That acrid odor. That pungent aroma. I know I've smelt it before. What could it be?

Oh yes.

Douche-poo.

Hippie Hott may be long lost to the ways of douchebaguette, but I would nurse her back to health after surgically removing the mandana by feeding her figs and snozzleberries while licking her hairbrush to taste the aqua-net when no one's looking.

Joe Douche was a man from Nantucket,
Whose grease smelled like a KFC bucket,
His side combover reeked,
Of desperate middle aged choadbag pathetic doucheyness and something that rhymes with reeked,
And now I'd like to kick him in the Kirby Puckett.

Man, I gotta get better at this limerick thing.

For years I had a 30 gallon tropical fish-tank and about six or seven beautiful tropical fish. One of those tall glass tanks that sat in my apartment, cast a gorgeous blue light and bubbled soothingly. Any time one of my fish died, I would walk down the street to the pet store and pick out another one to add to the tank.

On my way back to the apartment, clutching the plastic baggy with my new pet fish, I would stop off in a sushi place and grab a sushi lunch to go. Then, as I was integrating the new fish into his tank, I would feast on assorted sushi.

I did this because I felt it echoed the absurdity and folly of life's arbitrary assignments. One fish was meant to enjoy my artificial ecosystem. The other was meant for processing by my small intestine. I felt this ritual had importance as a spiritual reminder. As a process of opening my eyes and remaining both humble and silly in the face of my petty attempts to give order and classification to nature's chaos.

I felt it was important to always remember the random happenstance that leads to such arbitrary designations among living creatures. The absurdity that can elevate certain fish as "pets" and certain fish as "food." And to never forget the siliness and ultimate folly of humanity's attempt to create artificial order through regulated PH, soft water, filtration and food pellets.

I bring this anecdote up to remind myself that goofy fratwanks crashing hot sorority sister parties are simply arbitrary fish. Fratwanks can find themselves privileged by arbitrary placement into an invisible ecosystem that provides everything they need. Or they could be served up on a small slice of warm rice meant for digestion.

In an economic world rocked by happenstance, we are all either in fish tanks or being served up by a sushi chef. We privilege some. We process others. Fish-tank or sushi. We must endeavor to remind ourselves of the eternal recurrance of these sorts of outward projections as the means by which we understand what we think of as "the real."

Oh, and this fratwank is a douchebag.

Looking at this greasy dimpled choadbag smirking his way to a state of oblong head I haven't seen since MTV's Liquid Television is like having midgets tweaser my inner thigh with rusty pliers dipped in Bosco.

It's just plain Johnny Walker Black wrong.

It's bad enough that I would shave lamb wool into fractal patterns that spell out my love for pouty blonde Rockstar drinking Hott in Base-13 code. But to cuddle with Raisinhead?

That's just not nice to the DB1, Blonde Rockstar. He's on vaca in NYC. Now he's gotta know you're out there cuddling with a dude whose forehead could cause a land war in Asia? Not nice.

The stage-1 Fratchoader featured in commenter KellyBelly's pic from her 'bag hunting expedition last week, writes in:

---------
Take down the 2 photos KellyBelly has of me ASAP. One is on the June 2007 archives and one is on her Blog page. (the one in the hat with the Got Brew shirt)
--------

Now normally I honor all requests to remove a pic, but since KellyBelly herself submitted the pic that she had taken, I may leave this one up. Especially since this dude is actually asking me to remove the pic on her blog page. I would, but, uhm, I'm not KellyBelly. Although I wouldn't mind occupying her personal space for a solid minute while thinking about baseball.

EDIT: Okay, as per KellyBelly's request, I've taken down the pic. Which means K.B. has two options. Go out and scrote-hunt again, or come to L.A. and feed the DB1 raisins while we watch reruns of Black Adder together. What's it gonna be, K.B?

