Conan here wants to remind you to vote in the HCwDB of the Week if you haven't already.

He also wants to remind you that he is a half baked loaf of ass.

Note the ubiquitous red cup making its presence known behind these two lovely slices of fresh fruit. I would serve them with coffee and a danish and call it brunch.

A reader writes in and suggests the term "Fecal Cough" as an apt descriptor for certain nuances when deconstructing the larger 'bag hierarchies.

I like it. Fecal Cough. It has a certain poetic resonance. A mixture of the polite euphemisms of late 19th century Russian literature yet with a whiff of early 20th Century modernism and futurism. And by whiff, I mean poo.

And so it is with Arthurian pomp and circumstance that I knight white tie 'bag here Fecal Cough. Not simply for the bling. Not simply for the facial pubes. But simply for the uber-douchen silken white tie + no t-shirt look. If that don't say 'bag, then my name ain't DB1.

Inflated hottie has a nicely hybridized 1920s German Cabaret + Alex in "A Clockwork Orange" look going. Sure she may need a little dental work. But, to paraphrase Ferris Bueller's Ed Rooney quoting Faulkner: Between teeth and boobies. I'll take boobies.

See, I knew we'd wax poetic eventually.

It's not that I'm a befuddled, alcoholic, slightly confused douchebag, although I am all of those things.

It's simply the existential crisis that plagues my soul when I'm forced to contemplate such visual stimuli that so shakes my world view. The troubling reminders of human futility. The sobering soul shaking disruption of any claims to importance and achievement we think we have made in this world.

That reminder exists in simple form. The Furry Popped Collar.

Six millennia into our collective transformation and ascension. Six millennia into the development of irrigation, medicine, morality, art, culture, society, literature, music, philosophy, science and here we are.

Beholding Furry Popped Collar.

Furry Popped Collar mocks our collective achievements. Furry Popped Collar laughs hysterically at our puerile attempts to rise above primordial base instinct and ascend to a higher plateau of consciousness.

Furry Popped Collar is the grounding force of real world actuality. The check on human gravitas and self appointed importance. The slap in the face, the dash of cold water, the sobering and uncanny reminder of the only emotion we should ever partake in when contemplating our role in the universe. Humility.

Furry Popped Collar allows for the paradigm shifting process of self actualization through absurdity. And so we should thank Furry Popped Collar. For it checks our intellectual need to arrogantly ascribe transcendence to the human condition. Furry Popped Collar speaks to us. It retells the story we need to constantly be retold. The folly of self aggrandizing importance. The reminder to be humble in the face of a cold and vast universe that spans billions of years. A universe that blinks once and we're here, and twice, and we're gone. A universe of Furry Popped Collar.

Or we could just call it douche.

Schmuck.

searching for something more to say....

Schmuck.

Uhm...

Schmuck.

Yup.

Hooboy this is going to be a drag out smack 'em down hair pulling Axe Bodyspray squirting fight to the finish this week. We have three aged bottles of 18 year Glenbaggy scotch to choose from. To paraphrase the tough loving Alec Baldwin's advice to these three choad traders, A.B.D.

Always Be Douching. Always. Be. Douching.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Fish Slap

Put. Those dog tags down. Dog tags. Are for douchebags.

It's hard to argue with such classic signfiers of all-American douchebaggery. The eye shavings. The nose piercing. The giant diamond earring. Sure this chin stubbley stubblebag has appeared on the site before. But when it comes down to the purity of essence that defines douchebaggery, is this not he?

I ask you. Is. This. Not. He? Yes. Yes it is.

Man boobs and hat tilt round out the goodness. And by goodness I mean badness. And by badness I mean douche.

She's got one of those cute little mouths I could crawl into and hide for a weekend or three. And fantastic sexy eyes. I know I always write about boobies being, well, boobies. But the eyes are important too. Because I'm magnanimous like that.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Link

Will you put on a shirt? Put on a shirt. Will. You. Put on a shirt!

I used the second pic we've seen of Link because it further confirms the fantasticness of the brunette waif's perfection as well as introduces a mysterious second femme angling to steal the Glendouchey leads.

But really, a plastic chain necklace + ginormous mandana? Shirtless, hoop earring, annoying tatt and smug douchey expression? Fantastic. Pure, uncut HCwDB-ery.

Yet there's something performative about the pic. Like they're starring in the off-Broadway production of Douche Man Group. But that is no determent. This pic is pure fantastic hottie/douchey wrongness. It deserves respect. And by respect I mean spew.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Raccoon

You never open your mouth until you know who the 'bag is.

What else can be said about terminal stage-4 D.J/Rockerbag wrongness? The hair, the eye shadow, the Japanese tatt which, roughly translated means, "I bow to your cereal."

