That girl smiling on the right is just superb. She makes me think that all is good in the world. The girl on the left is also fantastic. The douche sandwiches in the middle? Not so much.

Signs of douchitude in these two douche-padawans are subtle, but they are there. Note how the drink is held. Douche. The face. Uber-douche. And of course the coral necklace.

Speaking of mini-scrotes, little Timmy himself made an appearance in the comments section of his pic, showing that 11 year old mini-douches have a sense of humor. Which definitely scores him points. And that's good, because it means he scored something that night.

When one reaches a certain level of zen-douchitude, it's apparently possible to grow hottie heads out of one's shoulder.

How much do I hate this oily middle aged wank? It's not just the 'Bag Elvis Hand Gesture #36, the blond hilights or the fact the douche is wearing a flower belly shirt, a belly shirt, fer chrissakes.

Okay, yes, it is just all of that.

That angelic dark haired beaut makes the DB1 feel like, well, drinking. Okay, so does a root canal, or a scoop of ice-cream, or a good book. I got a drinking problem. I know that.

But what I don't know is how beauties like these two find themselves allowing wankers to fondle their bellies while the DB1 sips his 'train solo. It just ain't fair.

10 Degree Hat boy's collar popped so far off his Polo that it's disappeared. Blondie is just wispy haired fantastic.

If Judd Nelson and Dieter from the old SNL "Sprockets" sketch had a douched out love child, it would be this snotball right here. Nice ass chin, scrote.

Morning boobies are always booberific if you like boobies like I like boobies. They may be douche infected hotties, but I'd love them. Repeatedly. For up to three minutes if I think about baseball.

Somebody let Little Timmy into the club and now he's running wild. Go, Timmy, go!

Hmm, there's a consensus that last pic is "adult entertainment" related, which it definitely didn't strike me as, seeing as how the four of them are so bizarrely placed. I'll leave it up on the site, even though it may not really jibe with our 'bag hunting.

Anyway, it's that time for my lazy-ass plea to the readers.

If you've got a pic of a classic scrote posing with a hottie, send it along to me at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com. Please make sure the pic is big enough to post (at least 600 pixels wide) and also a small file size if possible. Some of you are clogging up my in-box with 3.2 meg pics of your best friend, who doesn't look remotely douchey, posing with his girlfriend, who isn't remotely hot. This site ain't called "Mediocre Chicks with Generics." The total scumbuckets are out there posing with hotties as we speak. Lets collectively mock the holy bling right out of them. Send me your best stuff.

Also I'm gonna be adding message boards to the site shortly so we can keep discussions of our favoite 'bags and the hotties who love them going. If anyone can recommend a good free (or very cheap) message board site that even a half-drunk douchebag like myself can figure out how to HTML, email me the info and I'll buy you a bottle of Night Train.

I can't even begin to comprehend what's going on in this pic. Jesus 'Bag seems to have convinced two fairly normal looking women to pose with him while his nuts are sans constraint. In addition, he's convinced a cutie to go nude as well. And not just any cutie. A cutie so hot I wanna shove gummi-bears up my nose until I pee glucose.

And what's with the poker table? Was this a game of strip poker gone Dali-level surreal? Jesus Scrote doesn't even appear to know he's naked. Not to mention he's displaying Unholy Scrotite, the polar opposite of the Holy Cleavite. Ugh.

So what's the story behind this pic? My head is going to explode trying to decipher the absurdities of this moment in time. Yegods.

Speaking of poker and gambling fun, I wonder if you can play strip poker at one of these top online casinos.

When did the 'bags suddenly decide that rubbing their own man-boobs was a sexy thing to do? This is like the fifth pic I've seen where some fratdouche is feeling himself up while two hotties sit nearby completely ignored.

And hotties they are. Oh yes. Two twin bills of scrumptuous oven baked goodness. Two stalks of ripening cornhusks in the morning air. If ripening cornhusks had perky boobies and legs I'd chew on for a three day weekend, that is.

I'd set this self fondling mantat on fire and push him down a flight of stairs. Then I would jump up and down on these two enchilladas like a poodle on speed.

And then there are mornings like this morning, when I roll out of bed, make up a nice bowl of Count Chocula with a hearty glass of Sunny D to wash it down, turn on my computer, and see this pic of uber-douche tonguebag with his exotic hottie sidekick. And it is only then that I realize Nietzsche was correct when he said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Douchebags are scrotes."

And then I wash away that existentialist realization with alcohol. It works nicely.

