Troy Roidell writes in:

-----------
Dear Mr. DB1,

My name is Troy and I'm a senior at Lake Crest High School. We're the Trojans. I think it's cool that my name is Troy and my high school mascot is a Trojan.

Anyway, I wanted to ask you a question to help with a report that I'm writing in my "Problems of the Modern World" class. It's my last major paper of the year and I need a decent grade. I'm allowed to ask an expert if I can't find enough written sources. So after googling for about 20 minutes I realized that I wasn't going to find the answer so I better ask you. Your web site came up first in every search that I did.

So, here is my question. What is the origin of the douchebag hand gestures? Is it some sort of secret code like gang bangers use? I really need some background on this. Maybe something on the most popular gestures and what they mean, too.

Thanks in advance. It would really be cool if your answer was right around a 1,500 words, too. But if it isn't, I understand.

Sincerely,
Troy Roidell
-------

The origin of the 'Bag Hand Gesture remains mysterious and elusive. Some posit it a cry for attention, a variant of the mating call in the animal kingdom. Like when Balisian rhesus monkeys fling poo, or Brazilian chipmunks whistle various 50 Cent ring tones to attract a mate.

Early historiographical theories explored the notion that 'Bag Hand Gestures (#001-#265) began in late 19th Century dance halls, when dock workers would signal to find out if a woman nearby was a "lady of the evening." Throughout much of the 20th Century these early primitive hand signs in proto-douchebags began to develop with increasing complexity, eventually reaching the broad and complex form of hand signal communicative linguistics we see today.

As to your essay, can't help with that, Troy. But I can make a kick-ass bitchin' "Westside" with my left hand.

I don't know whether to make fun of the grease-cheeks or head for the nearest mall for cover while making sure they don't bite me by shooting them in the head.

And I'm talking 1970s George Romero Dawn of the Choad, not that remake douchebaggery.

Someone set off a flare and distract them, while I save hottie. Then again, she looks infected. Damn you, Grieco Virus! Damn you to hell.

I happened to stumble into "Say Anything" on cable the other day. Holy sweet Christos, what I wouldn't pay to see a group of coked up British thugs in droog outfits kick the holy crap out of Lloyd Dobbler.

It is to that whiny turd that I dedicate this post, and my coining of the "Dobblerbag." The Dobblerbag is a whiny git who espouses clever one liners while sweating and trembling because he's "so happy" when he loses his virginity. He may not be a classic 'Bag, but let there be no mistake, he's hidden douche at work. He's a variant of the Emo Bag melded with the Hipster Bag by way of the virus, Unrealisticus Characterus.

Holding up the stereo playing the worst post-Genesis Peter Gabriel song? You are douche. Even as fictional character, true douche is achieved.

Eat me, Dobbler Bag. And you too, pud in the pic.

Oh, and boobies.

And lo, the hills were perfect and golden, flowering with the nectar of swollen bosom. But hark, the douchedragon prowled yonder, roaring with gusts of Tag Bodyshot. Seeking to feast on scrotiserie chicken.

And hark, the DB1 can't come up with anything else to say about this pic except boobies.

It wasn't even close. Prom Oompa Loompa just crushed the competition. And by crushed, I mean Orange.

There's a certain genius to the Prompa, and it's not just the zoot suit or the orange or the hair. It's that nervous moment we can all relate to. That glance around right before going to the prom when you're waiting in line and making sure your tie's on straight. The only difference is that unlike all of us at our prom who just felt like we looked ridiculous, Prompa actually does look absolutely ridiculous.

The range of emotions that Prompa inspired in the comments thread ran the gamut from hilarity to depression to heavy drinking. As the everpresent anonymous put it:

I stuck a couple of waffles in the toaster for breakfast but this thing in pink just made me lose my appetite. Time to call in sick to work and crack open the first OE of the day.

Nice Old English reference. I'm not the malt liquor drinker myself, but I respect anyone who mixes it with waffles. Born 2B Bag sums up the Prompa pain:

Grieco High, Newark New Jersey class of '07. This is why Al Qaeda hates us.

They hate us for our hair gels, B2BB. choadasaurus rex wonders aloud at the development that lies in the future for this 'Bagling and his sidekick:

WTF IS THAT?!?! This teen 'Bag is definitely pushing the douchebag envelope. If he continues on this path his future here is bright... it will be interesting to follow his progression from prepubescent uberbagosity into a full blown scrote commando. Orange face, pink tux, gray spiked hair... and this is his prom gear. Imagine what his club 'Bag attire would look like? I can't even imagine... he is definitely shooting for the stars of douchedum. Watchout world... this new up and comer promises endless 'Bag material.

The sky is the limit. He's like the proverbial "next Michael Jordan" of the douchebag diegesis.

