It's almost inhuman.

I haven't been this disturbed by a face since Doctor Who battled Scaroth, Last of the Jaguroth, in City of Death.

What, too obscure?

Hello doucheness my old friend...
I've come to rag on you again...

There comes a time in every scrotebag's life when he must choose whether or not to bust the unearned dog tags, the 10 degree hat tilt, the douchey facial expression, and of course, the aviator glasses. Thinking, as every aspiring 'bag does, that such accoutrement will summon the hottie to his dark sleazy flame, he makes that choice. He pulls that lever. He wanks that pud.

And... uhm.... it worked.

sigh

Dammit.

I would light bonfires in the dried cackle brush of the Serengeti until the smoke signals summoned the rare white tailed mongoose. I would then explain in graphic and lurid detail to that mongoose how much I'd like to lick a pair of black short-shorts with white trim. Sure the mongoose wouldn't understand. But I would. I would.

I'm thinking of proposing that paramedics carry around this pic of The Sleeper and Blondie Bazumbas with them on call. Find a patient in cardiac arrest, show them this acid-washed Sleeper and his lithe cutie, and the adrenaline would fire up the heart pumpin' in no time. If you can keep down their Exorcist spew from pea souping across the room, it's gotta be a great method of visual psychosomatic stimulus.

Either that, or it'll kill them on the spot. I can't tell which.

But I do know it's Friday, which means The DB1 will be doing something he never usually does -- get drunk off a bottle of cheap wine, microwave a burrito, and watch Cartoon Network. Yup, it's a party in my life.

Thanks to all for the great submits this week, apologies if I don't respond to every email. Don't forget, I'm a douchebag.

Another reminder that the new URL is functioning if you're tired of typing out the full name of the site: www.HCwDB.com.

I was ruminating on an eloquent summation of this week's philosophic exploration of all things hottie/douchey. As we explore the simulacrum, Derrida, Baudrillard and Freud, I considered a number of discourses to reference. But then it came to me. The perfect word to end the week with.

Boobies.

It says it all. Boobies.

I'm not sure where we went wrong. At what historical point we split off from the potential for a Utopian future of enlightenment and instead descended into the cultural train-wreck that is this absolutely soul shredding slice of swirling sexy and sewage.

Yeah, I'm down with alliteration.

We've featured Buddha 'Bags on the site before, but this may be the douche equivalent of the Bliss State. Dharma 'Bag has achieved douche transcendence. He teaches The Four Douchey Truths and offers us the Eightfold Path. Unfortunately, that path leads to uber-douche. I'm transformed through six levels of douche-consciousness just comprehending that this pic exists.

Or maybe it's that glimpse of tanned lower back that sings of the potential to right our societal ship before we iceberg across the bow of velvet choads and asymmetric facial scruff. Both of those fantastic glimpses, of shoulder and hip, restores hope for the future. It makes Nietzsche believe in God and inspires frogs to line-dance in Saskatchewan.

There remains a glimpse of utopian potential. And if I choose to find it in a backside I'd like to slobber on for a weekend, then so be it.

There's nothing more enjoyable than a rowdy night out of douche-karaoke, in which someone finally gets drunk enough to put 0n the late 80s Sir Pecsalot classic "Douchey Got Back." Its moments like that when we all remember the retro-grease genius that is Sir Pecsalot in all his douche-rapping genius.

And by genius, I mean 'roids.

In analyzing the enhanced douchebaggery of Sir Pecsalot, it is important to note that he can, with very little effort, break me in half. Like a twix bar. I hate it when the greasy pumped up 'bag pictured can snap my sad little spine like a twix bar. Because I like twix bars. And they're easy to snap in half. That being said, the dude is dripping hair gel, Tag Bodyshots and bling like a Corsican sailor selling dried apricots.I have no idea what that means. But I like dried apricots.

I'm hoping once his tats are translated, we'll have more fragments of the Douche Sea Scrolls with which to expand our knowledge of the early 2nd Century Gnostic Scrotebags.

Asian hottie busting the skulls bikini sends my synapses popping with confusion by using the age old simu-attraction/repulsion technique. I'm lost. Dazed and confused. I want to explore the ambiguous inflated hinterlands but reel at the douche virus infection's douchey douchiness.

So instead I will much on a twix bar and dried apricots, and stare longingly at the red thigh scarf while hoping Sir Pecsalot doesn't two turntables and microphone my face.

Douchebaggery plague,
Pestilence, sickness, greased choads,
Bud Light Cries out, "No!"

A Kubrick nightmare
Swathed in cliched ink of Bag
Wyatt Douche: Frontier Choad

-DuckDuckDouche

I think its quite clear,
The Blonde is CC Deville.
My god he loves drugs.

