Inspired by the haikus posted by Seattle Bagslayer and the frequently posting anonymous in the earlier haiku pic, here's your weekend assignment fellow 'bags and hotties:

Haiku this pic.

Post your best crack at the ancient form of Japanese poetry in the comments section and Monday we'll run the best one.

Yup, it's Friday. Crack a bottle of Irish Rose and salute the Hotties and curse the 'Bags who infect them with their rank douchitude...

Here's a little TongueScrote action to close out your Friday and get you properly annoyed and disgusted. And of course, these two little Philly Cheesesteaks help kill that pain and chase it with a nice soothing dose of smooth and creamy melted cheese.

Mmm... melted cheese.

I wanna crossbow Pinky McStripe
right between those two tootsie rolls he calls 'brows.

It's not that I have anger issues. It's the tonguebags that bring that out. Honest. Other than wanting to set douchebags on fire, I'm actually quite the pacifist.

Even Gandhi had his limits.

You're telling me good old Mahatma wouldn't want to set scrotes on fire?

You.

Yes you.

The guy reading HCwD right now in his cubicle.

Don't look around, I'm talking to you.

Look at this pic to the left here. Look at this greasy gasface. He's not better than you. Yet look what he's embracing while you type in data-entry info on your lousy ass temp job.

You gonna take it? You gonna let this Eastern European looking chin fungus embrace a blonde piece of heaven while you sit and stare at a flickering monitor and wonder how long until you can get up again and wander into the office kitchen so you can check out Susan, the minimally attractive legal assistant in the cubicle near the men's bathroom?

You just going to sit there and let this pic exist in digital reality without any form of retribution? What kind of a man are you, office boy? Get out there and do some damage! The hotties are being swarmed by scrote as we speak, and you just sit there?

It's Friday Night. The 'bags are out in force. The hotties are being covered with the odor of Axe Bodyspray grease and unbuttoned shirt douche virus as we speak. What are you gonna do about it?

Stevie Ray VaughnBag here features the best pube-chin I've seen in many a moon. I didn't know Playboy let non-Blondes be playmates anymore, but this one appears to be "of the bunny."

Which means she's at a paid event.

Which means this large headed cro magnon didn't get nuthin'.

What's with the giant white pup-tent in the back? Are they hiking in the Adirondacks?

Large pillowed cleavite.
Cornucopia of scrote.
Fire raging inside.

A reader writes in with the following 'Bag Swarm:

Please find attached a picture of my roommate at a club in Barbados. It was horrible, it was so, so, horrible. Please note the slickly greased hair on our friend on the right here. And the long sleeved black shirt in 90 degree caribbean weather. And the extra-long extra-icky fingernails, which you are luckily cannot see so well in this pic. And the pinky ring. Oh, God, the pinky ring. I'm not even going to go into his goatee/ I-accidentally-shaved-off- most-of-this-moustache thing.P.S. She used to date this guy and I can, in fact, confirm the fact that he is a douchebag.


I don't know if these three dudes are true 'bags or not, I'm just pleased to see Cedric The Entertainer, Jermaine DuPre and Hootie find love.

Well, next thing you know, old Jeb's a big douchebag...

We haven't seen a lot of HickBags come through here, as the 'Bag phenomenon tends to relegate itself to urban and suburban bridge-and-tunnel blight. And of course I have no evidence this isn't some Trustafarian doing his hip ironic take on rural trash to charm the ladies.

But I do know that his chest fungus could keep six homeless people warm this winter. And that Chloe Sevigny Hottie is just 110 pounds of tasty tablecloth covered cleavite. And both of those facts are, well, a HCwD pic that deserves our proper salute. To the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies.

Kind of says it all, don't it?

OldBag has gotta be loaded up the ass to pull off that look. Absolutely sick rich. Love the cornrows and 'Bag Hand Gesture #05.

Although the watch is kinda sweet.

I'm thinking of putting this pic on my Christmas Cards. I've never seen such Scrote so happy.

I actually sort of feel bad for this swarthy Fabio. Other than his hair, chin fungus, gypsy moth eyebrows, large collared shirt and bizarre necklace, he's probably not that bad a guy.