Exotic Hottie is all sorts of Persian goodness. I'd roll her in a taco and dip her in guacamole.

For those complaining that we're not featuring enough true scrote on the site, it's time to melt your eyes off with this utterly stanky picture of douchitude.

Feel the douche overwhelm you. Perceive the spikey hair. The neon jacket. The face of nutsackitude.

See the hottie. Realize she's with this penis pencil. And bow to the all consuming power of the unholy HCwD pic's ability to summon all that is wrong in the universe.

Fear not loyal readers, the true uber scrotenuts will always find a home here at HCwD where we can mock their spikey hair and gelled forehead, while ranting away at the hotness they've managed to procure.

For those newbies who don't know what "Cleavite" is, it's the patch of skin a woman displays in her cleavage that is lighter in tone, as less sun has tanned it. That pale area, as demonstrated by this juicy sex pumpkin, is the Holy Cleavite. Bow to it. For it is all powerful. And all knowing.

Okay people, time to chime in with your thoughts. I don't know that Creepy McEyebrow here is technically a 'bag, but anyone with a haircut this utterly butchered, deserves at least an honorable mention here at HCwD.

So have at it, fellow 'bags. Let me know what you think in the comments section below.

Do furry caterpillar eyebrows qualify as douche? What about Flowbee haircut? Garage sale Hawaiian shirt?

What about the simultaneous 'Bag Head Butt and throat choke move he's performing on his chicka?

I'm waffling on whether to include him as a true 'bag or not. Then again, I'm waffling over whether I need to wash my bed's sheets since it's been over three months. And they're starting to move on their own. I keep meaning to, but I'm a busy guy staring at the stains on my rug and chugging the 'train. What can I say? Making fun of hotties and the scrotes who love them takes a lot out of a 'bag.

Scrote, I realize it sucks turning 40 and realizing you're never going to have sex with a cutie again. I realize the pain of middle age and the mediocrity your life has become means you furiously spank it to repeat episodes of MTV's "The Hills." But that does not excuse making the Shocker gesture at your age.

No it doesn't.

In fact, in your mediocre saggy presence, The Shocker is more like a faint electric zap. Like from a dying AA battery. A twinge. A buzz. A last gasp at youth and relevancy.

That's all you can summon, Scrotey McOld? Pack it in.

FratDouche writes in to share with us this smelly pile of camel poo who's apparently been polluting up the hotties for a number of years on his MySpace page. Here he is overwhelming this luscious legged but a bit too skinny little blond pixie-stick with his rank smelliness.

Poor girl. She doesn't know what hit her.

This thinning haired party boy o' douche will be making recurring appearances here at HCwD. Lets call this grinning hyena FratDouche, in honor of the reader who found him.

Peace out, FratDouche. Peace out.

Today's Edition of HCwD is brought to you by Axe Body Spray.

For that utterly douche smell that says, "I can't get laid, so I'll purchase a product that claims it'll help me get laid."

Because nothing quite says "I'm an utter scrote" like spraying on something that smells like a musky high school locker room in the vague belief that it'll somehow turn women into hungry sex crazed lunatics.

Not since the Spanish Fly purchasing run of the late 1980s has one product so fully encapsulated the douchebag mindset.

Axe.

When popping a collar and greating a forehead isn't enough to say "douche."

I sorta feel bad for this hottie getting called a "douche," but so it goes when she dates a scrote.

Reader Pix writes in all the way from Australia to send us this pic of his "mate" who's rapidly descending down the path to pure Grieco.

Sure the signs might not be as overt. Looking at this wanky golden haired nancy boy, one might just assume he lost his audition for the new all Australian musical revue, Who Can it Be Now? It's Men at Work! But looking closer one sees classic douche infection signs.

The hand behind the head. The douchey arm gesture. The feathered Simon Le Bon 1985 post-"Reflex" haircut. The infected chickas on either side. The mysterious orange silk necklace, which may or may not contain backstage passes to see "Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts."

The douche plague is spreading, people, let there be no doubt. Even as far away as Australia is suffering the douche signs. Who will step up? Who will be this generation's Jonas Salk and manage to cure the douche virus before it infects us all, pops our collars and makes us all wear Jesus bling?

Thanks to the always excellent work of intrepid 'bag hunter, Douchestar Runner, here we find the third appearance on the site for Champaigne Superdouchebag, who also appeared as Michael J. Fox 'Bag.

Proving that scrotes can find many ways to prove their rank douchitude, C.S.D. busts out the 80s pink jacket, the greased brow, the stubble, the rings, and, of course, the face 'o turd.