-- the alpha douche

Blond is a tranny,
nipple pastey, pube-faced scrote
White trash with Douchebag

-Grigori Rasdouchin

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of douche, I will fear no hotties: for thou art with me; thy Izod and thy empty liquor bottles because you're too cheap to buy new ones, they comfort me. ['Bags of Corinthians 23:4]

It's like that moment in war after a long battle, when the platoon is outgunned on every side, surrounded by the enemy, but fighting for every inch. If instead of a platoon, it was a supernova sexy hottie, and instead of an enemy, it was a bunch of steaming, greased up choads.

But otherwise the analogy holds.

Puka Shells are:

a) Named for the Hawaiian word for "hole"

b) Tiny cone shaped snail shells with holes in them

c) Ground by surf and coral into a smooth, polished shape

d) Frequently find themselves forced to cohabitate with smelly Tag Bodshot and Armani Exchange covered douchebags

e) All of the above

To answer your shirt, little PP: No but those big DDs make me forget you're a big DB.

There's something amusing in the exchange of glances going on here. PP actually has a clever plan in action. Feature tiny type on his shirt to ensnare the local cuties into being forced to lean in to read what it says. At that moment, Lil' P.P. is free to engage in what is known in the Himalayas as "The Eyeball Quest." The surreptitious journey into the hinterlands. The sense memory exersize in which a fraction in time is preserved for future recall during a more, lets say private, moment.

But instead of taking that spiritual journey of the soul when the chance arises, Lil' P.P. chooses instead to glance at the camera.

They have a word for that around here... What is it... It'll come to me in a moment... Oh yeah. Douchebag.

Now I know what you're thinking. Shut up and post the funny pics, clown. And I will. But consider this. Those chances in life to gaze at the Holy Cleavite must not be wantonly spent on the frivolity of the nearby camera. Whence facing such a moment, remember this.

Glance.

Glance like the wind. Glance like you might never glance again. Before the moment is lost.

Carpe Boobum, boys. Carpet Boobum. Or regret it forever.

Where can I get a pair of upside-down sunglasses as cool as those? Scroteglasses Hut?

More to the point, where can I get a Miami hooha as fine as that one? She looks like Pumpy's fawn crossed with Reece Witherspoon, only with meatier shoulders. I would sprinkle paprika on them and enter them in a cajun cooking contest. She is delectable.

Glassy's facial fungle, on the other hand, is not.

Lets see.

Classic hottie? Check.

Classic stage-2 douchebag? Check.

Fondling my inner thigh in ways that aren't quite obscene but you wouldn't do in public? Check.

Must be Wednesday.

Oh yeah.

Come on people! Can I get an Amen?

And by Amen, I mean "yech."

Jolie Hottie, you must run. Now.

Those are not adoptable Vietnamese babies. They are grown douchebags.

A reader posed a query in yesterday's comments thread wondering if there ever comes a point when in the presence of such a fine perfect backside that auto-douchebaggery commences.

The answer is yes.

We all have what I like to term "The 'Bag Within." The only question is to what extent will we indulge this inner 'bag in the hopes of acquiring a female with great tracks of land, finely buffed sandstones and an ocean view. Or did I just describe a summer condo in Cape Cod.

Regardless, the question then becomes this: When in the presence of such fineness, is momentary auto-'baggitude justifiable under the circumstances?

I posit this question without answering it, as I think it's is an important discourse to consider as we move forward.

None of this, however, has anything to do with this pic. Velveeta Bag is just funny. Not ha ha funny. Just funny funny.

Lords of Pumpy, Tats of Xenu, Wisps of White Chocolate, Spirit of Douche Lee... guide us. Guides us on this journey into the dark realms of douchosity from whence the Rooster crowed.

Holy Hens of Hotness, that was an epic close vote for this week's HCwDB of the Week. But in the end, this cock was too much to block.

So give it up for The Rooster and one of the hottie faves on the site, the Holy Blue Triangle. The combo of greasy hair, smug douchey expression, hint of Jesus bling and popped collar was enough to send a majority of 'bag hunters running for the Pepto. And enough to anoint this pic our winner of the week and entrance into next month's monthly smack-down.

It was a tight vote, but the Rooster pulled it out. Why? Mathematics, of course. As hans lippendoosh brings the science:

A Giant Rooster is a douche of 0.4 to 10 times the mass of Richard Grieco which has exhausted the supply of grease in its core and switched to fusing L.A. Looks Hair Gel in a shell outside the core. Since the inert greasy core has no source of energy of its own, it contracts and heats up, and its gravity compresses the L.A. Looks in the layer immediately above it, thus causing it to fuse faster. This in turn causes the douchebag to become more luminous (from 1,000 to 10,000 times brighter) and expand; the degree of luminosity outstrips the increase in expansion, thus causing the effective scrotal emission to increase.

In douchebags massive enough to ignite Aqua Net fusion, an analogous process occurs when central vodka-cranberry supply is exhausted and the scrote switches to fusing Axe body spray in an energy field, although with the additional complication that in many cases Drakkar Noir fusion will continue in a field at lesser depth — this puts the douche onto the asymptotic giant branch and are called 'Scrotal Supergiants.'[1][2] The increase in surface scrotal emission shifts the douche's visible Grieco output to the Scro-Hawk — hence Giant Rooster Douche.