Then I look at the way he's tackling this Persian Princess and I want to ride to the rescue in my recently acquired De-Bleether costume (red spandex, blue cape, giant sparkley cumberbun). I'm a'comin', Princess!

Pepe knows what the ladies want. Pepe knows how to accent his head with the appropriate positioning of sunglasses. Pepe digs on the two toned suit with matching vest. Pepe is a sexual mustachioed dynamo.

And now, for the first time here on HCwD, Pepe's Mustache is speaking out. In a rare interview, DB1 had the chance to sit down with Pepe's Mustache and ask it a few questions:

DB1: So, Pepe's Mustache...

Pepe's Mustache: Yes! Challo!

DB1: What's it like perching on the face of a midget scrote?

Pepe: Well it's no so easy, let me tell you. I have to make up for the lack of hair on the head, you know? And that's a lot of pressure for a mustache! Even one as sexually magnetic as myself.

DB1: I understand. So what kind of adventures do you and Pepe get into?

Pepe's Mustache: Oh we have lots of fun! We sit around and watch T.V. And sometimes Pepe drinks a Corona and gets little bits of beer foam stuck in me. We laugh and laugh about it for hours on end!

DB1: That does sound hilarious. What else?

Pepe's Mustache: Well, sometimes Pepe like to eat soup, and that's no fun, let me tell you. All sorts of goo gets stuck in me and it takes me hours before I lose the smell.

DB1: That's really sort of gross.

Pepe's Mustache: You have no idea.

DB1: So tell me about the hotties. How do you work with Pepe to overcome them with your douchey powers?

Pepe's Mustache: Oh, it is easy. We go to where they must embrace us and take a picture because they are getting paid to do it!

DB1: That is clever.

Pepe's Mustache: Yes thank you. We know.

DB1: Any advice to fellow Mustache 'Bags out there?

Pepe's Mustache: Rock on, fellow 'staches! Pepe and I will see you at the next public event where attractive women are paid to pose with us.

DB1: Thanks for the interview, Pepe's Mustache. You take care.

Pepe's Mustache: Shave me. Please. Just shave me. Put me out of my misery. I beg of you.

DB1: Sorry... I gotta go...

Pepe's Mustache: At least comb me! I lied. It is not all fun and games and sexual pleasure. Pepe neglects me. You have no idea. It is a sad life I lead. Please to do something!

DB1: Thank you for your time, Pepe's Mustache.

Forgot to include a pic with UCJC's request to have his pic taken down, so instead I'll post a pic of Borat from his upcoming movie. This flick is officially "the only movie DB1 is so excited about he might even sober up before seeing it."

UCJC writes in:

Can you please removed my pics from your site?......funny though!!

Its under UCJC heading and I'm with the blonde....

In knighting this douchebag "Mangina" it wasn't any literal attribute that brought him his moniker, it was simply the sum of his parts.

His orange leather skin. His coral necklace. His white teeth. His silk shirt with cryptic alien patterns on it. And of course the fact he's with a scrumptuous after dinner mint.

Add it up and he's Mangina. And really, isn't that just the perfect nickname for this oily bohunk?

Between Sven and this pale Dieter looking douchebag, we seem to have hit a pocket of EuroBags lately during our HCwD digging. Here he is infecting two of the tastier cuts of blonde featured on the site of late. Rumor has it one (or both) are Playboy playmates.

Nothing says scrote more than, when given the chance to embrace a playmate or two, making sure you clutch a used napkin and nearly spill a beer on their shoulder.

This wank kind of reminds me of the tall dude in "Fargo." The blondes remind me simply that I suck. That I'm sitting here on my dirty carpet, hung over, with sixteen Glinty heads dancing around my peripheral vision. Stupid Night Train. Maybe I should go back to bed.

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One of the rarer members of the 'Bag genus is the douchey hitchhiker knob. Key identification factors for this type of 'bag are not only the various hitchhiking douchebag hand gestures, the classic 'Bag Head Butt seen here, but one of the rarest of all 'bag attributes: Upturned Crew Jacket Collar.