Somewhere in this bizarre college fantasy pool party pic, I've hidden your typical stuffed horse mounting college Fratchoad.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

I'll have a Glenlivet,
Bartender. Put down the girls,
and get back to work.

Bleached out bleeths,
Drunk from the red cup.
Every UPS man's dream.

-- el douchablo

your aim is too high.
real men know, girls like it when
you kiss them down south.

-- pfahass

Brown. Brown: like a turd
Waste. Waste of beautiful bread
For this turd sandwich

--Vinny Scumbaglia

Choad shorts make me wretch;
bareback hottie has slutty
Baby Phat tattoo

-- oscar de la douchea

He pumped my gas on
the way to work, Love the hoetag earings
I'd hits it, all of em

-- The Commenter

And then there are HCwDB pics so filled with unholy hottie/douchey wrongness that all I can think to do is crawl back into bed, attempt to regress to a state of infant bliss and forget I ever witnessed such atrocity.

Shmoo is one of those times.

The white suburban coopt of the 80s punk/hardcore look may be one of the more annoying offshoots of the douchebaggery tree. PunkBags embody the store bought artifice that would've caused true punks to toss them through a windshield then go for a pizza.

Archie McDoucheface, fun with a razor and a bottle of peroxide does not make you punk. Douche handgestures in the presence of Jenny Princess only render you douche.

So take your illegally burned Fishbone CD, your overpaid retro Vans, your well worn copy of Legs McNeil's "Please Kill Me" and, well, please kill yourself.

Other than his rotund presence, furry chest and Jersey bling, there's really not too much to delineate whether having a head the size of a 747 and working in New Jersey "sanitation" qualifies as douche or not. I'm leaning towards not a douche.

Because I like my legs. Unbroken.

What say you?

'Bag? Or simply a middle aged dude who lucked into a Mira Sorvino pie?

And while Joey Porsche and his trip to "Acapulo" will never be the same now that his MySpace has been set to private, we here at HCwDB, and by we I mean me, will never forget.

Never forget.

Well I've got one more Peaches, and it looks like people are appreciating his Blue Steel gaze and guns as much as I am, so I'll save him for a rainy day.

Instead I'll post Karl.

You know people like Karl. Works in accounting. Obsessed with x-rated anime and manga comics. Still hasn't quite figured out how to hold a wine glass without betraying deep rooted sexual frustration.

Good on you, Karl. You've found a lithe Asian pixie that I would celebrate by singing the theme song from the 1970s Leiji Matsumoto anime "Space Battleship Yamato" while lustily drooling on her Bad Badtz Maru t-shirt. Because every asian hottie has a Bad Badtz Maru t-shirt.

As well they should.

Bad Badtz Maru kicks Hello Kitty's ass.

Well my JetBlue Burbank to JFK flight delayed for an hour, then rerouted for a three hour layover in Atlantic City due to thunderstorms. Which wouldn't have been so bad if we actually could've gotten out of the plane and gone to Atlantic City. Instead we sat around eating crappy-ass potato chips. Finally flew into JFK only to sit for another hour. Add more time waiting for my bags, and by bags I mean douchebags, and it's 4:49am and the DB1 is pissed.

The only cure for this state of uber-douchosity, not to mention the appearance of The Possum in the comments thread, is a little more Peaches.

Yeah, I know, I'm overdoing it with this guy. But something about that mug just screams "punch me with a plastic waterslide device." I'm not sure why.

But the DB1 is tired. And NYC awaits.

For drooling all over flaxen haired Mia Farrow hottie with your giant chain, your striped hair, your douche-rings and your douche-face, I dub thee "The Possum."

Not just because you look like a possum. But because your persona au douchitude makes me want to play dead and hope you go away.

Although something tells me when I'm done playing dead and dare to open an eye and peek, you'll still be there. You'll always be there.

Nothing earns Dog Tags like the daring and bravery of one willing to go into the clubs and snap pics of hotties. It' dangerous in there.

You're a brave man, PhotoDouche. Try not to get hit by any flying martini glasses.