And hottie's award winning young-Sheryl-Crow goodness can not be ignored. She is country rocking pink bra sporting cleavite revealing DB1 inspiring happy town. She is essence of hotness. A bouillon cube of sex.

Oh, and he's got black fingernails. And is fondling her abs while staring at you as if to announce where he's going to be spending the rest of his evening spreading his unholy greasitude.

Are you going to take it?

Yes. Yes you are.

On the rage factor, this pic is overwhelming. On the hot factor, her Daisy Dukes kill puppies. Cute, furry puppies. Who didn't do anything wrong.

So there's your three choices. These are the new 'bags. These are the Glendouchey 'bags. Remember, first prize is a douchebag with hottie. Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is, well, another douchebag with hottie who happened to come in third.

Mitch and Murray remind you to vote, as always, in the comments thread.

At first I wanted to push this steamy college pigeon turd down a slip n' slide filled with leeches while ska dancing to Fishbone. But then I had a moment of introspection.

Is he really 'bag?

I posit this hypothetical in the strictly purest sense of the definition.

Surely shaving initials into your concave chest while sporting a triangular hair pattern and quasi homoerotic Top Gun sunglasses would stamp one as choad steam.

But the dude just looks so happy to be there. No overt hand gestures. No anoying douche-face. Just happy go lucky collegeness on display.

And since that delightfully soft wonton noodle thinks it's amusing, maybe my desire to ska-dance while choad tossing was an incorrect impulse. So I figured I'd open it up for a vote.

What say you? 'Bag? Or happy go lucky college dude on spring-break?

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Ladies, when partying it up in the jacuzz with a bottle of Jack and impending tri-makeout on the horizon, beware of lurking aquabags.

Here we see one of the rarer aquabags, the Aquadouchus Grungus, a mutant hybrid from the early 1990s. He is poised in simultaneous attack/mating position.

In their natural habitat, the aquabag will often swim up on unsuspecting females and bust a variety of hand gestures, facial expressions and primal mating calls. These usually involve variants of the, "Pretty sweet jacuzzi, huh?" and "My parents won't be back until Sunday" noises, followed by extensive grunting and scratching.

Pity these three floating cuties. For who knows what happened when Aquabag struck.

If New Kids on the Bag here looks familiar, he should. This old friend, and by friend I mean staple-gun to my uvula, appeared previously on the site last summer. I'd track him down to figure out just which pic he appeared in, but the image of his douched out chin has blurred all higher function and forced me to slap myself repeatedly with a dead fish. How the dead fish got into my pajamas, I'll never find out.

Note stylish unearned dog tags and 10 degree hat tilt, two classic signifiers of extreme douchebaggery. Not that you needed me to point that out. I can hear your screams and dead fish slapping from miles away.

Hmm. "Dead fish slapping." That sounds like a vaguely euphemistic something or other.... Oh yeah, that's it. My ex-girlfriend. Probably needs no further elaboration. Moving on...

She's got that perky 3rd grade schoolteacher thing working. The type whose skirt you used to run over and look under while she was writing on the blackboard. Or was that just me? I'm sorry, Mrs. Russell. I was only nine. But your granny panties scarred me for life.

Unfortunately, the ambiguously Persian hottie from Club Douche's brick wall inspired bottle party has written in and demanded that her pic be removed. My attempts at assuaging her by offering to rub her thighs with chicken grease were not met with the positive reception I'd hoped for.

-------
Please remove
"HCwDB of the Week: Club Douche"
from your website. and also my bf's head from the headlights on that car.

If you do not remove us we will have your website removed.

Thank you
(Ambiguously Persian Hottie Dating Club Douche)
-------------

Well, at least she said thank you.

Since Club Douche was not able to fulfill the duties and standards expected of the HCwDB of the Week Winner, this means the runner-up in last week's contest, Purg Hottie and Rogue Choad, will assume the crown.

Geez, you'd think mercilessly mocking her boyfriend as a total and complete douchebag was upsetting or something. Come on now. Have ya looked at him?

I keep trying to focus on the smirking scroad in the middle of this pic, but I find myself distracted, befuddled and confused by all the hands floating around. I can't tell if this is a bar or a performance by the theatrical mime troupe, Mummenschanz.

So many hands. Only one, however, expressing what we all feel.

I would love both of these Long Island Iced Teas for a solid thirty seconds each before running out of breath and going to the kitchen for a Gatorade.