Like many douchebag diseases, Upturned Crew Jacket Collar (UCJC) receives scant attention from the mainstream press. There are no Jerry Lewis telethons to treat UCJC. No "give a quarter" kiosks at the local deli. No pleas from Sally Struthers to help "turn down the collars of the less fortunate." Yet it is a plague that affects us all.

Won't you contribute to the cause?

Do you part by smacking scrotes like this the next time you see one.

Okay, I'm scrounging for pics because I just flew back from NYC and have a huge backlog of emails. So if you sent in a pic far better than this one and are thinking, "That hottie-douchey combo isn't remotely the head exploding hottie-douchey combo in the pic I sent in!" hold your water. I'll get to it.

First things first. A little Night Train to take the edge off the ole' JetBlue JFK-to-Burbank jaunt. There were even a few L.A. douchebags on the flight swarming their Reese Witherspoon looking hotties like they'd just caught a delicious bass. I wonder if I tossed a can of Tag Bodyshots into the forward cabin if I'd have started a riot.

Laugh it up, Sven. That silk aqua-blue shirt shows off your hairless chest in oh so sexy a way. Your John Denver charm is a hit with the ladiez in Amsterdam. You go with your Danish self!

And remember grasshoppers, if the Holy Cleavite speaks to you, you're not crazy. You've reached enlightenment.

Hoo boy, where to start, where to start...

The 163 degree hat. Scrote Boy here couldn't content himself for the lesser degrees on the Douchebag Hat Tilt. No simple 10 degree or 90 degree functionality for this picnic table shirt wearing, dimple douched 'bag ghoul. Nope. He's got higher scrote heights to scale.

Blonde on the right sort of scares me in that Darryl Hannah "I will break you" way, but cotton candy on the left is just all sorts of sweet taffy popcorned goodness. I can't tell whether I want to jump on her or tuck her into bed after reading "Good Night, Moon."

Nothing says "NBA" like a shaved headed 5'4" psycho-killer wannabe. Besides, that jersey doubles as a mumu dress. Nothing wrong with 2-for-1 savings on clothing purchases.

The DB1 could've played in the NBA. I was thisclose. All I needed was to be a foot taller and know how to play basketball. Other than that, I was on the verge. Just like Hoops here.

The dark haired beaut on the left has one of the perkiest bodies I've ever seen. It's practically saluting. And while the Tori Spelling looking chicka on the right may not blow you out of the water, never underestimate the power of legs that fantastic. Blazers Boy wouldn't know what hit him.

This is just so very, very wrong.

Like when your Uncle Frank would come over and stare at your 10th grade sister's training bras hanging on the back line, wrong.

Look at this perv's cat-that-ate-the-hottie expression. He knows he's scrote. And yet he's won.

Nothing says straight up gangsta "hard" like twelve year old trust fund hiphop Lola here. This street playah terrorizes them crazy-ass suburban junior high kids inhaling reddi-whip behind the 7-11 over on Main Street.

Word. You throw down like your bad self, Lola!

Of course these two suburban princesses fall drunkenly under Whitey McWhite's urban gangsta spell. Of course. Because Lola ain't no joke. He's the baddest badass on the JV Lacrosse team.

PIC DELETED
Addendum to the 'Bag T-Shirt Rule #104, any reference to SNL skits, while not as 'baggy as "I'd Fcuk me" or "Emotionally Unavailable" sloganeering, still qualify for secondary 'bag points on the scrote scale.

Double pube chin here looks like one of the undead in "Halo 2". I want to toss a plasma grenade into his second chin before reloading my needler.

Chicka ain't the hottest hottie on the HC end of the ledger but I'd still let her spank me with a Japanese geisha fan while shouting out vegan recipes in Greek.

Oh, sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a scrubby douche,
With facial pubes and a giant shnozz,
He votes for Lyndon LaRouche.

God damn this red haired Ginger is gloriously perfect. Those may be the finest legs this side of the dim sum special at Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown. And that Mighty Cleavite conquers all. She is superb.

How did this unholy spawn of Gilligan and Screech ever score such a tropical island paradise? Why by making Douchebag Hand Gesture #17, of course. Did you even have to ask?

This one's for those of you complaining we haven't feature enough of the Classic 'Bags lately. Here's a scrote as All Douchinian as Glinty's Levis or CactusHead's Jesus bling.