This cutie isn't super hot, and the lab coat suggests deep douche-viral infection, but I'd still lick her chin like a postage stamp while slide stepping to the muzak version of "Mambo Number Five."

Getting back to a classic 'bag at HCwD, here's a Pussface McScrote busting the usual 'bag hand gesture while tackling a very sexy, and very young looking, chicka.

I'm gonna pray she's over 18 or else my brain is going to thought-crime jail for violating that hotness in thirty-three flavors (with all due respect to ice-cream...mmm... ice cream).

We don't need a vote on this, I'm officially appointing James Blunt as Douchebag of the Month. Merely for the fact that no matter where I go I gotta listen to this squirrel-nuts voiced dandy falsetto-sing "You're beautiful, you're beautiful!" over and over again like some sackless eunuch poet from Madhya Pradesh.

Dude, we get it. Fake emo music scores the chicks. Now please die.

I'm coining a new term -- BluntBag. the BluntBag is the emo rocker faux-poet douchebag who all the guys know is the biggest a-hole misogynist around but continues to fool the hotties into thinking he's "deep."

Listen up, BluntBag. The only thing that's "deep" is the pounding you deserve in Federal Douchebag Prison where likeminded scrotes can help you get in touch with your "soft" side by seeing how many frets on a guitar it takes to tickle the upper part of your colon.

You can tell by the way they move their walks, they're total douchebags, no time to talk.

(I may have used that joke before on the site, but I'm still hungover)

It's friday nite, and the DB1 is off to drink with friends. May all you hotties stay 'bag-free this weekend, and may all you guys resist the temptations of the 10 Degree Hat.

Thanks to all for some great emails and submits this week, apologies if I didn't write back. Hope the Vegas pics were entertaining, and we'll crank it up with some more douchey goodness next week. I'll try to post over the weekend too, some fantastically skanky new pics just came in.

May you all crack open a bottle of the 'Train and ride off into the sunset tonite...

The line forms behind me to suckerpunch this scrote in the face. Take your whacks, people.

One at a time.

Step right up...

Proving that once the Grieco virus takes hold there's no turning back, here's this cute little Fortune Cookie from the previous pic once again seeking out a shirtless Guido 'Bag, this one featuring perhaps the most complex Jesus Bling this side of early 80s vintage Mr.T.

Oversized glasses give away Hottie #2's long descent into douche-madness and greasy shirtless boy here appears to be attempting to match the expression on the giant mask behind him. Weird. Perhaps they're at an ancient Mayan Douche Temple where this scrote is revered as a God or something.

Either way these two bean sprouts make me want to drink saki and watch some Takashi Miike flicks until I pass out.

Whew. That Hard Rock recap leaves me feeling limp and slightly queasy. So to cheer us up I thought we'd take a look at a sexy little Asian fortune cookie and her shirtless guido 'bag.

Hmm. Not really cheering me up.

The Guido 'Bag is a recent accessory. Somewhat like a Gucci Bag, hotties carry the Guido 'Bag on their arms to proudly proclaim their taste in douche. Not the recent inverted 10 Degree Hat move, or what some refer to as the 80 Degree Hat. A new level of douchitude for all to behold.

Even though Chocolate Luv here
is sporting a similar white-black clothing combo to her shocked out bleached boy toy, for some reason I'm far more forgiving of her than I am him. Maybe because her knee-highs boots are fantastic. Maybe because any hottie who shows some cleavite scores major points.

However this albino tool's ripped sleeved, black tie wearing combo sends searing shockwaves through my synapses. That's four "s" words for those counting at home.

Here's a fifth: Scrote.

Welcome back for part 2 of my adventures in Douche Mecca, or, as the law might call it, Date Rapes in Training. To paraphrase the great Woody Allen by way of Groucho Marx, "Douchebags smell like poo." Or something like that.


I entered the Garden of Gel carefully, stepping over discarded Izod shirts and Polo collars. I quickly discovered that besides spinning "If I were a Rich Girl" and "Since You've Been Gone" on endless loops, the D.J. also occasionally took to the mic to encourage the guys to "splash" and the chickas to "flash."

And if there's anything we've learned in this crazy, crazy world, it's that young hotties will do anything if you command them to do it.

Except sleep with me. Or talk to me. Stupid hotties.

While only a few of the chickas actually took to the command, you can see one of them quickly trying to cover up again in the pic above. Note King 'Bag in the red trucks surveying his fiefdom.