Sorry YellowBag. Unless you pick up a giant bottle of Grey Goose and make the Douche-Smirk, you're only a stage-1 Club Choad. Although the greased forehead is glorious.

As is that perky little vanilla minx by your side, I would love her 70s earrings by rubbing them under my armpits while drinking a YooHoo and doing the white man's overbite to 50-Cent's "In the Club."

Whether those hinterlands are real or plastique, I know only that they transfix the mortal gaze, and as such, are glorious.

And while the DB1 smokes a virtual cigarette after the Weekly, Here's Bondbag. James Bondbag.

In tough and at times acrimonious voting this week, Joe Douche ended up taking the prize by virtue of a spiked follicle over the dancing clubbaggery of Mega Man. Sun Douche came in a distant third, with most people rejecting the JoeyPorsche wannabe from failing to live up to the Porsche Experience. feh23 breaks down why Joe Douche takes this week's crown:

Two words, Joe Douche. He obviously stinks of balls, and is doing that creepy, uber macho "I'm not really strangling you...but I am" neck grab thing. Plus a 'bag hand gensture?! And giantass wrist bling? Who could ask for more?!!! It's like he got his PhD in Scientific Doucherry.

Well said, feh. That about sums up any classic 'bag. Once again, the notion of DJ/club performativity renders true 'Bag status suspect in the minds of many 'bag slayers. Otto Graf von Douchemark explain why Mega Man can't ascend to the upper tier of douchosity:

Mega is just trying too hard. He is lacking that complete ignorance of his own douchiness. He is half-aware that he looks like an idiot. Bags must not reflect on themselves! the intention behind their appearance has to be genuine, they have to be completely unaware of their douchiness.

Very true, OGvD. True douchebaggery must contain a level of clueless lack of self awareness. However Mega Man found some love, and by love I mean slamming my sack with a metal wrench. douchistani sums up the power of late 80s NES Arcade Superheroes:

Is there even a doubt about it? I guess David Carradine-bag and Joey Porsche did what they could, but Mega Man takes the cake. Did he have Wolverine do his ultra douche beard for him? Or did Gillette just introduce Mach Douche and I missed out on the big release party?

Heh, "Mach Douche". Nicely done, douchistani. Yet Joe Douche's powerful dual headlock + 'bag hand gesture, as well as the double hottie combo, was too much to overcome. As turdsandwich sums up the choice, he casts in for not meeting Joe Douche:

I'm going to go out on a limb here and vote for Joe Douche. While Mega Man and SunDouche are both rediculously Choady and oozing with all that is douchey, J.D. is the only of of the three that I think I would push into a wood chipper. I think Mega Man could be shut down with a combo barrage of verbal abuse and laughing and SunDouche has the deer in the headlights look that tells you that nobody is really home upstairs. J.D. on the other hand is puking douche smuggness that makes me want to punch babies.

Now now, punching babies level douchebaggery is a rare level indeed. While JoeDouche transcends, I'm not sure he takes us to Ab Lobster levels. walker, texas douchebag also lays the smackdown on Joe D:

Shiney greaseface, Trump-trumping contemporary comb-over, learing doucheface, man-blouse, dual clutch chicka stranglehold, radioactive spray-on tan-glow and horizontal "V" hand sign more than qualifies him for a special kind of douchery. Add in the over-the-hill factor, and there really is no contest.

Or, as graham campbell eloquently and succinctly summarizes:

Joe Douche. I loathe both other gentlemen, but only the photo of Joe wants me to go back in time an undetermined amount of years and punch Mamma Joe Douche in the babymaker.

Well said, G.C. Very well said.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog barking with a juicy bone. Joe Douche is HCwDB of the Week Winner.

::cough cough:: gasp ::

The waft of rank double-douchebaggery rises in stereodouchtonic surround sound stench. A double odor of malfeasance. A twin pummeling of my psyche with the Power of 'Bag. I'd save the hottie with my written love, but I'm gasping from the stench...

must fight... odor...

must...

fight...

gachhhhhh....