Nicely done H.L. Nicely done.

Fall Out Bag came close to taking the whole thing and also received his due. And by due I mean something that rhymes with stew. Like spew. As matt puts it:

I vote for fall out bag, solely for the fact that his woman is possibly one of the hottest on this site ever. And he's a pretty big f'n bag.

Short and to the point, matt. I like how you think. However, el douchablo goes in for Euro T.B., who showed surprising resilience and nearly pulled out the win. As E.D. writes:

Although the other contestants are really strong, the girls for me are out of the equasion. The Hot, as it turned out is nothing bu boobs, and even those are fake. And while Blue triangle is still visiting me in my dreams, she already had a lot of spotlight on this site.

So when it comes down to the douches, the rooster is just plain stupid. He makes me shake my head, but the presence of the blue triangle makes this pic watchable. Fall Out Boy is as generic as a douche can get. He followed the manual but didn't bring anything new to the table. And ETB sported a gay attire, looks like a juvy retard kid that you need to slap some sense into. He inspires rage in me. So I vote for him.

el douchablo is correct to factor in the gut rage element. A true HCwDB should inspire a number of immediate, primal and conflicting emotions in the viewer all at once. Rage. Laughter. Arousal. Depression. Hunger for a bowl of Lucky Charms.

But as nad puts it so eloquently:

please, dear god!

you ever get that sharp, piercing pain in your lower-mid abdomen, just on the right side, thinking your appendix just burst since you also feel flashes of extreme hot and a general headache coupled with pale, sweaty skin and nausea? then did you wish death upon yourself to end the agony?

i just experienced that when i looked at Rooster.

We all did, nad. We all did.

Excellent analysis, deductive reasoning and critical thought on display once again in the comments thread. Many new avenues of sociological exploration on the hottie/douchey wrongness are opening up for us to explore as we move forward.

But for now, tip your red cups to The Rooster, who makes it into the next level of douche wrongness. And go get yourself a bowl of Lucky Charms. You earned it.

Goodnight Moon

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon

Goodnight bling

And the red cup balloon

Goodnight 'bag

Goodnight Tag

Goodnight kittens

And goodnight mittens

Goodnight scrotes

And goodnight choates

Goodnight little house

And goodnight mouse

Goodnight comb

And goodnight brush

Goodnight gel

Goodnight mush

And goodnight to the douchebags

whispering "hush."

Far far away, in the distant tropical land of Bagswana, brown satin 'baglings run free in their natural habitats, frolicking and mating as they have for thousands of days.

But poachers have been moving in. Prized for their slick neck-scarves, double sideways peace signs and foppishly curly hair, brown satin 'baglings are facing a massive upheaval within their temperate climate zones. Forced to move to the fringes of urban areas due to incroaching non-'bag gentrifications, 'baglings are venturing farther and father outside their normal mating lands. Bars, even sporting events have spotted isolated 'baglings engaging in the ritual Tag bodyshot application and offering to "Buy a honey a shot." Some 'baglings have even been spotted trolling the cereal aisle at the local supermarkets. It is a desperate situation.

Don't let this happen. Preserving natural habitats for brown satin 'baglings is something we must do if we are to ensure the survival of this rare and greasy species.

Give what you can to National Douchographic's Endangered 'Baglings Fund. Because the natural wonder of these creatures is something none of us can afford to lose.

On second thought, yes. Yes it is.

Speaking of woefully underrepresented 'bag subgenres on the site, the HippieBag has been sorely neglected of late. The Hippebag is one of the rarer douchebag strategies, as the scruff look has grown increasingly unpopular with the hotties. Instead, the cuties have been flocking to the greased up metro uber-douches. Trading in the scruff for grease, as the case may be.

But in some circles the unshaved HipBag look is still a go-to oblique strategy to gain the attentions of the dual-hotness, as pictured here.

HippieBags invoke the tropes of Spin Doctors cassette tape playing mid 1990s hackey-sack ultimate frisbee summers in the hopes that a couple of sexually frustrated Sarah Lawrence girls might want to do lemon drop shots, make out with each other and strip to a Phish bootleg. Because nothing's hotter than out of tune endless jazz jams sunk by off-key Vermont musicians.

It's a rarity, but it does happen.

I guess I'd be remiss if I didn't at least make passing mention of Prince William getting caught yesterday busting two solid stage-3 'Bagger moves, including the classic Pumpy boob grab.

Note the combo boob grab and collar pop for the ole' Prince of England, heir to the something or other.

Even more importantly, note that half the 'bags featured on this site get hotter chicks. That should be our new advertising slogan:

Come visit the United States! Our Douchebags Pull Hotter Tail than the Prince of England.

Yeah. I need some breakfast.

If interested, Here's the article in the Sun.

PIC DELETED
We don't feature a lot of pics of the trolling middle aged wanna-be 'bag desperate to occupy space near a hottie for a few minutes to fuel a month or two of rub-out fantasies. But here's a classic example. Enjoy that moment, Trolly. It's all you're gonna get from this angelic New England debutante type.