One of the dangers of observing the Gangsta Bag, aka Hip Hop Scrote, in their natural habitat is the off chance that you're actually mocking a real life gun toting homie. As the designer brands and legit hoodlum looks converge, distinguishing between the various phases and stages of the douchebag impresarios and the real bust-a-cap-in-DB1's-ass homies becomes an arduous task indeed.

Is this one of the many wannabe Miami Beachites cutting porn star patterns in their facial scruff and home-made alien landing strip acid wash clorox jeans in a desperate attempt to pull hottie tail with embellished stories of "Scarface" inspired drug deals on the south side? Or is this dude about to put a contract hit out on my family?

It's hard to tell. When the various branches of douchebagus scrotae and gangsterus badassus converge, we are left only with chaos. We face confusion, anarchy and existential crisis left in our muddled wake.

The same goes for the heavily makeuped hottie. I can't tell the hotties from the trannies anymore. I'm like Joe Buck lost on 42nd Street. Is she a sexy wild thing? Or a man, baby? Either way the matching furry bracelet and leggings are choice.

Smashing Pumpkins 'Bag,
In the Matrix? Or just Westside?
Hottie clutches water.

Why wear two watches?
Irony is turtleneck
On no-neck douchebag.

-- douche vader

Scrotey Shield Boy Blows
HC trapped in chair.so does
Vodka on the rocks

-- voiceboy

Creepy West'bag scum.
Gross, your whole head is pasty.
It's called sunlight, man.

-- Amerigo Vesdouchey

Indoor sunglasses
can't hide the fact that you're bald.
you smell like Old Spice.

-- .pfah.

Truman Capote,
The 80's called and they want
their turtleneck back.

-- baron von goolo

Nothing strikes the cutting edge of the avant garde like t-shirts quoting dated Saturday Night Live sketches.

You are nothing but class, Fatty McChoad. That better be your daughter, your daughter's au pair, or your colonic facilitator.

Either way, you're a giant surgically removed section of the inner lining of the...

eyes moving downward... rage against Fatty receding...

Mmm... cleavite boobies.

I don't know what primal trauma led The Racoon to the sorry state of douchebaggery we find him in today. Maybe as a young child, a vision of Douche Lee came to him and told him to work hard and someday he'd achieve scrote transcendence.

Either way, those black painted fingernails should not be pawing the rack of abs I plan to spend most of Thursday hypothetically suckling like a hungry whelp in the Alaskan wilderness.

New ruling: Chinese lettering tattoo on Caucasian Wank's arm? +2 uber-bag on the scrote scale.

Degree of Difficulty: Double Jumpsuit.

This one is going to be hard. But I have faith in you.

Take your time.

Somewhere hidden in this pic I've placed a lost and confused Waldouche. He's about as hard to notice as it gets.

Look carefully. He's in there somewhere.

Keep looking.

Still stuck?

HINT: You're looking on the wrong side of the pic.

And while we're busting photoshop goodness, here's a reader's ideal DB smackdown headliner.

Now there's an event I'd pay to see. I gotta think Pumpy would crush Ab's unbuttoned shirt inside of thirty seconds, but you never know.

Who's your bet on?

Courtesy of The Daily Pube.

Ah, faux brick paneling.

Ah, a ball of cookie dough scroad giving me the finger.

Mmm... two hotties playing handsies.

Sure, it's hard coming down off the genius 'baggitude of The Link. But I'd still like to microwave his tongue on the "Popcorn" setting.

Ah, College.

A time when young men and women journey forth into the world to seek adventure. To broaden horizons. To make new friends. To pursue the joys of academia, art, culture and higher learning in all of its manifestations.

And, of course, a time to get wrecked and celebrate the fact that your pimply skinny broke ass is pulling hotties you shouldn't even be in the same solar system with.

Good on you, stripey college choad. Have another half empty bottle of discount vodka from CostCo.

Purg Hottie loves me. She wants me to drive her around in our Ferrari, eating chocolate covered strawberries and sipping champagne, and then retiring to our pimped out Boca beach house for extensive lotion rubbing while listening to John Denver's Greatest Hits.

Of course, I can't run pics of my fantasy girl by herself without violating the dictum of my site. So I had to toss a little Club Douche into the mix. Because no dream is complete without the flip side. The gruesome underbelly. The primal chaos below. Or in this case, douchey headlights.

Besides, after the Weekly, I knew these two icons of the site could live together in harmony.

Yeah, that's right, DB1's got the mad photoshop skillz.

EDIT: Sadly, Club Douche's Headlights had to be removed.