I was sad to see 'Baggish and Syndrome find less support, as both are fully grown and highly accomplished scrotemeisters, well versed in the Art of 'Bag. Each brought along a fine hottie to balance the equation, especially Syndrome's (yum).

But the Orange Prompa was not to be denied. And there will be no cropping of this pic. Part of the genius is the long-shot. Finding the Prompa standing nervously in line.

It's poetic art. Someone call the Guggenheim. Prompa is 21st Century dada at its finest.

So raise Prompa's orange jersey to the rafters and book him a ticket to the Monthly. He's officially enscribed as HCwDB legend.

During my long existential journey trolling through the swamplands of MySpace/Facebook hottie-douchey wrongness, I have found my soul vexed by many troubling questions.

What are the root causes of douche-hot duality? How does Grieco Virus spread its greasy plague from city to city, 'Bag to 'Bag, 'Bag to Hottie and Hottie to Hottie?

My journey, my vision quest, into the dark festering land of douchitude has offered some answers, but also opened doors to more soul troubling questions. Do greased up uberchoadbags possess awareness? Does the inflated tat-douche ponder quandaries of being and nothingness? Do Hotties know not what they do? And can we forgive?

Most imporantly, can your humble narrator, The DB1, drink a six pack of PBR, down three packets of tasty Hostess HoHos, and still cruise high school parking lots in a beat up Chevy Cavalier?

Holy sweet merciless hooters, I miss being 18. Because when I was 18 I also had two sweet balls of teenage perfection in the back of a limo. Just like this choad.

Okay, maybe not. But the possibility was always there. As far as I knew.

I don't know whether Suity McSilktie is a 'bag, but, well, he's a 'Bag because I loves me some lime rickey. She makes me tremble like a coked up Kate Hepburn.

Check out the douche while the DJ revolve it.

Yeah, I've done Vanilla Ice jokes on the site before. And I'll do them again. Because I'm creative like that. And really, what else is there to say about this choad?

She's like the hot young mom at the PTA meeting who looks all conservative, then dresses up as Wonder Woman on weekends and participates in reiki orgies. I would discuss lunch menus and after-school curriculum with her over lapsang souchong tea at Starbucks before getting my freak on to iPod house music and my expensive shaper image strobe lights.

People are douchey,
when you're a douchebag,
Faces look scrotey,
when you're a scrote.

Women seem Bleethey,
when you're a choadbag,
Streets are uneven,
when you're a clown,

When you're douche,
Greasy chest features your bling,
When you're douche,
Leather pants show off your thing,
When you're douche...
When you're douche...
When you're douche...

Those are five of the nicest balloons I've seen since The Blizzard.

Other than the douched out shirt, the dude doesn't really have many classic 'Bag signifiers. So lets stamp and process him as stage-1 EuroBag. Then ship his ass off to Vienna.

And by Vienna, I mean the sausage factory. Where he'd be more comfortable. While I steal away with sultry brunette by cover of moonlit night, only to ravish her under a chocolate waterfall while tiny Oompa Prompas dance in our peripheral ecstasy.

A little known legend about the great King of England, Henry the V, remains in English lore. The story goes that Henry the V had a much less famous and lazy younger brother, Todd the VII. Todd the VII would continually embarrass and shame the great warrior king during his rise to the throne.

When Henry the V finally ascended to the Crown in 1413, much of his court was deeply concerned. How would the new King of England handle the douchebaggy antics of his clownish and slothful younger brother, Todd the VII?

Henry tried to endure, but Todd's continuing need to grease up and "Mack on the Harem" proved too much for Henry to tolerate.

Finally, by 1419, Henry had had enough of Todd's greasy antics and sent him to the far East as a token of good will. When Todd reached Beijing, Todd was quickly taken in by Chinese guards and put on trial for being a "Barbarian Invader 'Bag." Emperor Ming the Choadalicious quickly took a liking to young Todd and allowed him one bar wench of his choosing before confining him to the Forbidden City. And so Todd the VII chose Katharine the Hott, pictured here.

Back in England, word of Todd's bravery quickly spread, and by bravery, the jesters meant douchey. Todd the VII was quickly renamed "Todd the Douche," and he lived out the rest of his life in the Forbidden City with Catherine the Hott, feasting on mutton, mead and Applebees chicken and ribs takeout.

Nothing says 1970s, balls out, Sid Vicious, puking into an empty pizza box at 3am, CBGBs wall grime, essence of punk rock like wearing pearls in suburbia.

Pearls in suburbia. I like that name. It's like a late 80s punk band meets an Eric Bogosian play meets a 2007 teenage uberchoad. And the Dr. Seuss socks just take the whole thing over the top.