Trolly looks like one of those Wall St. Journal editorial writer hack types. Some bloated, vastly overpaid middle-aged putz who angrily thunders away by day about moral values only to pack up a bottle of Oxy Contin, anal beads and a twelve-pack of Viagara and catch the red-eye to Thailand for a four day weekend. You know those types. Pissed off they squandered their youth editing copy for the travel section of the Omaha World-Herald, only to take out their later life frustrations on the rest of us.

I'd keep ranting but I want to suckle hottie's neck like a hungry aardvark looking for termites.

Okay kids, time for another episode of the game that's sweeping the Nation, "Where's Waldouche?"

Somewhere, hidden among these six rolling hills of prime-time a-list derriere I've placed Waldouche.

But watch out!! He's in disguise this time!!

Yes Waldouche has on a wig and sunglasses making him extra hard to spot.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Then there's The Fly. And I don't mean "fly" in the early 1990s hip-hop slang parlance, meaning of impressive jacket stature and fantastic flat-top haircut.

I mean fly, as in insect.

As in Jeff Goldblum.

As in lays its eggs in poo.

As in I need a can of Raid.

I'm naming this pud The Cucumber, and not just because of the high likelihood that he bats for the home team. Okay yes, I'm naming him that for exactly that reason.

Staring at torn fishnets and a choke collar dude sandwiched between two sexy if bizarrely eyebrowed hotties, as I've been doing all afternoon, brings up an important point.

I've been debating for awhile whether the Gaybag actually officially qualifies as a sub-genre category douchebag. Certainly Gaybags can appear douchebaggy. Just take The Cucumber here. But I've meditated and ruminated on the topic, and I'm ready to make a decision.

I'm going to rule that Gaybags can not be an official sub-category of Douchebag.

Part of the intrinsic modus operandi of the douchebag is the affectations of douchebaggery in the interests of attracting a hottie. Gaybags may take on douchebag charm through dress, style and forehead grease, but since they're inherently harmless in the presence of the female, they can never ascend to the true personification of douchitude that is the various categories of scrote we chronicle on this site on a daily basis.

Now I'm sure there are gay douchebags in the gay universe. But I will leave that exploration to another website, perhaps Hot Douchebags with Douchebags. For the purposes of our critical exploration of the cultural ramifications of the douche virus, Gaybags are officially ruled out from qualifying for actual Douchebaggery within the confines of the HCwDB universe.

This, however, does not mean we can't marvel at the wrongness of this pic. Only that the soul sucking gut punch wrongness of a true HCwDB pic can never really take place unless the central driving thrust of the 'bag is his intense desire to impress the hottie, and willingness to douche out to do so. Thoughts?

Challo! I am Jurgen!! Es, how you say, duchebag?

Stupid Finland. First Erno, now Jurgen. All those European countries filled with Euro Trash Bags and the hottest milk chocolate treats this side of the Toblerone factory.

We need to reoccupy all of Europe and liberate the hotties. Some form of massive Marshall Plan. The Douchel Plan, maybe. Alls I know is something's gotta be done on a multinational intercontinental level to free up all the absolutely incredible Euro-hot females having to cuddle up with eyebrow douching turds like Jurgen here.

Surely international treaties make some form of exception for sending in the Marines for limited Hottie Rescue strikes. Someone check the Treaty of Versailles.

I was looking at this week's pics and feeling my usual sense of overwhelming nihilism, when I realized all three pics do share a commonality. This week's finalists all feature some form of Hills Have Eyes nuclear mutant douchitude going on. And that's not including Xenu, whose superior otherworldly manifestion, and the fact he battles Thetans, catapults him directly into the Hall of Scrote.

Xenu looks down on these three inferior douche contenders. He offers them a free Personality Test on Sunset Boulevard and enrollment in a number of courses for a nominal fee.

So in Xenu's supernatural honor, lets move on to this week's finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Fall Out 'Bag

Like the indie rocker band who shares this pud's douched out name, Fall Out 'Bag reminds us all of the college English major who partied like a rock-star, snagged the saline debutante everyone fantasized to, then spent the next twelve years pulling pints of Guiness while trying to get his band The Arthritic Tics off the ground.

Suck it, Indie Boy. Your six inch gelled hair and drooling tongue are mere signifiers of a future of dollar tips and bar-counter wipe downs. Or at least I'll tell myself that while trying to block out the joy that fantastic Cleavite would bring me for a solid forty-five seconds each night. She is Hot. Verb, adjective or noun. Hot.

I am surprised to see the Ubiquitous Red Cup hasn't found a way to sneak into this pic. Instead its grandfather, the Clear Plastic Cup, seems to be maintaining its tenuous grip on relevance.

Sorry Clear Plastic. The U.R.C. is next-gen alcoholic vessel.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: The Rooster


This striped beauty is a long-time fan fave here at HCwDB. She's also a douche magnet. Here she is with Federline 'Bag. And here she is with the Vortex of Douche. What's clear in all three of these pics, aside from the wide spectrum of choad, is that she is absolutely fantastic.