Rule #52 of Zen 'Baggery: A t-shirt featuring an airbrushed rendition of your head in the exact same position as your actual head is ur-Douche. Meta-douche. Self reflexive Douchosity. Post modern douchitude.

In short, it's really really douchey.

Add in a mircophone, aluminum foil teeth, and what appears to be Chocolate Turtle Bling, and Douche-Om enlightenment has been attained.

Factor in the hottest woman you will never be in the same room with, even if her badge implies she was paid to be there, and all the elements to form Atomic Douche have been achieved.

This pic could stop an army in its tracks. Hitchcock used to build entire plot twists around pics this painful. If this pic were an opera it would shatter champaigne flutes. If this pic were The Arc of the Covenant we'd have to cover our eyes or our faces would melt off.

It's the perfect Sunday HCwD implosion to go with your Mimosas and scrambled eggs.

Consuming a HCwD pic sometimes is like enjoying a big, tasty chocolate frosted doughnut. If that doughnut was part douchebag that is.

This turd is proof positive that you don't always need the obvious signs of douchebaggery (Jersey Guido, Jesus Bling, etc.). Sometimes the Soul of a 'Bag can be spotted in one instant face moment of douchitude. This would be that moment.

As to the two hotties on display here, you can thank me later.

There's a special subsection of the douchebag oeuvre, it involves the knuckle-tat. It's one thing to ink up some pseudo-"tribal" sig on your shoulderblade to prove how big your nuts are. But the knuckle-tats don't just scream "douche." They scream STD Uber-'Bag.

Factor in the 10 Degree Hat, runway stripe facial pubes, and a shirt that appears to have a Gary Coleman trading card ironed onto it, and you have hyper-skeeze.

Hottie has that skinny Long Island dirrty look that I will always toast my Thunderbird to.

Proving once again that ironic shirts proclaiming one's douchitude are fast becoming a staple of the New Douche "look," 180 Degree Hat 'Bag here has pulled not one, not two, but three sexy signoritas.

That tiny little ball of hot in the middle, displaying tender veal chops and clad only in bra, makes my heart go tha-thump. And that's in spite of her obvious early 'Bag Infection status. Dig those mesh stockings too. She's just dirrty in so many wrong ways.

Guess this lanky scrote's having more success than my pickup line, "Wanna come back to my basement apartment and split some Hostess Cupcakes and a one liter bottle of Irish Rose?"

Add some peas and carrots and you could feed a family of 15 in New Guinea.

10 Degree Hats.

Shockers.

Wifebeater t-shirts.

15 cans of Keystone and a giant tub of alchy OJ.

One semi-Hottie surrounded by five scrotes, all lined up on one side of the table.

It's like a Frat Last Supper.

Hello. Well I guess karma caught up with me and as a prank a buddy sent a pic to you for posting. It's the recent "cheek to cheek" post. We were at Automatic Slims in Fort Lauderdale tearing it up for a birthday party, and clearly taking retarded pics. Would you mind removing it? Ironically, I read your blog often, and laugh my ass of at your comments.

This little blond welder vixen is so fantastic I want to juggle twizzlers while breakdancing to the classic early 80s Bonnie Tyler hit, "I Need a Hero." Oh, like you've never breakdanced to Bonnie Tyler. Be honest now.

She is just painfully hot in that overwhelming sharp pains in the eyeballs way. Her brunette friend would normally be the hero of a HCwD pic in her own right, but in this case she has to play second viola to our little construction worker hottie.

That derriere is fantastic. I want to bake cupcakes in its honor. Little vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting. Mmm... cupcakes.

Note I haven't commented on Archy McEyebrow, with his choke collar, designer muscle-t and of course his need to make Bag Hand Gesture #1. I have nothing to say about this putz. He has polluted my blond manual labor engaging angel with his presence. And for that crime, I will go and floss.

Never forget to floss. Your teeth will thank you.

A reader snapped this pic of rookie NFL quarterback Matt Leinart doing his best douchebag impression as he speads his scrote on this poor young-Britney type hottie.