I guess I gotta give it up to Pearls, here. At least he's original. Now where's Dee Dee and Joey to throw down.

She is Marisa Tomei from "My Cousin Vinny" goodness. I would pretend to be interested in cute furry animals and charity work if it meant we'd retire to her dorm room to make out to Bon Jovi's greatest hits while her roommate studied Intro to Economics on the bunk bed above us.

And while you're mulling your vote for the HCwDB of the Week, here's a toxic spill to help cleanse the palette.

In staring at the Choad Patrol here (and I'd be careful not to stare too long), the revelation of Ab Crustaceans brings up an important discussion. Is this simply an attempt at affectionate playfulness? Or aggressive posturing bordering on hostility and latent anger?

I've always found a certain linguistic irony in the fact that the words "aggression" and "affection" are so similar. And by linguistic irony, I do not mean pretending to enjoy your pasta at the Olive Garden.

What constitutes over the top douchebaggery posturing as aggression instead of affection? Where do we draw the societal lines on ab revelations and hottie headbutting?

And would Mira Sorvino Cutie let me lick her earlobes like a cracked up ferret?

Three enter. Only one advances.

Yes, 'bags, 'bag hunters, hotties and choadscrotes, before we get to the smorgasboard of new pics I have in the hopper for this week, it's time for the HCwDB of the Week contest. And we're going it Trenton Style. This week's 'bag-off features three surprisingly classic selections of hottie/douchey wrongness. Well, two classics. And one pic that's just, well, absolutely surreal. I speak, of course, of the legendary Oompa Prompa.

But I get ahead of myself. And by get ahead of myself I mean my shirt smells like moldy cheese. That's what I get for a three day weekend. Speaking of cheese, Lets get to the goods. And by goods, I mean cheese:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Syndrome

It's not just that he looks like a Pixar animated bad guy, or that his mug is smirking with the greased up chin stubbley half-grin we have long established on this site as what I like to call "Classic 'Bag." And like any classic, it still delivers. And be delivers I mean makes me slam my head in a car door. But it's not just his choady swill that makes this a worthy pic.

It's that tall glass of Hot Chocolate. Megods she makes my toenails curl.

Sexy dress, sweet smile. As always in the Weekly we must weigh both the douchitude of the douchebag and the arousing aroma of hotness. This pic has both. All that and a douchetacular wrist-band on Syndrome's "gun" hand. A worthy competitor for the Weekly, indeed.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Oompa Prompa

Oompa Prompa is very orange.

His visage is already iconic and legend here at HCwDB and will grow moreso with every spiked follicle.

And while I worry about contract hits on my life for featuring potentially "connected" offspring on the site, I'll console myself with the fact that Tony Soprano seems to have a pretty good sense of self deprecating humor. And since I believe everything I see on T.V., I'm going to assume others have that same ability to laugh at all things douchey, even the self inflicted kind.

So again, please do not hurt me. I have deep and profound respect for New Jersey. I'm a huge douchebag myself, only without hot chick. Do not seek violent retribution on my face. Instead, pity me. For I am Douchebag #1.

That being said, Orange. Orange.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Luck of the Baggish

Frost-tipped Douchey Charms, they're Baggishly delicious!

It seems like all three of our 'bags this week have left the realm of realistic human portrayal and entered a new zone. The only word for it is the "Douchetoon Zone." They've slipped off the reservation and gone into pure drawn character mode.

'Baggish is fantastic Jersey shore A-List scroad. The type that even Bruce Springsteen couldn't write a nostalgic song about. Hottie on the right may be inflated, but has a sweet smile and looks like the type I could discuss Proust with over a glass of Pino Noir. And by Pino, I mean something something.

So there's they are. Which'll it be? 'Baggish? Oompa? Or Syndrome?Line 'em up, and pick one.

I put it to you, Greg. Isn't this an indictment of our entire American douchebaggery? Yes. Yes it is.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Memorial Day is a pretty somber holiday, so I wasn't sure I should post anything. But then I figured SwimDouche might be okay. Because he's sort of red, white and blue. In a HCwDB sort of way.

So since mocking douchescrotes and the hotties who love them probably isn't too appropriate, regular posting, as well as the HCwDB of the Week contest, will resume tomorrow.

Have a sober and reflective Memorial Day. But if you want to sneak a comment in mocking tight vinyl scrotae here, and the perfection of his hottie, it might be okay.

Sunday Stan, the Douche Warrior, goes into battle with full 'Bag armaments. Like the killer awakening before dawn, he puts his 'bling on. Multicolored faux hawk. Carefully plucked chin pubes. Assorted ironic t-shirt collection. Expensive designer coat.

When Sunday Stan is ready, he walks on down that hall.

"Hottie?"