Rooster here may be the 'baggiest of the three, peacocking his douchitude for the world to see. Given the demand to include this pic in a weekly contest, his greasiness has clearly struck a chord. And by chord I mean root canal.

Cock-a-doodle-douche indeed, Rooster Wank. Get yer hands of the Holy Blue Triangle, or I'll... I'll... stare angrily at this pic.

sigh.

She is perfection.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Euro Trash Bag

Euro T.B. is a 15th century plague of douchitude, and the fact he's polluting these two cuties with a "Sex 'N' Roll" shirt only makes the sphincter tightening all the worse. Featuring the early 1990s Kevin Bacon buzzcut, the douche talisman around the neck and some sort of United Nations belt, E.T.B. needs to have his Nations de-Leagued.

And that shoulder on the left is top shelf. I would suckle its ridges while whistling Wagner.

So what say you, people? A worthy finalist round of three, but like the Ancient Mariner says, you can stopeth only one.

Which one will you stopeth?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Picking up where his father left off, Young Indy better be careful or Cat Hottie's gonna bullwhip his snakes until he digs in the wrong place.

There's a last crusade joke in there somewhere. But it's Sunday, and I like to treat myself on Sunday. Time for a bowl of the ole' premium blend Lucky Charms. With the shooting stars. Mmm... bluish milk.

Is it just me or does this stubbly tool remind you of Michael Biehn, "Reese" in the first Terminator movie. But then if he's the douche Michael Biehn, that would make him the hero rather than the Douchinator, which will just ruin my attempts at making various obscure Terminator references.

Dammit.

And I was going to go with the whole young Bill Paxton punk, "Your Hotties, Give them to Me" angle. Toss in a solid "Laser Pulse Hair Gel with L.A. looks wax." "Hey, just what you see, pal." Maybe slip in a few "And he will not stop... until you are Bleethed!" lines. Then end with a rousing "You're Grieco'd, douchebag!"

Man I need to get out more often.

EDIT: Or I can just turn it over to metalmilitia from the comments thread:

ReeseBag: "There was a war. A few years from now. A war on douchebags. The whole thing. All this--"

ReeseBag gestures to the skeezy nightclub. He stops and points at a couple of lurkbags.

"--everything is gone. Just gone. There's no hair gel anywhere. No facial grease. Highlights are impossible to come by, as is Jesus bling and 'Bag tags. There were survivors. Here. There. Nobody knew who started it."

(pause)

"It was the DoucheHunters."

Hotties: "I don't understand."

ReeseBag: "Internet communications. Bloggers. Web designers. Hooked into everything. They saw the effect that the Grieco virus was having on women everywhere. They calculated that nearly 50% of the worlds cuties would be Bleethed to level 3 or worse by by 2020. They saw all douche bags as threats. Decided our fate in a microsecond. Extermination."

Well played, sir.

PIC DELETED
This wizened old choad is the douchebag equivalent of a minority targeting spiced rum ad campaign. Arrr!! It's spicey!! Serve chilled at parties. And by chilled I mean stuffed and formaldehyded, then propped up behind the bar so the hotties can play ring toss on his tri-colored head.

Mmm... wispy haired Jennifer Connolly cutie makes the sun rise on a cloudy Saturday in Los Angeles. Stupid clouds. It's supposed to be sunny and 'bag filled every day in this city. Well, it's still 'bag filled. But cloudy.

In honor of the DB1's "headache," the word "hangover" has such alcoholic connotations, I'm posting another pic of Hot and her Fratty army pants wearing 'bag. Just because. I need a dose of the Hot. And by hot I mean boobs.

A wonderful glimpse of the Holy Cleavite and the headache is almost gone. Almost but not quite.

They warned me not to alternate vodka and scotch. They was right.

I go back and forth on whether or not DJs are inherently scrote. It seems unfair to paint an entire profession with the 'bag brush. And yet isn't a club DJ really just a glorified used speaker salesman with added grease? They're like the club equivalent of the audio/visual techie nerd at Best Buy suddenly blessed by the stud gods into a powerhouse of douche-force attraction.

Play a record at the senior citizens home on a Sunday, you're a minimum wage flunky. Turn out all the lights, get those seniors dosed up on E, pass out Red Bulls and you're hip hop Hugh Hefner. If you go for the grandma contingent, that is.

And yet DJ celebrity culture continues. They rule the roost and attract the lithe stalks of sunflower corn like Blue Wave here. So clearly they know what's up on some intuitive level.

Play that funky music white douche. I would spin your Blue Wave friend at 44 rpms until my needle scratched. And as we all know, there's nothing worse than when your needle scratches.

Okay, lame analogy, but what are ya gonna do. It's Friday.

I don't like to post too many trade convention pics because hiring a hottie forced to pose with creepy nerdbags doesn't exactly summon up the rage factor, but I'll make an exception for Snow White and Douchey here.