New douche-shirt.

Same douche-face.

Peaches reminds us that the rage of the hottie/douchey pic does not always need excessive bling, popped collar or overly frosted hair. Sometimes, the douche-face plus a few gestures is enough to set off douchebaggery alarms from Vegas to Trenton.

The Choad Warrior awoke,
The sun broke through clouds of,
douchiest gray morn.
He put his bling on. He prepared.
Hair greased faux hawk like war paint.
Hand gestures ready to flick like so many glorious white doves sent from heaven,
Like so many tribal tats, on his heart.
So many giant sunglasses, on his soul.

The Choad Warrior flexed and preened,
and by affixing the Jesus Bling of true douchitude,
he was ready.

She lay waiting in the club,
not knowing what would come.
Her status as an innocent flower,
long forgotten in the pounding techno
club music of her psyche. The
selling of six dollar shots to horny
college fratbags,
like water trickling over rocks.
Because every epic poem,
must have water trickling over rocks.

Speaking of AtlantaBags, I was just interviewed by the morning team over on 99X. But if this pic is any indication of what's going on over at the station, I might need to get a camera guy on standby.

As to the guys, ever hear that expression, " a face made for radio"? Nice facial pubes, boys.

I would, however, love those sultry pillows in the middle of that pic for a solid thirty seconds. No, make that forty-five. Because I've been practicing.

HCwDB of the Month winner, The Creeper came by to tell me who he was voting for in the Weekly, but then his alien lizard tongue tried to eat my brain.

So I fondled his hottie's perky ski-slope nose while she fed me Bratwurst and Becks.

Get yer votes in for this week's contest by scrolling down and voting in the comments thread. Voting ends tonight.

I don't know why exactly, but I'm naming this dude "Peaches." Note the "cock-n-balls" mark on the grease forehead, once again betraying what I like to call the "Mark of the 'Bag."

Yup, it's Peaches. Slightly cross-eyed forehead sloping Peaches.

His groping of Barbie Hottie is enough to drive a man to drink. Oh wait, I already drink. Uhm, it's enough to make me drink more. Yeah, that's it.

Somewhere buried deep in this scrum of club hotties I've hidden a lurking fruitbat Waldouche.

Click on the pic for closer examination.

Can you find him?

This may be one of the most profoundly stupifying HCwDB pics we've had in recent weeks. I'm at a loss for what to say about this monstrosity, this trainwreck. All I can do is review my life and everything that led me to this moment where I'm forced to comprehend this reality as manifest.

Green Lanterndouche is too much to come up with clever quips about. That shirt, that pregnant gut, that shirt, and that shirt. He is... uhm... a douchebag. Words fail me in his presence. He's that douchey.

As to his hottie's perfection, she's right in my aesthetic wheelhouse. I would munch on Keebler cookies cut to resemble her visage then burn aromatic aloe scented pine to honor the hotness of her ancestors. I would bury my face in her perfect, lightly powdered, arched, pale cleavite and contemplate human folly with bemused detachment. She is my lily ponded evergreen forest where I find repose and wax philosophic while groping her boobies like a hungry infant.

PIC DELETED

HCwDB comments thread regular and hottie Kelly Belly went 'bag hunting for the site this weekend and came up with this half-drunk stage 1 FratBag.

Nicely done, KB!! I would lead a small but highly skilled search party of ninjas into your succulent pillows in search of the mystical hills the locals sing folksongs about, and be comforted by thoughts of panda bears, marshmallows and being spanked with a hot poker by a hottie in librarian sunglasses.

Nice 'bag hunting, my dear.

If anyone else has first person 'bag hunting evidence, send in the pic to me, DB1, along with your story of the capture.

Isn't there some fairytale about a princess who kissed a choad and he turned into a douchebag?