"Yes, Stan?"

"I want to headbutt you."

He makes his move, stashes the Corona behind his back. And like a wildebeast in the jungle, she falls under his douchey powers.

I would ice skate naked to Mozart just for the chance to share sno-cones in a thunderstorm with her older less attractive sister.

Since there seems to be a bit of a clamor for an A-List HCwDB pic this weekend, I'll post this genius pic that I was saving for Monday.

Back to basics, baby.

A maelstrom of boobs and choad. Pillows and poo.

A brunette hottie on the left I would drink iocane powder for while fencing left handed. Two more slices of hottie bread at the bottom that I would lightly toast with powdered sugar and jam. Two peroxide blondes who may be a little large for my tastes, but would still break me in half and leave me asking for more.

Oh yeah, and Pumpkinbag.

Doctor Evil 'Bag.

Eurodouche Austrian prince 'Bag.

There it is. The faint hint of bile in the back of my throat.

All the emotions come together to form the perfect nexus of Hottie/Douchie wrongness. Arousal, rage, confusion, disorientation and a glass of iced tea.

Why iced tea? Because it's delightfully refreshing.

dogboy writes in:

------
DB1,

Mr. bones' call for a mistrial of dolphinbag yesterday makes me wonder whether douchebag identification, and hopefully eradiation, is science or politico-social art. Is it a democratic process of consensus building and judgment in a somewhat less than congenial forum by spiky peers in hopes of making a better society? And by making a better society I mean ridding us of these stinking turds.

Or is it a cold, hard, but growing, science of tagging, identification and classification of disgusting nutsacks and the symbiotic, hot, sweet honeys in their environs in hope discovering a cure? And by cure I mean ridding us of these stinking turds.

Either way, this site is still gd funny.

Help me understand, great one. And by great one I mean . . .

dogboy
------

Solid question, dogboy. As we seek to parse and classify the various stages, levels and permutations of 'Bag in the increasingly fetid swampland that is the modern hottie/douchey plague, we must understand that our endeavor is not majoritarian but scientific in nature. The democratic process aids and abets the boundries of the discourse through a Millsian framework of competitive argument, but the proofs require a more detailed and objective list of criteria. In other words, once the parameters of the douche manifest have been established in each subcategory, those systems of ranking become fixed as defining tropes.

This is not to say that there isn't an aesthetic component to the analysis. Some 'Bags feature an unclassifiable quality, an essence du baggage if you will that rises above any specific signifiers, like Bling, facial pubes, popped collar, etc. In this way, 'bag hunting becomes a form of artistic expression of equal importance to any scientific classification.

So in this sense, tagging the perfect Hottie/Douchey combo is both scientific classifiable but also artistic and aesthetically driven. But not necessarily majoritarian or democracy based as a driving trope of the study.

Hoooooeeeyyy!!

Someone call Boss Hog!! Looks like we gotta oursels' a coupla choads on the loose scarin' up Daisy Duke and Mary Ann somethin' fierce!!

Yeeeehaaa!! Where's my rifle when I need it!!

Get 'er done, douchebags!!

Expression you never want to hear a hottie say, like "My pee smells funny." or "I just put my tampons in the toaster by accident."

Add, "Don't look now, but Crab Hands are sprouting out of your back."

I would read Kafka to orphans until they whimpered for the mother they never knew just for the chance to nibble on brunette's car keys.

I'll take Axl Rosebag in the center square for the block, Tom.

This is the fourth appearance on the site for Mr. Rosebag, after making such previously disparate douche manifestations as seen here, here and here.

I think it's safe to say he's the Master of Doucheguises. The Houdini of Choad.

And damn. She is fantastic.

I would love his blond danish with a hot Dunkin' Donuts coffee, then turn on Sportscenter.

And lo, the early breaking dawn broke after a night of revelry.

Shafts of sunlight sliced through the dim blue dawn upon the partying youth.

They looked around, tired but satiated after a night of good times.

And then they saw what the late night darkness could hide no more.

She'd been up all night. Cuddling with a douchebag.

And lo, they were sad.

PIC DELETED

While some debate broke out yesterday about Spin Doctors Superfly White Boy's 'Bag / Not a 'Bag status, with opinion fairly evenly divided, new evidence has come to light that suggests that DolphinsBag is, indeed, a douche.

Note secondary pic confirmation of porn star facial pubes on the douche-face, 'bag hand gesture#102, and perhaps the most alcoholic Asian girlfriend this side of Bai Ling at an HBO after-party.

To those who thought he was pimp stylin' yesterday like mid 70s Richard Roundtree by way of late 90s Michael Rappaport, let today's pic lay to rest any non-'Bag suspicions you might have had.

The dude is choad.