Douchey was one of the lesser known dwarfs, rejected by Sleepy, Grumpy and Dopey for wearing a tie that ridiculous. Douchey grew up and became an investment banker, and now he trolls trade shows for hired hotties to pose with.

Oh, Snow White. How far you've fallen since you switched agents, cancelled your Disney contract, and began doing Skinemax films under the nom de plume "Snow White Doll." Very sad.

This young college lad is probably not even a stage-1er, but I really like that blonde cutie, so figured I'd throw it out for the crowd to give the Up/Down verdict on his 'bag status.

Note there is a semi headbutt and tongue gesture.

Oh who am I kidding. He's not much of a 'bag. But she's a coed hottie.

So lets stare.

Lost at sea, two souls
Good Will Douching, sharkbait choad.
Scarf abs, seagulls weep.

On holy cleavite
I do gaze slack-jawed, amazed
Toss scrote overboard

~ Doucharellious

Velvet skin of hot
Come away from the scrate bag
Rip picture in half

-- rip van wanker

Blank stare, forehead grease
A gathering storm of douche.
Can great whites smell Axe?

-Good Will Doucheing


Douchebag Mariner
Release that fair albatross
Avoid the foul curse

-- danny bonnadouchey

I always wondered what the alien warlord that Scientology is founded on looks like. Now I know.

And to think, Tom Cruise prays to this?

Uhm... yeah.

And while we're celebrating Indy's eurotash win in the HCwD of the week, a reader snapped this pic of yet another Eurotrash Bag in Europe last summer and confirms that he is indeed both heterosexual and total douchebag.

Euro-Trash Bag, or as I like to call him, Euro TB, makes me long for rats dipped in plague coming ashore off deep sea cargo ships.

I think I'm attracted to the tiny brunette tonguing Euro T.B.'s armpit. But, then again, that's just wrong enough to gross me out.

What I do know is whatever mutation the Grieco Virus performed in Europe, it's almost become a seperate plague. I mean look at this guy. Someone needs to chart the virus mutation Galapagos style over there.

A worthy HCwD of the Week winner, Indiana Scrote seems to want to whip his idol to those two amazing short rounds in front of him.

And she is perfection. Maybe not as pure sex as "Hot" was a few pictures down, but fantastic nonetheless. Sure she's probably Miami annoying. Which is annoying x 10. But right now she's lovely. And I'd love her presence for a resounding 75 seconds or so. Because I'm studly like that.

But back to the vote. kentucky fried douche sumed up the challenge:

This weeks contest is a difficult one. While Pumpy obviously conquered last week, these are secondary scrotebags compared to him. Temple of the Blonde Hottie is definetly the tastiest dish, which gives Indiana Scrote extra bonus points. His weasel like gaze provides insight into his douche filled soul. Westbank is scrote worthy is his own right. He looks like an arabic Sean Paul and scores big time for the scrotebag hand gestures. Willy Wanker is just a run of the mill Brit, seriously pissed off, but still deserves an honourable mention. This contest has to go to Raiders of the Lost Scrote. Indiana Scrote takes a marginal win!

DuckDuckDouche agrees:

Indiana Douche and the Temple of Fine PoonTang. So lurky, so k-fed like, so f'in lucky to be backing that crispy piece of swank tang. He looks a little confused, has to be to wear that silly lid. After much consideration, the Squint and tan sealed the deal. I have to go with Humphrey Bagart. Frankly Douche, you make want to dip myself in honey and sit on a fire ant hill.

Indy takes it for me....

That's not to say Westbank didn't get some love for bringing the douche to an international state of pure douchitude. As david douchecovney puts it:

My first instinct was to vote for Westbank Side. But then my "instincts" told me that Balboa didn't stand a chance against Drago in Rocky IV. So I consulted the rationale of my colleague 'slayers and came away impressed by the myriad arguments. Cracking job ladies and gents!

There was something strangely hopeful about Westbank's blinged out state of 'baggery. To paraphrase the winner of the cold war, Rocky Balboa, "If I can grease, and you can grease... we all can grease!"

Wee Willy was a distant third, and he's so angry about it, he's going to hunt each of you down and glare at you bizarrely. But he did inspire at least a few angry reactions to his douchitude. And it's important to remember that part of the refined aesthetic of a truly superior HCwD pic is the irrational and primal rage it causes in the viewer. All three of these pics didn't have a high rage factor, but Wee Willy did bring up a certain bile in the back of my throat, and for that he deserves at least momentary recognition.

But this week, it was Indy Scrote's chance to shine. And by shine I mean Eurobags suck. jstanley01 makes the connection:

He's about as Indiana as Armand Peugeot. This cigarette-holder puffin', old-money French-puke's normal bag-wear no doubt consists of a silk bathrobe whose fleur de lis pattern matches the penthouse wallpaper. Here he's been caught slumming-it, trying to make like a cow-poke in pursuit of a babe-poke. Meanwhile babe-a-licious, in her locket, still carries the snap of "Troy" taken "that weekend" at the lake.