PIC DELETED

A remarkably close horse race this week, and by horse I mean Ab Lobster's momma. After an initial surge by Club Douche in what looked like a runaway landslide, Purg Hottie and her Rogue Choad built a slow but significant comeback. Led by andre the giant douche, Good Will Douching, baron von goolo and rip van wanker, the case was made that the hotness of the Purg and the 'bagginess of Rogue Choad were enough to overcome the fantasmo-grease of Club Douche's overwhelming iconography. Even Got-Bagg began to gain, behind dog the douchebag hunter and lower case bag. Finally, at the end of last night, Purg pulled even.

So there it was, all tied up. Until it came down to one last anonymous vote, cast at 2:44 am:

Anonymous said...

no contest, Club.

And boom, Club Douche pulls it out by a spiked hair follicle. Someone voting twice anonymously to tip the scales? Maybe. But don't you fret your pretty little heads, The future ex-wife of DB1, Purg Hottie, will always have a place on the site. And by place on the site, I mean frosted mini wheats. Mmm... frosted mini wheats.

Still, let us not mourn Purg's loss, because Club Douche and his ambiguously Persian hottie, is a worthy winner indeed. As Indiana Douche and the last Douchebag puts it:

Club Douche is such an unforgettable scrote. He reminds me of the Donk, though Club Douche does know how to smile. It's true, he's not making any gestures or douchey facial expressions like the other two contestants, but it's not a requirement. His douchosity stands alone, much like his hair. 1-800 Got Bagg and Purg Hottie's douchebag are really lower class douches compared to Club Douche. This douch could hold his own against many of the pantheon of great Douchebags of the past. He may be a gay 'bag, but he's still a 'bag. Sitting next to a Hot Chick. Makes it a Hot Chick With Douchebag.

Agreeing with the DB1's unhealthy obsession with Purg Hottie, Vinny Scumbaglia casts in with #3:

Purg Hottie. "Activating Douchebag Tractor Beam...." microseconds later, *clang* as the scroad's hull is pulled in. The shirtcuff treatment is a plus, full douche-mug in play... oh, nevermind: what an utter, f@#$ing turd.

My vote goes to Purg Hottie's catch of the day (and *ooogh, sigh* what times are the services held at the basement shrine?)..

But, as danny bonnadouchey sums it up:

Club Douche. Even if it was just a tiny thumbnail pic of his hair and forehead, and nothing else, not him or the hottie, I would still vote for Club Douche.

Either way, going up against Ab Lobster in the monthly ain't going to be easy for Clubby D. That's a hottie/scrotey smackdown of epic proportions on the way.

Once again, excellent analysis, deconstruction and denigration of the hottie/douchey wrongness of this sick society we call home. The regulars seemed to go more for Purg Hottie, so I may have to dig around and see if we might need to install a weighted voting system, with anonymous only getting half a point on a vote or something. But that would require the DB1 to pull out his slide ruler and bust the serious higher math. Which doesn't work so well with the Wednesday morning hangover. So for now, it's Club Douche for the win. And Purg Hottie for my heart. And by heart I mean happy place. And by happy place I don't mean heart.

Oh Link, you naughty naughty fellow.

So punk rock. Yet so douchey. Behold this new aesthetic, "Punk Douche." It is trendsetting and cutting edge. Like a scrotal piercing with a dirty fork.

And I would still juggle hamsters while gargling lighter fluid just for the opportunity to unicycle over her high school yearbook.

You still got it, Uncle Remy.

You still got it.

Ab Lobster haunts our collective dreams and plagues our societal nightmares. He is the manifestation of our Jungian anxieties rendered horrifyingly real. He is Freudian id poo.

Then again, at least he's found something new to point to.

The other day I ate a cheeseburger. It was good. Juicy and sweet.

Then I drank a 16 ounce Dr. Pepper. It was tasty.

I sat for awhile and contemplated life.

I stared out at the rain.

It's a big world out there, I thought.

Filled with many types of 'bags and hotties. Mingling and commingling in infinite permutations and refractions of human specificity among the larger abstract mass of humanity.

I contemplated the uniqueness of the individual. I contasted that with the army of 'bags, the millions of wanky scrotes that trawl the earth like so many hungry bark beetles. The confused hotties being overrun by their instinctual herding.

I contemplated the individual and the group. And I was serene.

Then I saw this pic. This hambag.

I tasted that cheeseburger I'd eaten earlier in the back of my throat.

It didn't taste so good the second time around.

It's hard to say exactly when hazmat suits became the go-to playah move for chin pubey wanks. This pudgey douche is either a DJ, a club promoter, or enriching plutonium.

I do love these three identically dressed gazelles, even if they're in that awkward "I'm 19 years old and still dealing with last year's growth spurt" phase. You know the type. They clump around in high heels crashing into things like they just learned how to walk.