Apologies, the server is running a bit douchey this morning due to my just finished appearance on KROQ'S Kevin and Bean Show here in L.A.

In the meantime, here's a picture of a an aging hippie freak choad and his wet nurse.

Wind through hair plugs.
Bullock hottie tilts hat, says,
Nice try, white tie douche.

Sweet army Sandra
Fake boobs are OK for now
You make me salute

-- lone scrote mcquade

Face like a pac-man.
Forehead would like to eat you,
Or perhaps itself.

-- anonymous

I'd enlist for her
Please hottie, save my privates
A few good funbags

-- danny bonnadouchey

Yikes look behind you
Greasy scrote making his move
Run speedbag hottie!

-- mistress julie

Rocky's got the stare down stone cold badass style. And by stone cold badass, I mean poseur choad douchebag.

If I were a paid pugilistic champion, I would match his masterly stare-down with icy coldness, then upper cut him into the ropes while two ten year olds held up a misspelled sign in the background.

Ring Girl is ten rounds of card holding goodness. I would discuss Frazier/Ali wearing a 1970s tweed jacket in a smoky gym on 10th Avenue if it meant I could speedbag her speedbags while adding additional rips to her cleverly sliced jeans. And, for the cheap seats, speedbags refer to her boobies. Because they're both soft and round and you slap them lightly when in an exited physical state of activity. Thus speedbags. Boobies. Like speedbags. Only they're boobies.

I enjoy explaining sexual euphemisms and double entendres. Because it lets me type the word boobies. Boobies.

Rocky's wristwatch is the sports watch of the 80s. It tells time simultaneously in Monte Carlo, Beverly Hills, London, Paris, Rome and Gstaad.

PIC DELETED

I can't tell whether looking like an early 70s white version of Superfly constitutes 'Bag status or not. Because Superfly was badass. Then again white boy Spin Doctors Superfly isn't.

Yet I can't pinpoint the douchosity.

He's got the vague waftage of douche without specific douchbaguousness outside of the chin pubes and maybe that large 70s retro collar shirt. The hat has douch du essence but lacks baseball cap 10 Degree Tilt status to push this choad over into an actual 'Bag classification.

What to verdict? 'Bag? Or not a 'Bag?

I throw it to you, fellow 'bag slayer, to render judgement. What say you? Judge his ass with the unimpeded abandon of a used up circus clown hittin' the sauce.

Drunk Asian hottie is zaftig in all the right places. I would paint abstract art in her honor just for the chance to drool on her dress shoes while she called the police and had me escorted from the premises. Oh wait, that actually did happen.

douche baggins writes in and asks:

-------
I was wondering if it is possible to turn your 'bagness on and off? In other words, would it be possible for a scrote to have vast amounts of douchitude one day, then the next clean up and be the Anti-Grieco, and when Friday night rolls around and a full moon imparts its light upon a Jersey boy he begins to transform into a grease-faced, porcupine-scalp, shocker-waving douche?

Or is it more like, "once a douche, always a douche?"
--------

When meditating and ruminating on the 'bag/not a 'bag duality, it is important to consider douchosity as a spiritual essence, and douche signifiers simply the manifestation of that essence. So once one has crossed over to 'Bag, one ceases to be un-'Bag in any meaningful way, whether the signs are there or not. Like any spiritual crossing, 'Bag remains 'Bag in either active or covert state.

There is a road back to un-'Bag for even the most polluted Jersey choad, but this process is complex and requires dedicated commitment to reform one's douchey ways. The keen 'Bag Hunter can usually spot dormant douchitude even in a scrote trying to hide. One must simply train the eye. The signs are always there.

Far be it for me to pick on high school prom 'baglings, but orange?

Seriously, orange?

Orange plus cactus hair?

I weep for the future. However, if those are the Gotti boys, I would just like to say that I have deep and profound respect for them, they are not douchebags of any kind, and please do not hurt me.

Ever shove your face into a blender, pour in some soy milk and set it on "whip"? That's the physically equivalent sensation of looking at 172 degree Hat Tilt Whipit choad leaning in on these two tasty pancakes with a maple syrup filling.

I would Chewbacca crossbow Whipit with a laser blast until his protons fused with the 70s faux wood paneling behind him to create a new element on the periodic tables -- woodchoad.

Then I would set off flares from a Kowloon rickshaw just to celebrate the four inspired and firm grabby grabs that are standing at attention. They are soft and boobie-like boobies, that make me want to sing opera while tap dancing highly inappropriate statements about my scrotae in morse code.

Whip it. Whip it Bad.

M.A.B.s are Middle Aged Bags, not quite Oldbags but with the receding hairline and mid-life crisis to disqualify them from the regular trolling douchechoads of clubland. Speaking of, wasn't "Douchechoads of Clubland" a fanastic mid 1990s techno band? Hmm. I'll get back to you on that.