Nicely done J.S. A verbal smack-down of impressive stature. baron von goolo continues the impressive verbal gymnastics in this week's thread as he eviscerates the Temple of Blonde's unholy archeologist:

I would hang with Westside to gain his trust and get him to fix my computer. And WWW: I'm getting more dick than douche off of him. So the iScrote takes my vote. Not only is Jailbait Barbie whiplash hot, there's something about iScrote's pinched avian leer makes me want to lynch a smooth jazz DJ.

Excellent work, B.V.G. Lots of you were clamoring for the Rooster, so I've decided to toss his plucky ass into next week's HCwD so we can give him a pecking chance. So stop yer crowin'. It'll also give us one more chance to wonder over the perky beauty that is the Holy Blue Triangle, now in her third or fourth appearance on the site (sadly with new douchebag each time). Also Truck Head may be receiving an honorary spot in the Hall of Scrote in the section of my future ex-wives. I just can't get over that brunette. Perfection.

But for now, we raise The Scrote Adventurer to the rafters for next month's HCwD of the Month smack down. And we get ourselves a bowl of Frosted Flakes. And by we I mean me.

Great comments thread, everyone. A quality level of analysis of the hottie/scrotey wrongness that befits a worthy 'bag hunting operation.

It's math formula time, kids.

Boob grab + puka necklace /(forehead grease/smirk) =

a) Toady Stage-1 Fratbag
b) Skeezy uber-douche
c) Typical generic putz
c) Mmm... boobs

That's right.

I'm referencing an emo band that's referencing a Simpsons episode that's referencing a comic book.

Baudrillard. Simulacrum. The copy supercedes the original. A reflectivity of refraction in which the simulation becomes the real. And so it goes.

And so we have Fall out 'Bag. A tongued out scrote that even Gandhi would sandal in the nads.

Oh, and Hot. That is her name. Hot. No other verb will suffice. She defines the concept. She personifies the signification.

Hot.

I would burn my tongue on the stove of her beauty just to taste of that flame.

It's like I've been slapped in the face with a wet smelly diaper that looks like Angela Lansbury. Because it's wrinkled and white. And so's Angela Lansbury. I probably didn't need to explain that.

That dress makes Schrodinger's Cat choose life.

The cutie's your average Vegas waitress chicka, not superstar hot but she's got a nice smile and a sexy little arm. But what's with the orange/white two tone color shaved head look on Browless here? I haven't seen anything that sandpapered since 6th grade wood-shop class. It's like his face is a 1960s polished formica kitchen table. Hey, that could get big bucks on ebay.

Hang in their waitress chicka. The shift is almost up.

Since we've got kind of an old 'bag thing going today, lets celebrate Old Bag, puttin' on the ritz with a delectable piece of pie.

I can't tell if he's doing some form of Halloween performance or if he really does bust a red silk tie, giant fake stogie, and Jesus bling on the lapel on a daily basis.

But what I do know is sideburns are rad.

Old Bag, who looks vaguely like Aaron Spelling, may actually be Aaron Spelling. But either way he rivals last summer's Gramps for sheer balls-out sleaziness into his octogenarian years. And for that, we tip our collective red cup of the 'Train to the original O.G., O.B. Keep on rockin', Oldie. Keep on rockin'.

Maybe you've seen Michael Polinko.

He's "in the best shape of his life" and "forty-nine years old and living the dream!" in those awful Bowflex home gym ads that play in heavy rotation on The Sci-Fi Channel.

Every time I DVR Battlestar I gotta fast forward through that greased up mug's homoerotic workout.

Hey Bowflex Bag, I'm not impressed by your greasy douched-out abs, your age, or the fact you're proud you play in a "rock and roll band." I'm sure your rockin' Bob Seger covers are fantastic to the drunk waitress at the local Wings n' Things, but I don't need to stare at you pumping iron every six and a half minutes while I'm waiting for that blonde cylon uber-hottie in the red dress to come back on.

Now get the hell off my T.V. before I frak your ass.

And while you're mulling over the HCwDB of the Week, here's a skeezy OldBag to cheer you on.

Like most non-Yellowtail old 'bags on the site, Hawaii 50 here may acquire a sort of folk-hero glow. Any ancient pud still able to score balls of candle wax hot like this tight bodiced piece of pizza deserve a sort of inverted 'bag status.

But at what point does a douche cross over and become folk hero anti-douche for still being in the game even as the scrote hangs lower and lower? 50? 55?

Either way, she's lovely. In fact I'm going to clip my toenails in her honor right now. Yes, even the big toes.

Since it's the one year anniversary, and I'm still recovering from that shot of absinthe, I thought we'd mark this week's contest the 'Baggers Day edition. Which basically means it's just like any other weekly vote except I eat an extra moon pie.

Mmm... moon pie.

Speaking of moon pies, now is a good time to announce that I've set up a site redirect at www.HCwDB.com for anyone at work who fears the douchebaggery of my regular URL might offend the delicate sensibilities of those untrained in the 'bag arts. I'm also trying to get my RSS feed to work but I hear it's spotty thanks to Blogger's assitude, so bear with.