Here's another healthy mammaried young lass trying to escape the splashing. She glances back at the spontaneous forming of a "Circle o' Douche" behind her -- five or six guys more interested in splashing each other than in noting the bouncing goodness behind them.




And then there was this fur-'bag and his douche-hatted companion.


I appreciated this creature more when he was bleeding goats down in South America.

Blondie's Nicole Ritchie thing doesn't do it for me, but I'd still rub crisco on those abs and cook up some bacon.




Here's another wide shot of Douche Mecca in all its glory:


I was an especially big fan of Rainbow Trunks Bag stumbling around at water's edge like a trained seal.

I almost threw him a fish.

Dig that blond goodness in the lower left.




And then there was Los Lonely WhiteMan.


I felt sorta bad for this shrively chested loner. Two hotties gyrating directly behind him, and yet he sat motionless in Douche Mecca, unmoved yet unbowed.

Los Lonely WhiteMan knows all.

Perhaps he is a douche philosopher like me. Reflecting and ruminating on all that is scrote.

But regardless, that sunburn's gonna hurt like a bitch.

Check out this angelic hottie moving among the crowd.


She was fantastic. And, like many of today's cuties, she knew it. And she knew you knew it. And she knew you knew she knew it.

But she didn't know you knew she knew you knew she knew it.

So you have that on her.

In fact, I don't think she stopped circling the grotto. She was like a 'Bag Pied Piper, leading the scrotes to drown in the river.

I especially appreciated that her bouncer friend sports the now more frequently recurring 'bag Jesus Bling/Tat combo. That's just genius on so many levels o' douchitude, one hardly knows whether to sacrifice a 10 Degree Hat on the Altar of Grieco for thanks or not.

More classic HCwD combos dotted the edge of the inner part of the grotto pool near the bar:


Ratty capped ninny here may bust a watch the size of Miami, but he's also cuddling a sultry dark haired mama who's tan body was so perfect it actually caused a spontaneous orange bandana to grow out of the dude's backside.

Gebus she's good. If you do nothing else productive today, the mere cognition of the perfection of this hottie's love mounds are effort enough to secure the advancement of collective higher consciousness.


Over by the south side of the pool, things were quieter.


HCwD combos like this cute as a button hatted hottie, her Rob Schneider looking purple towel wearing friend, and her greasy/hairy beer guzzling scrote accessory popped up like douche fungal growth along a river bank.

Or perhaps douche flowers along the edge of the Nile.

Note the color of the water. I believe they refer to that as "DNA Saturated Gray."

Here's another outgrowth:


Nothing's more charming than a hairy behemoth rubbing his own nipples while sipping a 32 ounce shooter.

Did I go in the water? With scrotes like this letting their nutsacks soak like they were ice fishing with two saggy teabags? I'd rather gargle with Paris Hilton's blood test down at the local STD clinic.

And then... amidst all the doucheyness and Grieco virus, I found one hottie who not only smiled when I aimed my camera in her direction, but posed for me repeatedly until I snapped this pic of perfection:


I love you, Anonymous Hottie, wherever you are. Even as beer guzzling, belly scratching toe funguses circle you, you remain a vision of perfection and loveliness that makes the DB1 feel like writing love poetry in Sanskrit and burying it for a thousand years just to confuse archeologists. You are just plain gorgeous, sweet and friendly. Stay away from the 'bag plague, A.H. They're swarming. Always swarming.

If anyone knows this piece of candy-corn sweetness, tell her the DB1 would leave his wife and kids for her. Of course I'm not married and don't have any kids. But I would go out, get married, and have three kids just so I could divorce my wife and leave them all for this pixie stick of love.

And there you have it. My Adventures in Douchedom. Scary. Enlightening. And hopefully entertaining.

Now back to reader submits. If you have a pic of a HCwD combo you think I'd enjoy, send it in to douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com.

Okay, now I really gotta get a coffee. That Night Train hangover's a mean she-bitch.

A little known rule of douchebaggery is that there's no clearer path to scrote than when the white guy tries to look "pimp." This wigga clown needs to be sodomized with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon until he screams for his Axe body spray.

Yeah yeah, I know, another costume party pic, but look at that face. That greasy-ass wannabe Elvis face with the chin pubes, and you tell me he isn't ass. This guy could wear glasses and a business suit, be an expect on Quantum Mechanics, he could quote Shakespeare and I'd still want to set his eyebrows on fire and jab him with toothpicks until his inner Jesus Bling bled through his eyeballs.

