2015 Smoot Says “Groooo”
Wherein once a Gregorian chant intoned by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos lilted across the flora of pristine rainforests.
Now a plaintive cry winds its way across the landscape of Vegas bottle service beholden only to hottie/douchey memory.
For it may be a simple syllabic grunt.
A primal gutturality of overextended credit card and extreme cardio pilates.
But it is also an aural beacon. A sonic marker. As if a thousand Israeli Shofars cried out as one and were suddenly douchey.
For within that dulcet pedantic cry lies a blend of emotive purity and pristine pectoral flex.
Smoot hath seen the New Year dawn.
And it is Groooo.
Meaty Meat Santa Pud and The Paid-to-Pose Elven Hotts Wish You and Yours a Jolly Douchey Christmas!!
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my true blave gave to me… Meaty Meat Santa Pud and the Paid-to-Pose Elven Hotts peeing in the egg noggggg…
Well hello there. Yes. DB1 here. Your humble narrator still wanders the barren landscape of pop culture vibrato.
Still occasionally tripping the riff linguistic with emotive gusto and a packet of HoHos for sustenance.
I may not post all that often these days. But I will do my best to post here and there, or at least every blue moon, in the new year. And then there’s always your noblest of crusaders, DarkSock, leading the regs and bringing the mock via time-travel to 2005.
Christmas may not be my holiday. But it’s most people’s holiday. So on behalf of HC1, BC1, and myself (DB1), here’s hoping you have a Merry Christmas, a Happy post-Hannukah, a Festivus grievance or a Spaghetti Monster’s noodley appendage. Just make sure you never run into this toxic de-coupling, and that the new year will finally see satan’s douche army of Criss Angels macking on tasty brunette cocktail hotts smoted once and for all.
Smited?
Smate?
There is no denying it. The scragglewanks still walk amonst us. Our work is not yet done.
I may no longer lead the daily charge. But I tip my cup of ‘Train to all that carry on this noblest of noblest Tikkun Olam. Fight onward. Mock harder. And repose with an enjoyable, tasty sandwich once in awhile. For that is what the great Warren Zevon recommended before he passed onward to that great kitchen in the sky.
Truer words were never spoken.
HCwDB 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.
Somewhere in Sheboygan, A Lone Fartfungusface Twaddles With Kelly
And as they twaddle, two lonely Bud Light Limes go undranked upon.
The Stuffed Turkwadius
And as a nation sits down to celebrate ritual festivity and familial obligation, a lone Turkwadius greases his chin fung uponst the plump, fertile cranberries of a dancer known only as ‘Harvest Season.’ And by polio blankets, I mean the groin itch.
If My Psyche Were to Direct a Music Video
It might look like GoGo Yubari by way of Taylor Swift by way of Betty Boop by way of Darksockian horse cosplay by way of hallucinogenic bullet train vending machine sashimi ecto-plasmonic vomitorious technospew.
Or, as Toshiro Mifune might say before committing ritual seppuku at the shame brought upon his once proud culture, ‘Sake it off’…
The Grumpus Turns Away in Shame
And, lo, the Grumpus Societal Id contemplates the hottie/douche cohabit as Rashi once studied the butterfly. And then, after due consideration, the Grumpus turns away. In sadness and in shame. She is leaving. She is leaving. But the salacious crud still remains.
Whence our collective gaze doth consider, true enlightenment may or may not follow. It is certainly not assured.
But we must remember that enlightenment is not the goal when poochy cup slap betwixt greasy poo choad and suckle taught lilac takes place.
The process is the enumeration. Or so sayeth the wise ones that once twitched like prime Jerry Lewis in spasmodic temples of yore. One must look. And then one must turn away. To consider. To meditate. To ruminate. To regurgitate. And to watch DVR’d episodes of Deadliest Catch while eating Funyuns and scratching inappropriately.
So do not judge as Grumpus refuses to gaze like carnivorous gazelle. For without averting her eyes, the stench of laundry detergent and semi-employment at the Casino buffet on the midnight to six AM shift would forever remain un-comprehended. And theretofore, unknown.
Happy ‘Bagoween!!
Ah, yes. The spectacular Pimpbag and his Gaggle of Woo.
Even the leniency of spectacle on this Hallow’s Eve is not enough to excuse douche essence.
Let this post be a shout-out to all ‘bag hunters and huntresses still occasionally dropping in on this creaky bloggy legacy of a previous internet age now banished to myth and legend.
No matter how much Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter take away the authentic voice in favor of a stream of carefully calibrated clickbait stim, HCwDB will remain in its purest form.
I may not post all that often these days. But your humb narrs is still wandering around this vast digital wasteland.
Still horrified at the vacuous state of digitally lubricated party insanity that transforms us into walking billboards of inconspicuous consumption.
Douchebags and party woo hotts may have sublimated their spectacle. But the choadspoo continues to spew like a load of rotting scrotal toad.
The ‘bag/hott dialectics rot the core of spiritual progress that all generations must necessarily undertake. Or abdicate, to the tragic detriment of all.
Enjoy the Hallow’s Eve and all wherefore to come as we head into the days of Turkey and Jesus. But carry on the mock for all to see the enlightment that oh so often penetrates the fog of an overstimulated, exhausted, frantic neutron dance decimated by too much media crotch fondle and not enough clarity.
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.
Reader Mail: Military ‘Bag Hunter carries on the Good Fight
An old friend of HCwDB checks in:
——
Good day to you DB1!
So as I was browsing the internet this afternoon I got reminded of your site. Not having been on it in a very long time I decided to scope it out and see the horrible photos of douchewanks that I enjoy mocking so much as they make complete asses of themselves in front of scantily clad women.
As to my surprise and with a bit of sadness I see that you have more or less retired from the daily heckling of these turds and have decided to move onto bigger and better things. For that I salute you, because every good thing must come to an end. BUT as I read through your story about the website itself I came across where you mentioned that you started to get a following of soldiers and posted this link.
Well sir, the person who sent you that mail was none other than me almost five years ago. I completely forgot I even sent it to you, and I am honored that you would put that link up as part of your personal story of the website. As an update to you and the others who wished me a safe deployment I will tell you that I survived my 12 month combat tour in Afghanistan unharmed. I returned home to my friends and family, and continued my mission to rid the earth of douchebags. these following years I became a private contracted soldier and fought Somali pirates all across Africa. And as the icing on the cake in my battle against baggery, last year I worked as stage security for Jerry Springer tossing shitbags around a stage for their idiocy. I have included a picture as proof of my ongoing mission.
Thank you for your website and thank you for reading this.
Regards
Military Bag Hunter
——
Good to hear from you again, MBH, and let me offer you a hearty salute and welcome home. I am pleased as Ponch to see you bring the good douchemock to the heart of Trashbaggery on the legendary Jerry Springer Show.
I am also heartened to see the legacy of douchebag mock continue to reverberate in many ways, forms, and wherefores. Now that you’re home safe and sound, MBH, may all of your hotts be of the purest of suckle thigh. And may the grease taint of rankbaggery wash easily off your hands when your work tossing Springerbags is done.