But enough of my ramblings, on to this week's finalists:

HCwD of the Week Finalist #1: Indiana Scrote and the Temple of Blonde aka Friday Haiku


Throw me the hottie, I throw you the gel!

This monarch of the sea is definitely a finalist worthy entry, not just because that blonde could melt the frost off Marion's ass. Indiana Scrote needs to have his heart ripped out by offensive Hollywood "primitive" stereotypes while the director hits on his co-star.

There's also the genius appearance of a James Bond villain henchman in the background, Odd Face, which lends the pic a certain intertextual echo.

Did I mention the hotness of the Temple of Blonde? She is my Hebraic Covenant. Her ass is a transmitter, a radio for speaking to God. I would Belloq her bad dates. Watching Indiana Scrote rub up against her is enough to make me shove the Staff of Ra six kadam's up his douchey ass.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #2: Westbank Side


There's something glorious about seeing the douche Grieco Virus go global. And by glorious I mean soul crushing ball smashing wrongness.

Westbank Side busts all the classic 'bag attributes wrapped in a grape leaf hummus package. Those glasses, those facial pubes cut in landing strip formation. those braids, and of course 'bag hand gesture #57.

Red on the left is sexy suburban housewife covert hot. She'll wear a sun dress to church, then tie you up with black licorice at night. Never underestimate the stealth sexiness.

But Pocahontas just warms the cockles of my heart. And by cockles I mean... uhm, yeah.

HCwD of the Week Finalist #3: Wee Willy Wanker

Wee Willy Wanker just has that feel of an iconic HCwDB pic. His expression. The coral snake of douchitude around his neck. His earring that 1989 wants back. And of course his curvy, if slightly plump, little turkey of hot.

The combo of hottie/douchey head assploding wrongness just works. I'm not sure why as it's more than the sum of its parts, but it's definitely a spew worthy finalist and well deserving of consideration to move on to next month's monthly douche-off.

It was tough to eliminate Plastic Man, Rooster Wank, Coffee Bag and Insane in the Douchebrane, which also has a certain iconic flair. Coffee Bag was eliminated because I heard from Mr. Coffee, and he wasn't too thrilled about being featured but grudgingly allowed us to keep the pic up after careful international negotiations between myself and the Coff. So better not to rattle that cage.

And of course Truck Head, whose hottie alone makes me think this pic should get a bump to the hallowed Hall of Scrote as The Future Ex-Mrs. DB1's Wife #2.

But enough digressions, it's time to vote. And this goes for all you lurkers too. Time to step up to the plate and cast in with one of our three lovely finalists. And by lovely I mean moon pie.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Today marks the 1 year anniversary since I started HCwDB, and so I thought we'd celebrate by marking today 'Baggers Day.

I thought about celebrating like I celebrate all my holidays, two moon pies and a shot of absinthe. But then I thought this special first anniversary of a new holiday called for something more.

So I ate a third moon pie. Cuz I'm crazy like that! Crazy like a douche.

Thanks to all of the fantastic regulars whose 'bag hunting skills find the most incredible pics featured on the site. And major props to the commenters in the threads who crack me up and keep me going as we continue to hunt down the hottie/pukey combos that fill the MySpace universe of douchitude like so many stars in a constellation. If that constellation were poo.

Special props to all the soldiers who've been emailing me and who read the site (you guys know who you are). Stay safe over there. We need you guys to get your asses back to the states so you can rescue these hotties from the 'bag plague that's been infecting our country while you've been gone.

This site's just getting fully up to speed, and if I can finally get my douchitude together long enough, we'll be unveiling some new features in the next few months that should fire up the HCwDB combos and take us all to the next level of 'bag slaying.

So crack open a PBR and celebrate. I'm one years old, douchebags!! Douche-on!!

Real hair?

Fake hair?

Wig?

Who gives a rat's ass. That could be chocolate pocky covering his head and I'd still kick him in the nads. The dude is essence of weasel choad. And as the Navajo know, essence of weasel choad is one of the rarest and most potent toxins of the plant kingdom.

Which is why I worry for Polka Hottie. It's not because I want to nuzzle her lower back horse/salt-lick style.

It's because I genuinely fear for her exposure to weasel choad.

Because I'm a humanitarian like that.

There is something inherently astounding when a rocker scrote can wear a bandana the size of an H3 on his head. There's something even more impressive when that same scrote can have his douched out "Obey" shirt ripped off by two sweet nutri-grain cereal bars of wholesome 140 calorie goodness.

There's something even more impressive when I can sit on my ass, pick crumbs off my shirt, chug a PBR, and only get midly annoyed that this wonky greased up ball of pseudo-rocker tan-in-a-can stomached bud lite sipping ferret occupies the same temporal time/space axes that I do.

It's not that I'm a bitter and angry wanker, as the Brits say.

Oh wait, yes it is.

It's exactly that.