This Mab has gone arch gothic on his hotties, likely some former roadie promising to introduce them to Twiggy from Marilyn Manson if they'll let him sniff their inner thighs for ten seconds each. Give it up, Mab. The glory days are, in the parlance of a pissed off Boston sports fan, OVAH.

Pack it in. Take your creepy eyebrow, six remaining hairs on your head and 19th century aristocratic facial hair back to your one bedroom bungalow in West Hollywood before I get Cro Bagnon to break you in half, Drago style.

I'm starting a new section here at HCwDB where you ask me, The DB1, your humble narrator in all things douchey/hottie, various questions on the hottitude and scrotitude that plague our fair shores. And I'll try to give my best woozy and alcoholic fueled rant-like answer.

I will seek to facilitate all of our journeys down the spiritual path of douche-enlightenment. To answer the darkest 'baggiest questions that plague your soul like so many early 1990s Richard Grieco movies. Like If Looks Could Kill. Yeesh.

If you have a question regarding any and all things hottie/douchey and would like an answer, email it in to me at douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com

I'd also like to welcome all new traffic coming by way of yesterday's mention on Gawker. If you're new to the ways of 'bag hunting and hottie drooling, welcome. You'll pick up the lingo in a few days, or check out the FAQ if you have any other questions.

Also, the site was featured in this month's Rolling Stone magazine, page 42. I couldn't find an online link to the Rolling Stone feature, so you'll just have to go to the bookstore and check it out. It's the one with The Holy Proto-'Bag Who is Not 'Bag, Keith Richards, on the cover. As well as Johnny Depp, whose early douchitude gave way to actual talent.

Mmm... young Winona. I'd Heathers her Lucas while Mermaiding her Beetlejuice.

EDIT: Forgot to mention that each post will be accompanied by a random HCwDB pic, like the one featured here, which will likely have little to do with the question at hand. The reason for this partially involves monkey spittle. But also the fact I'm not remotely organized enough to tie the two together. But mostly, I blame monkey spittle.

And a new bumper-sticker craze was born.

Axl Rose 'Bag is very upset that he didn't win the HCwDB of the week contest. When asked to comment, he replied simply, "Unnnnnghhh" and ran off to his room to download James Hetfield screen-savers.

Some might call Axl Pud your average clown playing douche dressup. I wouldn't argue the point. But I would add that, as we've seen before, performative ironic 'bag is still 'bag.

In summation, someone please hammer a nail into his taint.

To douche is to be. -- Socrates
To be is to douche. -- Sartre
Douchebag douchebag do. -- Sinatra

One of the closest votes in awhile, with all three finalists seperated by 3 votes or less total. And by closest votes I mean my face buried in young Phoebe's supple organic Trader Joes. Mmm... I love her pouty zebra printness.

Yup, The Mack took the prize, barely edging out Mullet Toad, who, like all Old Bags, confused voters with a mix of disgust and admiration for anyone who can, in the parlance of the great R. Crumb, Keep on Douchin'.

Dual Jersey hotties, too tight shirt, greased up face and tough guy James Cagney mug all merit The Mack a worthy winner. As pfah puts it:

the other two picts are equally disturbing, but The Mack embodies everything that is douche. and he's young, so he's got time to grow up and achieve douche status like that of Xenu or White Chocolate. the farce is strong in this one.

Interestingly, most of the hotties on the site voted for Mullet Toad. KellyBelly launched a thousand fantasies with the following:

Let's see.....Mullet Toad is the winner! I really like his hottie. I mean, I REALLY REALLY like his hottie. She has the cutest little ties on her bikini. sigh. As for him, all I can say is, GOLD NECKLACE and HAIRY CHEST. come on people. He doesn't deserve her!

Agreeing, the xviith scrote of douche chimed in:

How did a scrote toad like that land on such a nice lily pad? Give it up for #3 -- he's pure Parrothead Douche.

(The cognitive dissonance from this pic is mixing all my metaphors.)
(I wish I could mix her metaphors.)
(Sigh. Sweet goddam sigh.)

I feel your pain, XVII. Oh wait, no, that's just my scrotae. But when it comes down to defining douchebaggery, it seems people like to return to the Classics. The traditional signifiers of all that is douchey/hottie wrongness. It's like Chaim Topol sang in Fiddler: Tradition, Tradition! The Mack is traditional douche. Old school down home 'bag values. As the the big ledoucheski sums it up:

For me the clear choice is The Mack. Girl on the left doesn't exactly qualify as a hc, but the one on the right has an Olsen Twin kind of thing happening, but with a bigger rack. Then there is the scrote in the middle, the fact that he probably orchastrated that pose, the too tight shirt, the suspenders (wtf?), and the smug look on his face--that's the clincher for me. He is eau de douche, the essence of douche if you will.