But god damn if they aren't three slices of tasty cheesecake. Lets hope the medical facility where DJ Toxic works uses ammonium bleach. We're gonna need the hard stuff to scrub that scrote clean.

Not sure where this pic falls on the HCwDB scale.Probably just a coupla Arizona State undergrads drunk on fermented hops.

But I sure do love girls who love bananas.

True uber-bags have no need for paltry puka shell necklaces or simple regular sized mandanas.

The true uber douche intuits three fundamental concepts:

1. Mandanas only signify scrote when occupying the forehead land mass of Rhode Island.

2. Plastic chain necklaces eat puka shells for lunch.

3. Shirts are for baglings and aspiring scrotes only.

I would stuff broccoli up my nose and dance the Macarena on the 405 dressed in a spandex Batman suit just for the chance to face the hemisphere she occupies for ten minutes.

Look buddy, I'd tie strip steaks to my ballsack and go swimming in the pirhanna infested Araguari river just for the chance to clean hottie's Payless shoes with a rag, but even I have my limits. Letting a cutie place beefy magazine cutouts over my chest and my shirt?

Too far.

I can't tell which disturbs me more, an oily forehead with a bizarre tanline next to the hair, or a lime green trucker cap hanging from the ceiling.

Either way, this pic just feels creepy. I'm gonna go gargle with some listerine.

The DB1 had one of those lost weekends where you're up all night, drunk, disorientated, and haunted by images of Lobster Abs, Douche Lee and Purg Hottie dancing in your peripheral vision like so many Wu Li Masters. Each apparition helping to form the outline of a giant spectral Pumpy. And if that sounds like an all night party, be assured, it was.

As to this week's contest, coming down off the sinus disrupting intoxication of both The Lobster's weekly victory and The Rooster's triumphant ascendance in the Monthly douche-off, is no easy thing. The good news is we have three sweet candy mint flavored HCwDB pics up for processing and judgment. So it is to the greatest candy of my pre-teen years, Runts, that I dedicate this week's contest. On to the finalists...

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: 1-800 Got Bagg


Got Bagg is one of those sneaky HCwDB pics that grows on you over time even if you might overlook it when it first appeared on the site.

She's sneaky hot, not the type to knock you over the head with an Apple Martini chick drink, but the covert, sipping beer until doing shots with you at 2am type.

And that smile is fantastic.

Slender, soft beanstalk bodies like hers speak to a universe ruled by a kind and benevolent deity who loves all of us. Positioned next to Got Bagg Scroad, and the universe is empty, cold and barren.

Either way, I'm eating a bowl of corn pops.

HCwDB Finalist #2: Club Douche


Fantastic hottie. Fantastic douche.

Last month, after extensive debate and discussion on the site, we made an official ruling that gaybags do not officially qualify as douche for the simple reason that their various affectations are not douched up in the act of pursuing the proverbial hottie.

But that should not influence voting on this pic. Without overt confirmation of gaybag status, this pic must be considered under the existing heterosexual douche rubric.

And besides, look at this guy.

Club him. Now.

HCwDB Finalist #3: Purg Hottie


Some people say I have an unhealthy obsession with Purg Hottie. If building candle lit shrines out of wax, body hair and newspaper clippings in your basement is "obsession" then I'm guilty as charged.

It's not just that I want to carry Purg off, cover her in marshmallow peeps and microwave her into a juicy candy burrito of melting love. Well yes, I suppose it is just that.

But it's also her ability to attract rogue choad, as I observed prior. Other than H.B.T. herself, few hotties have demonstrated such a multitudinous rainbow coalition of scrotraction. She makes my happy places want to sip on gin and juice, laid back style.

So them's your three. Remember to weigh both sides of the scale before voting. The hotness of the hottie. The desire to punch through a plate glass window due to the wrongness of the 'bag's charmless spew.

Weigh each pic. Then vote, as always, in the comments thread below.

Young Xenu disciples have been popping up all over douche-town lately. They show their dedication to removing Thetans by enrolling in reasonably priced auditing classes, and, of course, by popping collars and scroading all over the hotties.

Note the DNA mutant grease sprout emerging from Xenu Jr.'s head. He is well on his way to reaching "bag clarity." And to think, it will only cost him twenty years of future salary.

I would write lousy sci-fi books just for the chance to romance Mrs. Purple while explaining human behavior using alien creatures and warmed over Freud.

Since it's a lazy Saturday, I've decided to take a gaggle of woo hotties and hide not one, but two Waldouches somewhere in the pic.

Look closely.

Can you find them?

Sweep the leg, Johnny!!

Uhm...

Wax on, wax off!!

Er...

Put him in a body bag!!

Eh...