If Johnny Depp and Chris Robinson mated with a pile of lobster poo, the result would be this rocker scrote. Enjoy his douchey face for all its shiny goodness. For it is testes-face.

Note Dog Tag Bling and the whitest chest this side of Cocoon: The Return.

Hard to tell how hot his sexed up companion is, but one thing's clear: Her douche infection is beyond repair.

The DB1 is still unpacking and washing the stench of Hard Rock douchitude off, but tomorrow's pics from the party should be enough to fire up the HCwD head spinning revoltitude we love so dearly.

Your humble narrator on this dark journey up the douche river that we've taken together, DB1, is finally back from his travels into the heart of doucheness. Vegas. The Hard Rock Casino.

Sunday's exclusive Rehabber's Club party.

Think MTV's spring break on douchebag steroids. Or Dante's 5th Circle of douchebag hell. Or, if you're an art fan, think a Jackson Pollock canvas if he used hotties and douchebags instead of paint.

But before we get to Douche Mecca, lets recap my adventures that got me there.

After a brief stopover at the Hilton to check out the Star Trek convention (even I'm not cruel enough to call those dorks douchebags), I ran into this guy:


Uhm.. Yeah.












After watching Klingons grew tiresome and seeing Young Spock from Star Treck 3 now in his mid 40s and losing his hair, I quickly redirected my energy towards the day's goal: The Sunday afternoon Rehabber's Party at the Hard Rock Casino. One of the hardest tickets to get into in Vegas.

Pulling up at the Hard Rock, it wasn't hard to see why:


Sexed out hotties in skimpy clothes were all over the casino. And, as is the case, the douched up scrotes were circling like bees.

Check out sideburns boy here, busting the Macy Gray hat. His tanned up little minx even caught the eye of the free agent 'bags waiting in line to check it.

The Hard Rock was everything I'd hoped -- a swirling cesspool of douchitude and hotness that made my head spin.

After hitting the blackjack tables and downing a few Coronas (the Hard Rock casino is a blast) , I made my way over to the Rehabber's Party line, which was overflowing with all the uber-'baggitude I'd hoped it would be:


This was the front of the line, but it went all the way down the hallway and into the casino. Hotties and 'bags were standing around by the hundreds, toasting each other with cans of Miller Lite and the occasional eloquent and artful cry of a "Woo!"

I asked the guys at the front of the line how long they'd been waiting to get in. "Three and a half hours, bro! Awww Yeah!" as they busted 'Bag Hand Gestures #42, #23, and #19A. Unfortunately my camera wasn't quick enough to capture such douchitude.

No one who wasn't staying at the hotel could get in without waiting three hours and paying the 30 dollar cover-fee. Not even the wanna-be rappers in the pic above (by the door).

All were blocked. By this scrote, manning the door:


Seriously.

This popped collar spikey haired bouncer 'bag was so beyond regular douche, so beyond uber-douche, his force of scrote actually spontaneously created a new element on the periodic tables -- Douche-Nine.

Douche-Nine took his job seriously. Extremely seriously. Choosing who could and could not gain entrance to the Rehabber's Party is perhaps the most important job in the entire universe.

There was one rule and one rule only for getting into the Rehabber's Club: Have an uber-hottie with you to balance your douchiness.


In other words, to get in, you needed to be a HCwD combo. But as long-time readers of the site know, this makes perfect sense, as the HCwD combo encompases all meaning, philosophy, nuance, existential pain, intellectual journey and spiritual onslaught that we each face on a daily basis.

Like bald Twisted Sister 'Bag here with his nervous designer bag carrying hottie. Each on their own is nothing special. But by coming together their HCwD Powers just might, might, be enough to convince Douche-Nine to let them gain entrance to Douche Mecca.

Proving that the power of the HCwD combo is more than even solo hot chicks, check this pic out (click on it for more detail if it's too dark. And by "detail," I mean to see the boobs more clearly).


Solo cupcakes like this one on the right were wandering the hallways, hardly believing they couldn't immediately gain entrance to Douche Mecca. Scrotes would attempt to talk to them with clever enjoinders like "Yo!" and "Whatsup girl?" But the hotties wouldn't flirt with outsider-bags too unscrote to gain entrance.

So they circled the front angrily until the Douche-Nine finally let them in.



Eventually the scrotes began to swarm the door, preventing even this uber-hot blondie with perfect legs from getting in, even as she brought four 'bags with her.


Note Douche-Nine on the very right of the pic holding back the unwashed 'bag masses from attaining entrance to Douche Mecca.