Yes he is, B.L. But we'll see how far Classic Scrote takes him in the monthly.

During our recent deconstruction of the hottie/douchey wrongness of HCwDB of the Week winner Ab Lobster, a tertiary debate broke out in regards to the confirmability of the hotness of the Lobster's blond hottie. After exploring a number of analytical discourses, some theorized she was not "all that" while a forceful counter-argument emerged that she was indeed, "all that." However the lack of firm evidence left a sense of intellectual stalemate and the conclusiveness of either perspective gradually faded, locked in stasis.

But your humble narrator brings good news.

New evidence has now arrived which should fundamentally alter the ambiguous deconstruction of the uberhotuousness of said Blond Hottie, pictured here. And by evidence I mean, uhm, well, the pic. Which you already knew. Since you're looking at it.

Consider the argument settled. The Lobster's Hottie is indeed a salty baked potato to his crustacean insect abs.

As to the Lobs? We reached conclusion on that 'bag awhile ago. It's what they call in the science world a "douche-proof."

There comes a time when every man faces a choice in life. Seek out his spiritual essence. Question existence. Search for higher truth.

Or just tattoo a ginormous swirl on your arm.

I know the tat is fairly 'baggy, but I sort of like The Swirl. No 10 degree hat tilt, relatively benign sunglasses, no 'bag hand gesture. He seems like he's kind of got a sense of humor.

And then I spotted it. The low hanging shorts/underwear thing, fairly stenchuous with uberbagosity. And if those last two terms aren't real words, they should be.

The other day I was sitting around, sipping a nice tall glass of lemonade out on the porch and watching my grandmother milk the yaks, and I thought to myself, "Ya know? If Dairy Queen ever made a Hottie/Douchey Blizzard milkshake, I wonder what it would look like?"

Now I know.

You want lies, Choady McBag?

Okay.

They're really into you.

As if last week's HCwDB winners, Twin Bags weren't enough, here's another heaping of Doublemint Douche to help you get through your Tuesday.

I would love ambiguous Russian Minx hotties in a massive tsarist bacchanal complete with grapes, goblets and a fey lute player for bemusement while resting between bouts of coitus. Then I would feed the Doublemint Douche Twins to the lions while reading Tolstoy to the Noxema Girl Hottie and sipping from the Samovar.

Gotta love dual twin chest exposure + Jesus Bling. Do they make hazmat suits to protect from that sort of gale force douchosity?

PIC DELETED

Hang in there, kid.

There's still hope for you.

Silky McDouchowitz flashing his I.D.

'Bag? Not a 'Bag?

Uhm, 'Bag.

Now that, my friends, is the curvature of Ass Heaven.

You might have missed the chapter on Ass Heaven in the Bible. It's right after the section on chopping off someone's wrist for touching leather and right before the part on the legalities of stoning your wife for churning butter incorrectly. Say what you will about the Bible, at least it's got Ass Heaven in there.

Ah, the stage-1 choadbag. A young 'bagling crawling out of his gelled up cocoon for the first time and taking his first awkward steps into a larger scrotey world.

While those blue satin shorts belong to the woman behind you, 'Bagling Boy, it somehow informs your budding douche essence. That tentative, raw power of 'Bagling -- the blue satin shorts of your scrotey soul.

She is slender curvy iced banana perfection. I would blend her into a smoothie with a shot of vitamin powder and called it "Hotberry." I would nibble her earlobes softly and whisper the ingredients off a package of HoHos with all the sexiness I could muster: Wheat gluten... Sodium Caseinate... Sorbic Acid...

Because I'm studly like that.

It's always impressive when the many varieties and permutations of American 'Baguousness produces a cartoon character lookalike.

Yup, muscle choad here is the douche version of Syndrome from The Incredibles. Same whipped up cheesecloth hair, black and white superhero outfit, and assorted 'bag hand gestures. The only thing missing is the red hair. But I can fix that. By setting his hair on fire.

The ladies seem to love the leopard prints these days. Nia Long Hottie is a drink of spied up paprika sexiness that I would give my full attention to for at least a solid 42 seconds. Then I would make excuses about how tired and stressed I was while she gave me vague reassurances that it happens all the time.

Wait, that fantasy wasn't so good.

I blame Syndrome's beady gaze. It's hard to concentrate.

A hearty good morning, fellow 'bag slayers and pouty lipped hotties. I hope your weekend was free of all uber-douchosity popped collar greaseknobs and Bleethed out unrecoverable hotties long lost to the ways of the douche. Before we get to this week's HCwDB contest, I have but one quote I'd like to add.