Nice facial pubes, you scrotey douche!! (from the director's cut)

There's a certain surreal moment when the human body begins to rechannel its own grease into new recombinant DNA helix structures. It's almost like watching the first douche-frog crawl forth from the primordial douche-soup. A moment of evolutionary leap. Of scrote transcendence.

Look closely. You can see the genetic evodoution taking place right in front of our eyes. A single solitary grease sprout emerging from this 'bag's thinning head. Or is that two I see?

Ladies and gentlemen, 'bags and 'bag hunters, we are in the presence of a new stage of douche-life. It's a douche miracle!

Oh, and boobies.

The thing is, Asian Turtle from Entourage, when you do the brand thing while busting 'Bag Hand Gesture #203, it's important to remember that "Tide" is not a brand that will impress the ladies.

Now Fab, on the other hand. Fab is a quality fabric softener.

Distant Tongue Scroad,
Oil face near perfect ass,
Serenity, now.

clear cup pinky out
blonde on blonde bum fingering
hotel in vegas

-- douche vader

What I wouldn't give
to lift that little skirt up
While Sunglasses cries.

-Good Will Doucheing

No need to get nude
I'll just slip thong string over
First, kill Panting Douche

-- el doucherino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing

In the end, Rooster was not to be denied. This pic really does sum up everything confusing, sickening, disquieting, arousing, confounding and head smackingly wrong about a perfect HC and DB combination. A combination whose insanity overwhelmes the senses and whettes the palette like so much garlic before sushi. If that sushi were a gelled up Rooster douche.

The sweet, wholesome corn fed southern charms of this brunette minx with the pearly white smile. And by smile I mean boobies. The overwhelming max-factor douchosity of The Rooster, with smirk, test pattern hair shavings and genius popped collar. Together they knocked out The Cowlick, took down Indy Scrote Belloq style, and defeated the Douche Platoon at the Battle of Assassus Junction.

It was a convincing victory. And by victory, I mean poo.

As many of the commenters noted, a true HCwDB pic must be savored not just for the 'baggy scroads displaying their douchey charms, but for the level of hotness they've attracted. Both sides of the scale must be weighed and considered. And in this pic, both sides were too strong to overcome.

jonezy breaks down just how The Rooster transcends:

The other douches in the running play the part when they go out- they gel up and axe out for the night, but this 'bag wakes up everyday the same bag he was when he fell asleep. When he visits his Mom in her trailer park, he's still in douche mode. When he goes to his grandmother's 80th birthday party, he wears the same hairstyle, popped collar, and silly smirk. Its similar to the Superman speech Bill gives in volume II- there is no return from that- there is no turning it off.

Excellent Superman II reference sir. But that didn't mean Douche Platoon didn't come in a strong second. The lineup of four classic 'bag cliches in a row surrounding one sexy Miami Beach hottie, was enough to convince some. Napolean Douche-a-mite made the case:

I don't see how it could be any other than the Douche Platoon. It's a simple, by-the-numbers decision. In Douche Platoon you have a collected 80-90 years of guy-douche, somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 gym hours to make sure that the Platoon's man-melons are just as big as hers are, 15 wasted years of college where these guys met/pledged together/drank each other's semen/etc, and one set of amazing sunglasses (I'm sorry, but the FratDouche on the right, despite the fact that he is pointing out the obvious, has some awesome glasses). Plus, the girl is pull-off-my-own-ear hot. So that is my vote.

But for most, Rooster had it all. As the famous Indian douche guru BAGwan Singh puts it:

As to the Rooster, this guys picture reminds me of a fatal accident you pass on the highway. You drive real slow and you can't take your eyes off of it or get enough of it! I'm not gonna comment on the hair, what can you say...All other bag attributes present and accounted for with the exception of the hand gesture. But since he is drinking a Pink Lady, that makes up for this minor infraction. He's got the HC and she is showing significate levels of Bleeth. It has to be the rooster.

And so it is, BAGwan. Like sands in the hourglass of scrote, these are the douches of our lives.

TongueBag see boobies.

TongueBag want boobies.

TongueBag reach tongue out for boobies.

Bad Tonguebag. Bad.

The IHTG 'Bag, otherwise known as the "I Hate This Guy" 'Bag, is a 'bag styling that transcends genre classification. There are IHTG Fratbags, Rockerbags, GuidoBags, ArtBags, Trash Bags and just about every other scrote in the douche universe. They cannot be quantified by bling, tribal tats or cactus hair. Not tongue piercings nor even hieroglyphics filled jackets. They are identified only by the rage/bile scale, usually measured through the PH balance found by taking small samplings from the back of the throat.

Now I know what you're thinking: DB1, isn't every 'bag a variation of an "I Hate This Guy" 'Bag? To an extent, that's true.