Not sure if pink popped collar and the douchiest tri-color hair since the failed 'N Sync comeback qualify as true fairytale material. Someone call the Brothers Grimm. See if we can update Snow White to include the chapter on kissing a skeezy club troll.

She reminds me of the hottest chick on the college volleyball team, the kind you'd watch work out in sweats out of the corner of your eye while pretending to study the campus bulletin board. Fleshy perfect arms that I would suckle like rib-roast and top off with a glass of chardonnay.

Well this is more of a "HCwDB of the last Two Weeks" contest since we skipped the Weekly last week. Which isn't really fair to many of the aspiring hottie/douchey couples that won't get their shake at the finals as a result. But it's like my father said when selling me to gypsy spice merchants for coin during the barren winter harvest of '22: Son, life isn't fair.

That was the last I saw of my parents. From there I spent my summers in Uttar Pradesh harvesting cactus flowers to sell to Bedouin camel riders during the solstice periods. My winters were spent in training at the House of Hapsberg, learning to hunt, skate, ice-fish and make Pfefferneusse cookies out of corn meal and whey. On the eve of my 17th Birthday, I was bedded down by a Czech beauty named Ute who spoke of revolution in the subcontinent... but enough of my past. On to the finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Meet Joe Douche


I don't care if Joe Douche is a host on a cable show or not, I don't know who the hell he is, so he's eligible for the Weekly. I particularly enjoy J.D.'s attempt at the sideways combover of the receding hairline. That ain't gonna work even if your forehead wasn't shiny, Joe D.

Toss in the bracelets, the classic 'Bag Hand Gesture #59, the douche-face and two choice slices off the Hott Tree, and I wish I never met Joe Douche.

Lithe blondie makes my pork loin.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Mega Man


I'm pretty sure Mega Man competed and lost in a Weekly when he first made an appearance on this site, but this pic was just too glorious not to give another chance to everyone's favorite Nintendo douche-hero.

Note to sell, facial shaving patterns that would hold deep religious significance to the Mayans count as auto-douche.

While Mega Man may have fought heroically while firing pixelated blue orbs at evil mutant creatures, here he is simply scrote.

Pouty Blonde may look like the high maintenance type, but her cleavite is potent enough to kill a dolphin. And that blue dress is simply magnificent.

I would lick a thousand postage stamps and do a mass mailing of myself dressed in a spandex superman costume if it meant she'd yell at me to get off her lawn.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: SunDouche

Inspired by the classic JoeyPorsche oeuvre, SunDouche features the waxed eyebrows, product hair and blank expression that suggests either the "Blue Steel" look or a frontal lobotomy.

Hard to tell how hot hottie is, the teased out hair is a bit much, but the noe is cute, and the back looks like a soft knit hammock that I could take a nap in after reading the Sunday paper.

So if you're one of those 'Bag Classicists who insists on the purity of the primary douche level, the Jersey Scroad, SunDouche wants to say, "Ya digggggg?" just for you.

So what's it gonna be, folks?

Does Mega Man finally win the Weekly? Or is the power of Joe Douche too much to fight back? Or does classic SunDouche take the cake? And by cake I mean Tag.

What say you? Vote for your favorite in the comments thread.

Your humble leader on our societal mission to explore the douchebag plague, The DB1, will be on Playboy Radio on Sirius Satellite tomorrow, Monday morning from around 8:30am P.S.T. to 9am.

I will be in-studio with Andrea Lowell and Kevin Klein (no, not the Fish Called Wanda guy). If anyone would like to call in and discuss all things hottie/douchey, the call-in number is: 1(877) 205-9796.

In the meantime, here's Andrea Lowell being accosted by what appears to be a middle aged choad busting 'Bag Hand Gesture #82, the dual thumbs up or the Fonzie. She's so hot I would, uhm, appear on a radio show with her. While not staring at her cleavage and drooling like a rhesus monkey.