Oh who am I kidding? This guy's a millionaire, buff, plays in the NFL and gets more tail than Wilt Chamberlain circa '68. I'm sitting around in my robe sipping a plastic cup of the 'Train and wondering if stuffing six Little Debbie's Snack Cakes into my mouth at once would be physically possible.

Well, I can't pull the hottie tail that Leinart does, and I sure ain't making millions, but there's one thing I can say to this guy: douchebag.

It helps a little.

I don't normally do warnings, as any good HCwD pic should be able to inspire that classic vortex of anger, depression, hilarity and arousal. However this one seems particularly cruel. It may inspire some head smashing into monitors. So when gazing on its extreme douchebaggery/hotness, take a step back, breathe and find your centered place.

To help get you through this image, I offer up the Zen wisdom of Buddha Gautama, from 600 B.C.:

Whatever is material shape, past, future, present, subjective or objective, gross or subtle, mean or excellent, whether it is far or near - all material shape should be seen by perfect intuitive wisdom as it really is: "This is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self." Whatever is feeling, whatever is perception, whatever are habitual tendencies, whatever is consciousness, past, future, present, subjective or objective, gross or subtle, mean or excellent, whether it is far or near - all should be seen by perfect intuitive wisdom as it really is: "This is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self."

Nope. I still want to dunk this knob in a giant vat of cayenne pepper.

PIC DELETED
Speaking of douchebags. Anyone have a flamethrower handy?

I suppose I could make the obvious "butthead" and "assface" jokes but, really, how dignified would that be?

Instead I'll simply mock these two holes for showing 'Bag Hand Gestures #34 and #28 while raising the intriguing question -- if you had a derriere as perfect as those two cantalopes behind you, would you really be thinking about what hand gesture to make for a camera on the opposite side?

Absent any abductions I've abdicated my abhorent behavior so I can absolutely absolve all of my abling blings of their abilities.

My favorite Genesis album is "Abacab." But Abba still sucks.

So what you're saying, DB1, is you like that chick's abs?

Yes.

Yes I am.

As to the scrote, look at that series of ovals that calls itself a face. I can't tell if it's human or an M.C. Escher fever dream nightmare.

In honor of the upcoming High Holy Days, our favorite Jewish 'Bags are back for a little lime-green tie action. Seems they've caught a coupla nice Catholic girls, who, rumor has it, start much too late.

But sooner or later it comes down to fate.

It might as well be two douchebags.

Looks like The Onion is still ripping off my bits. Just like they did back in April after we featured a bunch of N.H. pics. What's up with that?

Speaking of, now's a good time for the ole plug for pics. If ya got a fantastic pic of a sexy hottie posing with an utter skeeze, and I'm talking the type that makes you want to drive into a telephone poll, email it along to me at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com. If I use it on the site you'll get... well... on your deathbed you'll reach total consciousness. So you got that going for you.

Somewhere, hidden in this pic, there's Waldouche.

Can you find him?

Whenever 'bags attack a hottie... The Scrote Ranger is there.... Whenever big teethed hee-haws grab at the Holy Cleavite... The Scrote Ranger is There!... Srooooottteee Ranger!...

All hail The Scrote Ranger!

Poised with red backwards visor, white shirt layered with another white shirt, and hands at the ready, The Scrote Ranger will be there.

Oh yes. He will be there.

By the way, nice apartment kids. I'd feel cleaner brushing my teeth with Tommy Lee's toothrush and rinsing with Paris Hilton's backwash.

I always wondered what happened to Ariel. Little did I know she'd end up dating a Coney Island Whitefish. Speaking of CIW here, what is that thing on his head? It's like all his fungle migrated north to try to fill in his bald spot.

New Rule to 'Bag Status: If your shirt has some ironic statement about what a dick you are,... uhm... you're a... well... a dick. Wait, I need to think that one through a little bit more. I think I just ruptured space/time.

I want to ferry Ariel off to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, where I will ply her with Night Train while Marty McFly plays guitar and nearly disappears. Or am I mixing my film references again?

And if you don't know what a Coney Island Whitefish is... that's probably a good thing.

It's like I've been cracked in the skull with a 2x4...

