houses of pie, if you’re ever visiting LA, go here and order the steakburger and a slice of apple pie. You’re welcome.
This clip of Zach Braff and his girlfriend Florence Pugh celebrating her Oscar nomination is hilarious.
And here it is, your moment of Zen.
Have a great 2020!
H.R. Giger Pufnstuf Hawks Jenni-Lynn
Retch-worthy ab overdevelopment fungal growth presented in arrogant post-chodal crotch pose strikes the harpsichord of wankosity like a feral Jerry Lewis on paint thinner.
And yes, that sentence makes perfect sense.
Read backwards in the mirror, Jenni-Lynn’s tatts are Swahili for komboucha.
The 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.
Baby It’s Choad Outside
‘Tis the Season for the Greazin’!
Happy Holidays to all my longtime HCwDB fans/readers/’bag mockers who occasionally pop back in to this long retired website to say hi.
Your humble narrator is safely ensconced in middle aged ennui. Little running around time these days. Our world has taken a dark, douchey turn, that’s for sure. A lot less humorous. A lot less fun.
But we’ll always have the late aughts and the mocking of rancid Ed Hardy grease and faux hawks to keep us warm by the aging fire of our declining years.
So sayeth our 2008 Douchie Award Winners, The Metaphysical Hooligan and Carly Hott, pictured here in prime scrotal/hott contradiction.
Never forget the stupid years. They don’t seem so bad when the frivolous turns into something else.
A Waft of Yesteryear
Reader Sir Doinksalot sends in this pic as a faint echo of all that was once hottie/douchey but is perhaps no more.
I do not know if this pic is recent. Or circa HCwDB’s 2009 heyday.
But it not matter.
For this brief snapshot of toxic toe fung rejoinders to remind us.
Even in these dark choady days of Great Orange Blight sucking the oxygen from the marrow of joy like a pekid pecan pecked by a toucan, there are still the regular hottie/choadey couplings circulating the drain of cultural flush.
Thanks for the reminder S.D.
This site may be no more, but I leave it up as an uncanny relic of time past and oft forgotten. For we do not go gentle into that good internight. We rage, rage, against the orange of the blight.
Boom Siss Boom Siss
boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss…
eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah —
boom siss boom siss boom siss boom siss…
eeehhh eeehhh ehhhh — bah bah bah — eeehhh eeehhh eeehhh — bah bah bah —
The ephemeral pulsing life beat of our collective past, once horrific in its repetitive drone and emblematic of the lost specter of meaning, now receding in a haze of otherness. As our memory shifts and grows more distant. From factual present to recent past. And then again. Into the distance.
Abstraction. And then, once again, another shift to only the vaguest sliver, the barest of thread left to tie us to what was once the real and present now rendered blurry, foreign. We say goodbye to that which we once abhorred but now we recall with nostalgia tinged affection and bemusement. What once horrified. Once a toxic smell of withered sweatsock recontextualized as the simple signifier of a more innocent and ultimately harmless memory. What once was and can never be again. Dayenu.
Spy on Vegas: The Muted Mutation
So where did all those rank stench pics that fueled the HCwDB run (2006-2014) actually come from?
A question I used to get a lot. The short answer: submissions. I was (and am) far too lazy to do any real work on the internets. So I relied on the kindness of douche mocking strangers to fill my site with mock fuel.
However, in a loaf pinch, there was one main go-to source if a pic of toxic cohabit was needed on short notice. The always hot-or-twatriffic Spy on Vegas.
That weekly smorgasboard of professionally photographed flop sweat and overpriced bottle service fueled many a rant on this humble corner of pop culture detritus oh so many moons ago.
Sadly for Douche Mock, happy for real life, a recent visit to Spy on Vegas shows how much things have changed. When Douches became sentient, sometime around late 2011 (my working theory is that Cyberdyne installed social media filtration behavior modification nanobots in their Axe hair-gel), douche face, ‘bag hand gesture, and all remaining simian asswafflery receded to the memories of a simpler, more mock-worthy era.
Today, modern Day ‘bags have learned to blend when camera is present. For example: Smile politely. Dress only in black. Make no hand gestures. Display only minimal peacockery to signal the females of the species that their alpha dog status remains hugamabob and grindular.
In checking my old stomping grounds, the Vegas Wonkery is still present.
But far more muted than in its hair spike heyday.
And so it goes in the age of post-postbaggery.
Gwarface
“You go to gwar with the doucheface you have, not the doucheface you might want or wish to have at a later time.”
This shminky rends the space-time continuum with Spielbergian aplomb and apoop. All is wrong in Sheboygan, said the calico cat as it upchucked a half eaten squirrel outside Decatur.
Douchey/Happy Holidays from HCwDB!!
May you and yours cuddle by the fire and enjoy a hearty cup of Egg Noggin, or whatever it is the Christians are drinking these days. Judging by the news, I’m guessing it’s Kool-aid.
But I am not here to rant about the current angry, white Christo-douchepocalpyse that has taken hold in our country. Or even the Orange Douchepocalpyse of yesteryear. No, not even the unholy Star Wars alien teat milk that is Crissmas Angel.
For this site would be a mere flicker in the darkness of the storm that soon must rage to restore a more balanced and equinimical world not only betwixt ‘bag and hott but human and fellow human. Or Human and Dharma ‘Bag.
I am here to wish you a Happy Holidays, a Happy Hannukah, a Merry Christmas, and a Scientology Xenu Day.
Do not dispair, fellow hotts, ‘bag hunters, and those that traverse the socially constructed gender binaries therein. A better world is not that far off. Hold out hope. The Ghosts of Douchemas Past may haunt us yet, but tomorrow is another day. And the mock never truly dies.