It's been awhile since Spike, my penis, has chimed in on the site, so I thought I'd let Spike take this pic. How's it going, Spike?

Spike: You've been neglecting me.

Sorry about that. So how ya been, Spike?

Spike: You know. Sometimes up. Sometimes down.

Can't believe you're making puns that lame.

Spike: Hey, you're the one talking to your penis.

Hmm. Good point. So Spike, what did you want to say today?

Spike: (ahem) First I'd like to announce that underwear is confining and I conceptually reject it as the subjugation of the scrotundae by a society uncomfortable with sexual freedom...

No Spike, what did you want to say about the pic?

Spike: Oh, right. Sorry. She, uhm, makes me stand up, rooted firmly in a sense of self. And he makes me want to fall off and die. I'm very confused.

Yes, I know, Spike. Anything else?

Spike: She makes you want to play Mahler's Fifth Symphony on a plastic kuzoo before fondling her kneecaps with shredded wheat, doesn't she?

Yes Spike. Yes she does.

Ah, a lazy Saturday for The DB1. Last night's adventures in debauchery featured extensive alcohol, followed by loud monosyllabic conversations with Bleethed out hotties. But the hotness attracted me like gel to follicle, and I attempted to liberate them from the clutches of the L.A. HipsterBags, pawing them like so many feral cats.

Today finds my supplies of Night Train and HoHos running dangerously low, which means a run to the deli this afternoon. Instead I munch on pop tarts and orange juice. Because every so often, I gotta mix in some health foodstuffs.

I also plan to pick up a fire extinguisher. Because someone's gotta put out the fire raging on Greasy McAqua's head there. As to big haired Persian Hotness, I would learn Farsi and ply them with overpriced cocktails on Sunset if it meant I could sniff their hairspray while fondling their inner thighs with an oven mitt.

Here's my theory. Plaid Hottie who looks like a hispanic Mena Suvari is actually standing behind an angled mirror which is only picking up the reflection of one of these two choadbags.

But which one is real? Which one is simply the reflection of porn star landing strip facial pubes, 10 degree hat and the douche-face?

And more to the point, if I go fishing with Plaid Hottie's fishnet top, would I catch two saline jelly-fish as plump and succulent as hers are?

As your narrator, The DB1, sits and contemplates the conundrum of the beautiful girl with oranges picked from the douche-tree, the unholy visage of JoeyPorsche comes to me yet again.

I gaze at this pic, and the spectacle of tall club chairs, Long Island scrote and late teen hotness vexes me. How does the 18 year old orange spikey haired choadbag wankdouche form? Is it vegetable? Animal? Mineral? And why does feral hotness go there to feast?

As the Grieco Virus progresses on its rampage of cultural douchosity, should we quarantine? Is there immunization? And do hotties like it when I nuzzle their shoes like a baby panda when they're not looking?

These are the questions we must ask ourselves. These are the manifestations we must comprehend and confront with every hottie/douchey picture that comes our way.

As you head into your Friday nights, toast a ubiquitous red cup of the 'Train to another week of examination, contemplation, revelation and douche-nation confrontation. Toast your cup to JoeyPorsche. For he has forced you to confront that deepest, douchiest part of our collective cultural douchosity. And in so doing, JoeyPorsche offers you revelation.

There once were two douches at the Hard Rock,
With scrotey sunglasses and faux hawk,
They 'Bag sandwiched a dumpling,
with hopes for a humping,
But she doesn't commingle with livestock.

col·lege
–noun

1. an institution of higher learning, esp. one providing a general or liberal arts education rather than technical or professional training. Compare university.

2. a constituent unit of a university, furnishing courses of instruction in the liberal arts and sciences, usually leading to a bachelor's degree.

3. an institution for vocational, technical, or professional instruction, as in medicine, pharmacy, agriculture, or music, often a part of a university.

4. an endowed, self-governing association of scholars incorporated within a university, as at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge in England.