Goldfish 'Bag here seems to be gasping for air as he performs 'Bag Head Butt #3. I want to scoop him up and put him back in his bowl before his gills fall off.

I've just spent the past ten minutes trying to figure out what is spray-painted on this scrote's hat.

Is it:



a) 1930s German Fascist Iconography
b) "Douchebag" written in Mandarin.
c) The stain from when he used his hat to kill a giant cockroach.
d) A sign that DB1 seriously needs to get out more often and stop eating HoHos.

(reading left to right)

Hot... greasy... hot... greasy... hot...

It's like a McDonalds kitchen in here.

Not too many people are familiar with the surrealist Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini's lesser known mid 70s experimental film "Fellini's Douchicon." Here's a rare still from that legendary movie.

Fellini's wry commentary on the artistic representation of the douchebag received scant critical attention at the time of its release. "Douchicon" was overshadowed by more mainstream Hollywood fare like "Close Encounters of the Douche Kind," "Raging 'Bag," "Skeezy Rider" and of course, "Grease."

Note the use of negative scrote-space. A truly lost douche classic.

Standard 'bag sandwich formation on a Monday afternoon and I'm thinkin' I haven't remotely gotten drunk enough. Time to bust out the reserve PBRs I keep under the sink.

That bod on Lippy McSexy is just Hostess Twinkie level sugary good. It's spongey, cream filled and has the shelf-life of gravel.

I'm not quite sure what both these scrotes think they're grabbing in their pants. Herpes sores? Aluminum foil covered cucumber? Their spare supply of Tag BodyShots?

The spontaneous appearance of a 'bag ruining hot sapphic action is unfortunately becoming a staple of scrote intervention of late.

Just look at this fat faced tonguebag ruining an otherwise enjoyable pic of permed up cuties fondling each other (even if the two on the right are suffering a deep 'bag virus infection, likely stage 2/3 Bleeth).

The sexy popsicles congregate and instantly a 'bag materializes to ruin all that is holy and good in the universe.

We need to add an extra element to the periodic tables:

Douchebagogen.

A fairly radioactive douchebag isotope that is highly unstable when in the presence of attractive women and reforms into spikey haired tonguescrotes like this rank little turd.

You and me both, buddy.

This Piscopo scrub makes me want to sandpaper my face. This blond pixie makes me want to sing Christmas Carols in Latin with Kurt Vonnegut.

Okay, I need a coffee...

The Power of Scrote in this pic is so overwhelming it compelled this young, drunk lass to expose herself. And being the sensitive 'bag hunter that I am, I felt the need to protect our more impressionable readers with an appropriate coverup.

Yup, that little photoshop magic is Glinty, the first winner of our HCwD of the Month contest back in June.

See? I knew Glinty could perform a public service. Protecting this fine country from exposed boobies, Glinty's exalted 'bag status makes him the perfect head for the job.

As to this poor drunk Lohan, you can see her pushing this douchebag's hand away with as much resistance to the Force o' Bleeth that she can muster. Unfortunately this scenario doesn't bode well as the Power of the 'Bag appears to be too strong. What a total tool this David Schwimmer looking douche is. Let the poor girl alone, you skeezy punk.

As to the abs on display? Yes please.

Two British gentlemen are sipping tea one aftertoon in London.

British Gentleman #1: "I say old chap, that man in the blue shirt with his collar turned up sure is a douchebag."

British Gentleman #2: "Astute observation, my fine friend. And note his bizarrely sculpted hair. It's greased worse than mother's scones."

British Gentleman #1: "How gauche to be seen in public like that. I'm positively upended."

British Gentleman #2: "Yes, however observe the young blond gentlewoman to his right."

British Gentleman #1: "I'd tap that ass."

END SCENE.

Thank you... thank you...

Some Saturdays, after a hard week sitting around my hovel and getting drunk, I need a little something extra to perk me up in the morning.

I have a cup of coffee.

Nope. Doesn't do it.

I chug a Red Bull. Meh. A little buzz, not much.

Then I glance at a picture of scrote porn like this noxious steaming pile of stench here, and it's like I've had an electric cattle prod shoved up my sphincter.

Hello, world. I'm awake now.

Those are some sweet, sweet moves.