Here's another look at this frustrated blonde being held back from Mecca by the power of Douche-Nine:





But blondie would not be deterred. All she had to do was remove her shirt, and entrance would be gained.







Hotties like this one were the only few chosen ones getting by Douche-Nine and directly into the Rehabber's Party, and she came, naturally, with three uber-bags in tow.


As you can tell by her attributes, it was an easy choice to make. Note the circling douchebags with no prayer in hell of getting into the party before Monday trying to latch on to her powers of the HC.

No dice, bros. No way Douche-Nine lets you pass.






As to your humble narrator?

The Grieco viruses had now gone airborn, and I was concerned for my own well being. What would being this close to source-scrote and Douche Mecca do to a human being? Was I pushing the bounds of acceptable exposure to new and unhealthy douche levels?

No. I had to keep going.

I couldn't stop here, right on the edge of seeing the source of all that's unholy and rank in the coupling patterns of the HC and D. I could not turn back now.

After standing around for awhile I realized that there was no way this humble pilgrim could get this close to Douche Mecca only to be turned away by a greasy scrote sipping bottled water and repeatedly rubbing his own stubble.

I owed it to you, the reader.

So I used my powers of douche-hunter persuasion and, after busting a couple of cans of Miller Lite, I had suitably become Essense Du Douche. Being the clever bastard that I am, I managed to finagle my way inside using a series of Douchebag Mind Control techniques that only a Master possesses.

I can not give away the secrets of how I gained entrance. Know only that by studying this site, by reading me every day, can you too learn the power of Douchebag1.

And so I was inside. And there it was.

Douche Mecca:


Tilted hats.

Low hanging shorts.

'Bag Hand Gestures #1-#239.

Stage-4 infected Bleethed out terminal hotties in string bikinis.

Water with about 300 different strands of DNA floating in it.


Yes folks, I had journeyed upriver for you, my loyal readers, only to find the place from which all HCwD power originates. As source-douche as any Grieco, Baio or even early 1990s Corey Feldman. "Wooos!" abounded like siren calls from the wilderness. The air was filled with dancing Grieco viruses as the 'Bags and Hotties congregated like Douche-Gods on the Island of Delos.

The Lord said "Let there be Douche."

And it was douche.


The D.J. was spinning. The cabanas had flat-screen T.V.s. Miller Lites were everywhere. Hotties were being groped by 'bags in the water.

And your humble narrator was there to witness it all.







Tomorrow: More pics of my adventures inside Douche Mecca.

Pics shortly...

I know the Halloween pics aren't the best indicator of uber-'bagginess, but Zombie Luke Skywalker here needs some collective scorn heaped upon that douchey chinned mug.

I don't know how Zombie Luke convincd this delectible candy to accompany him anywhere, but thus is the power of the Douche Force.

That pink bikini just hurts on a deep psychic schism. I loves me the brunettes, it's true.

I just found out this site is blocked by some work filters that consider it "adult." Now come on, how is ferreting out all that is deeply scrote among douchebags and the hotties who love them worth blocking from work websites? Anyways if you're having problems accessing the site at work, email me, and let me know if you have any thoughts on how I can get around it via HTML or other forms of high-tech magic.

Also apparently that dude three photos down with the "Holy Cleavite" is some c-list actor. Doesn't make him any less of a douchebag.

Can't wait to upload the Vegas pics. Just flew back to L.A., currently second to the Vegas on the HCwD head assplosion scale... more shortly...

Further cementing the notion that shirtless douchebags have gone from a freak occurance to a plague of epic proportions, these two cold sores represent merely the latest outbreak.

This pic is classic 'bag sandwich. The hottie's a bit too skinny for my tastes, but she's still good in that elfin way.

Douchebag on the right shows off his underwear in a way that makes me want to take a pliers to his nuts. T-1000 Terminator 'bag on the left needs his chest wax set on fire.

Douchey Osmond hasn't had much of a career since the Osmonds broke up in the early 80s, but at least he's still getting the hotties.

I'm not much of a fake boobies fan, but those are some perky-ass starfish.

And an 18 pack abs has gotta be heaven for your humble narrator, on his way back from Vegas as we speak...

Some 'bag-hunter apprentices ask me, DB1, how will I know The Holy Cleavite when I see it?

And I answer: Grasshopper. One can never anticipate nor prepare for the revelation of The Holy Cleavite. One can only experience it in the Moment. In the Present. In the Now.

The Holy Cleavite is not a place. It is not a thing. It is a state of Mind.

Experience It. Know It. Drool over It.