5. A place where pudgy fratchoads can get drunk and act like utter and complete buffoons and still pull hot 18 year old hotties.

There's nothing overwhelmingly douchey about Smug McChoadwanker here except the bizarre facial pubes. That beard has a thinner character arc than Johnny Drama on Entourage. It evokes the dusty soil and barren harvest of a winter crop in the 1500s that killed dozens of Pilgrims.

Pout Hottie is a little too skinny for my tastes, which means I would pause for at least two milliseconds before jumping into her laundry bin and sniffing her used bobby socks while she called my therapist and asked if my medication had been changed.

Muscle-T Alba,
Don't look now but, douche-head is
growing like a weed

Milky white milk glands
Time to wean this utter choad
Receding hairline

-- danny bonnadouchey

Loving those hip-bones
Attractive exotic girl
do the judo throw

-- anonymous

Is it cold in here?
The Blister will just get worse
if you keep scratching.

-D'Ouchetagnan the Doucheketeer

Pucker/scowl combo
Need to make a hand gesture
You snapped too fast!

-- Frodo Douchebaggins

Watching Hans Choad double headlock these two pieces of key lime pie is like a sharp kick to the groin.

No. It's worse.

It's like dipping my scrotundae in hot chilipepper wax.

When did douchebags in clubs holding annoying giant bottles of vodka while making the douche-face begin to incur the wrath of angry and jealous gods?

Is this photoshop? Or have the Lords of Kobol simply had enough of smirking greased up BottleBags?

Look at that face. Sandy Cohen from The O.C., a pint of forehead grease, a dab of Dooshay by Calvin Klein, and mix it all douche-blender. No wonder the cylons are pissed.

As to the milfy hottie, she looks like when I was back in 5th grade and Sam's mother used to bake me cookies while I would stare at her cleavage. Ah, those first awkward sexual awakenings mixed with the smells of Tollhouse in the oven. Good times.

Run, hottie!! BottleBag's about to get fraked.

It's like staring directly into a bright summer sun with dilated eyes. If that sun were a spikey haired douchebag with Hasselhoff chin.

I stare, and I can't look away. It is destructive, damaging, horrifying, yet transfixing. I feel the dancing sparkles of decaying vision as my cones and rods are fried by the radiation, yet I can't tear my eyes from the spectacle.

Make it stop... someone make it stop...

EmoBag, from yesterday's "Confusion" pic, writes in:

---------
Please, remove the following photo/ commentary. The people featured in this image (Myself and my friends) are professionals and don't appreciate the
publicity... Although it was pretty funny...
--------

Yeah but professional what? And then this email came in, 10 minutes after the first:

----------
This pic is me. Please remove it.

Geez... How long does the picture take-down process take???

Thanks a billion!
-------------

Look at Mega Man here, EmoBag. Learn from Mega Man. You don't see him complaining.

You do, however, see me complaining. That he exists.

Lou Diamond Phillips has hit hard times. From his career breakthrough, La Bamba, all the way down to the Sci-Fi original, Attack of the 50 Foot Greasehead. Times are tight, man. Times are tight.

Still, ya gotta give it up to La Bambag. That's gotta be one of the more creative 'Bag Hand Gestures we've seen on the site. Either he's making the devil's horns or he suffers from a terrible case of palsy.

Dammit. And my momma always taught me not to make fun of douchebags with palsy.

Either way, Bambag, your senorita makes me want to mojito my cucarachas.

WARNING: Extended viewing of this pic may cause convulsions, whimpering, jabbing ice-picks into your eyes and involuntary screams of "There is no God!!"

The owners of Hot Chicks with Douchebags deny any responsibility over any bodily, spiritual or metaphysical injury that may result from viewing this pic.

Consult your doctor, psychiatrist or blood pressure medication before continuing to view, comprehend or even vaguely acknowledge that this pic exists.

Everybody was Kung-Poo Fightin'...