Must.... fight... overwhelming... douchetude... must... resist... power of scrote... losing... losing...

DB1 chugs bottle of the 'Train....

ahhh...

What were we talking about?

The weekend's almost here, you didn't think I was going to let you get away without one more pic to send you smashing your head into your keyboard in pain, did you?

Of course not. The DB1 is here to serve up the insanity of the HCwD with regular goodness. Like clockwork. Or cheese fries.

Here's a prepubscent knob featuring classic 'bag frosted flakes hair and A/X branding who managed to sneak into a club long enough to tackle this sexy, if enhanced, little Christina Aguilera looking vixen.

God bless whomever invented that dress. Then you look at the pale chihuaua embracing her, and it all just seems so very very wrong.

In one of the tightest votings in awhile, Labor Day 'Bag takes home the prize and is elevated into the Hall of Scrote edging out The Bas and Million Dollar Douchebag by the tip of his pink, ten degree tilted hat.

As Scrote M. Walsh succinctly puts it:

I clench my fists just looking at that picture. The hat, no shirt, played out tattoo, gay sunglasses and the hottest chick this side of the Missouri River.

Nicely put, Scrote M. douchebag out! summarizes the feelings of a few readers toward the Million Dollar 'Bag's interference in what appears to be quite the sapphic encounter:

Million Dollar Douche gets my vote. Not because he's a Euro Douche (this f-er is as American as the Notre Dame Leprechaun). He wins 'cuz his ugly ass f-ed up the picture...AND he has bitch tits. Get to the gym seamus.

mickey o'douche also lays the smackdown on the MDB:

it's #3 no contest. The ladies are already in position and feeling frisky, whilst pseudo-Irish bag would simply require a quick uppercut to one of his man-breasts, and he's off to his cosmetic surgeon for a replacement of his implant. And then, a quick costume change for the ladies, as I drape them in slinky brown-black capes suggestive of oreo cookies, and pop my creamy white body in betwixt them. Me likey cookie sex.

Heh. ten degree hat throws some scrote at the Bas:

On the other hand, Douche No. 1 has that smug, pretending-to-be disinterested-sneer, just too damn cool to even look at the camera, with the eyebrows, hair, half unbottoned shirt and his ten-degree-hat-wearing conjointed twin. His girl adds just enough perky girl next door sexiness to swing my vote to this vile slug of a douche.

But as Pixelated Abe says:

Gotta go with Labor Day Douche. He's got the ultra hottie, 10 degree hat - Flaming Pink Edition, no shirt w/ Jesus tat combo, and he's got his Douche-o-blockers on.

And so LDB's our rank scrote of the week. Lets all rattle our Jesus Bling, fondle our tribal tats and grease up the forehead in LDB's honor. This pic of rank douchitude comingling with luscious hotness is the personification of our 'bag hunting goals here at HCwD and we should all stare at its unholy horrorshow until the pain seeps down deep into our pores like an extra layer of Axe Body Spray.

The DB1 is moving slowly today after a late night spent sitting on my rug and downing bottles of Thunderbird... updates shortly...

There comes a time in every 'bag hunter's life when you stumble across a pic so confusing, so perplexing, and so overwhelmingly hottie/douchey that you just want to take a two hour shower and scrub furiously.

This may not be one of those times. But it's close.

I want to stare at these two absolutely fantastic beauties on the left, but this pale skinny ball of douche-wax refuses to let my soul find peace. He torments me with his scrotiness. He pours acid on my spirit. He pollutes my vision with his taint.

And seriously, this blond euro-hottie is just too good for words. Her dark haired sidekick is even better. And just look at how they're gazing at me. They want the DB1. I don't blame them. I'm a tasty little piece. Even if I do smell like cheap wine, beer, cigs and sewer rat. It's all part of my oblique charm.

To paraphrase the comedy classic "Major League," look at this f-in scrote.

I want to dunk this furry scrote in the fryer at my local Krispy Kreme until I've created a new flavor of doughnut: The Glazed'bag.

Hottie has that elegant and refined "classy" look that also says she'll dress up in rubber, spank you with a cookie monster doll and scream "Love me, Big Bird, love me!" And I would.