But take Landing Strip Choad, here. Other than the porn star facial pubes, a somewhat annoying coat and the manhandling of this pixie stick, there is an ethereal factor that elevates one's desire to hammer a spike into his earlobe. It's the mystery factor. The X Douche. And that quality can only be quantified within the IHTG scale.

Something to think about as we move forward.

I see this pic as a metaphysical dove, a vision of a future HCwDB World Peace. Because what it reminds us is that the greasy wrongness of hot chicks loving douchebags cuts across all regions. All cultures. All ethnic groups. All nation-state boundaries.

On the left we have a Persian hottie curling up with a choady Persian douchebag.

On the right, a sexy Scandinavian Germanic ball of sexiness curling up with your typical American scrote of hearty Irish/English douche stock.

But together, all four suggest the potential for a deep and lasting world peace. And by world peace I mean the collective realization that no matter what race you are, what religion you are, we can all agree that hot chicks loving total douche is universal. And by universal I mean an electric cattle prod to our collective nether regions.

Someone please contact Nobel. I deserve a damn prize for all this peacemakin'.

After the uber 'baggery of the past few days, including the HCwDB of the Month review, I thought we'd need a stage-1 or stage-2 'bagger to help us relax a bit. Then again, I'm not sure this wank serves that purpose.

With heaping servings of douche-face, frosty hair, standard issue 'bag bling, and of course, the obnoxious shirt message, which is fast replacing Dog Tags (which replaced Jesus Bling) as the go-to signifier of rank douchebaggery, he is... uhm how you say in English... poo.

She's no Purg Hottie, but with a great smile and a fantastically curvy body, I would definitely work out to Richard Simmons "Sweatin' To The Oldies" just for an opportunity to neuter her cat.

HCwDB of the Month voting will remain open through midnight, mainly because the higher math involved in adding up a four way vote is too much for DB1's hangover this morning. So get yer vote in if you haven't already.

PIC DELETED

And I mean that title literally. Please, someone. Club douche. Now. With a polo mallet.

PIC DELETED
Purg Hottie brought three of her friends to remind you, "Don't forget to vote in the HCwDB of the Month thread!" Scroll down. Voting is open all day.

And really. Who are you to argue with Purg Hottie and her three hottie friends?

And who are you to punch pink faux hawk uber-scroad in the nuts? You're breathing, that's who. Which means you have a moral imperative to punch.

Ab Lobster wanted to come by and thank all of you for voting for him in the HCwDB of the Week contest. He also wanted to let you know that pointing at his makeup enhanced abs in clubs was not simply a one time deal, but a way of life.

But enough of my intro, let me turn it over to the Lobs:

Ab Lobster: Gnnnnnnnfffff.

I'm sorry, A.L?

Ab Lobster: Huhhhhhhh.

Do you speak English?

Ab Lobster: Don't have to. Look at these lobster abs. Theys speak for themselves.

Uhm yes. I suppose they do, Ab Lobster. I suppose they do.

Ab Lobster: Boooooyyyaaaaaaaaa. Gagghhhhhhhh. Fweeeee.

Uhm. Okay, that's enough. Please leave now.

A total landslide victory for this rapidly rising pic in the hottie/douchey pantheon. Granted the competition was more 'bagling than 'bag, but the victory is oompa-loompa goodness nonetheless.

i bling keys in on the determining factor of this scrote's signification of 'baggery:

Pointing to his abs, people. Pointing. To. His. Abs.

Yup. It really don't get douchier than that. goofydouche concurs:

Tough call between Douchsplosion and Lobster. Hair-boy's purple-clad hottie has a waist you could wrap your hands around with thumbtips and fingertips touching.

But Lobster has his own finger on the scale. Is he pointing at himself, or at Miss Darkroots? I vote self. Lobster rocks, in a bubbly buttered skin-sauce of his own excretion.

Mistress Julie sums it up, dominatrix style:

Gladly casting my vote for #3. This guy makes my blood boil and by boil I mean I would like to throw him in a pot of boiling water on my stovetop and listen to him scream in pain as his oompa loompa tan and scrote smirk melted off..

Die lobster boy. Die.

I love that Mistress Julie channeled the oompa loompas prior to their appearance on the site. Nice bit o' clairvoyance there, cutie. And russel brings in the always enjoyable octagon reference:

the lobster. in an octagon of douche, he would claw through the hair of his two outclassed opponents and force a double douche tap out. they are like lions in mane only. but he, he is the lobster!

I think Ab Lobster may have found himself an identity outside of just "club douche." On second thought, no. "Club Douche" will always be his first, second and third identity.