"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day." -- Frank Sinatra

Tip o' the hat, Chairman. It's in your Jersey born honor that we mock these three fine scrotey specimens and the hotties who've been cursed to love them. Or at least occupy space near them for the 1/30th of a second that a digital camera shutter opened and closed. On to the finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Mack

'Bag did it his way.

This is the type the Rat Pack would've taken out back behind the casino and introduced face to garbage can. He's classic scrub brush choad. Greased up and chin first. The two confused cuties undressing him only heighten and fine tune the pain.

If, as Doc claims, this is The 'Bagsgiver turkey from last Thanksgiving, then perhaps he shouldn't be in the running this week.

But I asked myself, What Would Sinatra Do? The answer, is put this choad up for a vote. This pic earned it. If he's the same as the douchebag Macking on the naked chicks in the sauna, all the better. And by better I mean worse.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Axl Rose 'Bag

From here to douchebaggery.

Chin pubes in the night.

Start spreading the douche.

I'm using pic #2 of our Rose 'Bag simply for the reason that it's a purer example of the stench of douchosity that wafts off this choad like a rose. If the rose smelled like ass.

She is gumball leopard print innocence. He is a ball of gum. Douche gum. That stuck to my shoe last week and now I can't get it off.

Dammit, the rage is rising. I want to pluck those chin pubes out one by one with a tweezer then flush his grillz down a toilet. Staring at this one's killing me. Lets move on.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Tragedy of Oldbag: Mullet Toad

The man with the douchey gut.

Well since we can't rightly call him Oldbag, I'm suggesting Mullet Toad unless anyone has any other names for this rotund wank.

She is pull my finger fantasy. He is 1970s gold chain wearing hot-tub dunking E.S.T. enrolling choat cream. I want to fire-hose his ass until he goes flippity floppity through that forest like the hat in Miller's Crossing.

Damn.

To paraphrase Frank, you're no-douchey 'till somebody mocks you. For the hotties, those boots are made for Bleething. Three burn worthy hottie/douchey combos this week.

The winner?

Well, that's up to you, my 'bag slaying hottie adoring compatriots.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Ah the Beatnik Bags. A rarity here at HCwDB. To paraphrase Ginsberg, I saw the best bods of my generation destroyed by douchebaggery.

Red Poet makes me want to snap my fingers and bongo to the sounds of rapid fire free association. And by "rapid fire free association" I mean two sessions of primal gnawing. On her right thigh. Cool, daddy-o. I dig it.

Clearing out the ole' pic attic on a Sunday that finds the DB1 lounging around in his bathrobe, sipping 'Train and OJ, munching on a big bowl of Count Chocula, and meditating on the esoteric conundrum that is "The 'Bag Within."

Where do we draw the line between douche and putz? If, as Jacques Derrida argues, "truth" must be separate and distinct from our notions of "The Real," than can we ever truly comprehend 'Bag? Or does our understanding of 'Bag fundamentally do violence to the role of 'Bag within the larger societal construct? And by do violence, I mean punch in the face.

Meh. Time to watch The Hills.

Slacker Tarantino Bag might be able to quote Larry Cohen directed Blaxploitation films with the acerbic wit and gen-x sarcasm of a dated Ben Stiller movie, but he's still Scrote Caesar. And if you think that was too many confusing and half baked references for one sentence, you should see my other car.

Hottie's a little hippy, and I don't mean in the hemp clothes wearing San Francisco post-dot-com slacker aesthetic kind of way, but I'd still love her child bearing hips with pickles and a jar of crisco.

If there's one overriding concept at work in the creation of 'bag, in the exploration of utter douchosity that shines from within, it is that ironic 'bag is still 'bag. Attempts to satirize the douche merely creates a secondary level of douchosity as pungent as any rotting, fetid primary level douchuousness.

My point? I'm hung over.

My second point? Doing the Farmer Ted + Dog Tags thing when it ain't a costume party doesn't mean you're aware of the performative 'bag and are thus satirizing the 'bag. It still makes you 'bag. The 'bag within, externalized through irony, is still 'bag.

As to tablecloth hottie, her body sings like sparrows on a warm summer day. As the wind rustles through the foliage of a perfect sunrise, the wind whispers, "booooooobieeessss."

And I nuzzle in those hills for a fortnight while eating trail mix and pop rocks.

As the great Oscar Wilde once remarked: The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.

I'd like to paraphrase Wilde's brilliant words with the following thought: The tragedy of oldbag is not that one is old, but that one is 'bag.

And on that note, the DB1 is off for a weekend of heavy drinking, dressing in a rubber diving suit and smacking himself repeatedly in the ass with a moldy ping pong paddle.