Great comments in the comments thread, once again. The Lobster is our first entry for next month's HCwDB of the Month smackdown, where he will compete to join Pumpy and whomever wins the current contest. Which is my roundabout way of saying, get yer vote in.

I guess now we know what Hottie was texting:

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um yah i got a problem with you posting my face on your page with one of my friends... its rude for one and its just immature.. dont people have better things to do then to make fun of other people like honestly... anyways i want my face down.. im in your WHat is she textin picture... and im not sure but i have legal rights of that picture because i took it and your using it.. so im pretty sure you could get in s@#% for that... and might wanna be careful on what pictures you use for your little "hate" blog thank you...
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I like to think of my blog as more hilarious mocking than actual hate, but regardless, the pic is gone. Another classic lost to the ether.

Glenn Close has hit hard times since starring in "Fatal Attraction" twenty years ago. Here she is hitting on an all American tasty side order of onion rings hottie. Dammit, Glenn, what happened?

Oh wait. Glenn Close appears to actually be "Glenn Close 'Bag," one of the variety of androgyny douches haunting the clubs with their whole "I'm asexual and unthreatening, so come back to my place and we'll listen to James Blunt together while drinking Moet before I jump on you."

Someone needs to zip up that aqua blue jumper just a bit tighter, cutting off circulation to Cruella De Ville's windpipe.

Onion rings hottie, I would dip you in hot sauce and enjoy you with a tasty can or three of Schlitz.

Blue Popped Peeps here is struggling with his HCwDB of the Month vote. Indiana Scrote and Cowlick impress him with Eurodouche foreign exoticism, but the Douche Platoon personify everything he aspires to be. And what about Rooster Wank? Total Punk Rock. If Punk Rock meant douche.

As to how Peeps got his name, I haven't seen that much goo since I microwaved two dozen Easter Peeps when I was twelve.

Stupid marshmallow birds. That's what you get for being so delectable.

A reader just alerted me to how overdue we are for a monthly contest. So since the Weekly appears to be a runaway for Ab Lobster (although voting is still open), lets get to the good stuff.

The monthly Douche Off.

Last month's triumphant douche champion: The legendary Pumpy.

This month?

That's up to you, my fine 'bag hunting friend. Think long and hard, and I don't mean that as a euphemism for your crotch. Choose wisely. Weigh the pros and cons of each pic. And by pros I mean fun bags. And by cons I mean douchebags. But you knew that already.

Here are your four choice cuts of scrote and their beautiful young hotties who know not what they do. Judge them, lest they judge you.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Indiana Scrote and the Temple of Blonde


What more can I say about this juicy pic of creepy EuroBag wrongness and a fantastic cut of fine brie cheese?

Not much.

Except that I would love her under a Tuscan sun.

I would woo her with spirits and delicate Turkish flowers.

I would hump her kneecap like a rhesus monkey on Red Bull.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Rooster Wank

A genius pic on a number of scrotey levels. The literal -- douche-hair to an extreme depth of douchebaggery. Note the shaved alien landing signs above the ears.

Hotness -- One of the finest legends to ever grace the douched out halls of HCwDB, the Holy Blue Triangle herself.

Mini Jesus bling and popped collar goodness. The mark of any truly superior 'bag, and by superior, I mean inferior.

The Cleavite -- Textbook definition. Two crystalline arcs of pale skin revealed for our head spinning intoxication.

Together, these two make shredded ass.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Douche Platoon

The perfect cross-section sampling of modern scrote.

What should I label these four choads? I've said it before and I'll say it again. 'Bag, 'Bag, 'Bag, 'Bag.

And one hottie milkbone in the middle for the four to salivate all over. It's almost enough to want to firebomb Miami, Dresden-in-'44 style.

mmm... bellybutton ab peanut butter and jelly goodness.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Cowlicker


A perfect example of the greased up Kevin Bacon richboy wank, drooling all over a cheekbony slice of high class cheesecake. I'm not talking that frozen cheesecake you get at kids birthday partys. I'm talking top shelf. Waldorf Astoria level cheesecake. Lindy's in the mid 1960s in Manhattan quality.

While Cowlick may not sport many of the classic 'bag elements the other pics have, do not underestimate the sliming tongue and the anger scale.

Let the rage boil within. Can you taste it? Good! I knew you could.

Allow that to influence your vote at all times.

So there it is folks.

Your four finalists.

I don't envy you your task.

This is no easy decision. Take your time. Voting will be open for the next two days. Think long and hard. And by long and hard, I mean my crotch. Which has this horrible rash on it. That's the last time I hump a kneecap like a shrieking rhesus monkey on Red Bull.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.