Kung-Poo here achieves a state of Zen Douche merely with shirtlessness, bandana, tongue, and grease. Mix them up and you have poo.

Kitten wants me.

I can tell.

All hottie kittens who want me like to rub up against Kung-Poo douchitude. Or, at least, that's what I'm telling myself.

Her mammaries could feed a small army.

I don't know why freshman Fratchoads bother me so much. They're generally harmless. But then I see a choadmunch like this, cuddling up to a ball of 18 year old perfection, and I think, "Oh yeah. That's why."

Note the trimmed stubble line and ultra-douche revelation of his 1.5 pack abs. That's one unopened bottle of Schlitz and a half drunk can of Miller Lite. The plaid underoos take the whole thing into douche overdrive.

She is a tiny ball of hot that I would take on trips in my travel case, even as she clutches the infamous Ubiquitous Red Cup. Come to me, tiny Bertinelli. I will be your Van Halen.

Nothing gets a hottie hotter than a Reservoir Bag featuring the Jane Fonda in Klute haircut.

Someone turn on K-Billy's Super Sounds of the Seventies and get a gallon of gasoline for Mr. Douche here. I need to go to work.

PIC DELETED

So much confusion in one pic, I hardly know where to start.

We have Emo Eyeliner Bag summoning the ghost of Morrisey by way of Ferris Bueller. Nice bracelet, choadbag. Because nothing says deep existential pain like drinking a Bud.

We have a boozy future cocktail waitress hottie in the middle giving me a look that says, "I want to defrost frozen hamburgers for you on a camping trip after rutting like penguins in the tent for sixteen hours straight."

And we have a terrified little O.C. minx who just looks confused, reaching into the largest rucksack this side of Inga from Sweden. What are you going for, O.C. Minx? A switchblade? More eyeliner for Emo Boy?

Toss in creepy StalkerBag in the background and I'm just confused.

As we weigh, dissect and parse the various manifests of a truly superior hottie/douchey pic, it is rare that we settle upon one that only features a tight semi-closeup. Usually the qualities we look for in a classic HCwDB pic -- the rage factor, the douched out bling, the hand gestures, the hot hottie with deer in a headlights fear as her douchey man tackles her for the photo -- must be seen at least in medium shot to take in the full essence of hottie/douchebaggery wrongness.

Not this time. Total domination. The Creeper by a mile.

For the rare feat of winning a Monthly simply on the utter skeezyness and rancid wrongness of his alien lizard tongue, as well as his innocent doe-eyed hottie, The Creeper marks an impressive first here at HCwDB. A Monthly hottie/douchey pic that transcended with relatively close framing. The eloquent 'bag slayer, Vinny Scumbaglia, makes the case:

the Creeper's sole positive attribute is that someone drove a nail straight into his tongue. It is a sad fact but undoubtedly demonstrable through focus groups that the strumpet pictured with the revered Twins is trounced by the Creeper's Valkyrie.

Even with puka, pink paisley and topped with scroteknot, he might be semi-stomachable when posing responsively, with due respect, alongside this woman he has stolen from my dreams.

But he doesn't and he isn't: he chooses to debase her, us, and nearby galaxies with his vile brand of doucheposturing.

So, puhleeze, staple this bastard, hard, onto the Post Office Wall of The Most Douchey that is the Hall of Scrote. I want to remember his face in the off chance I see him Crossing the Street, I can Run Him Over.

Well said, V.S. Well said. It seems the puka+pony+tongue-stud were the winning adouchremenets that took the Creeper over the Twin Bags, ChandlerBag and The Mack. As kellybelly reminds us, the neglected Chandlerbag does feature an important 'Bag Mark on his forehead:

I'm voting for Chandler Bag and the Bump and here's why: PENIS. ON. HIS. FORHEAD. Thank you.

'nuff said.

Summoning up a small but dedicated audience, the Twin Bags also found some love. And by love I mean twinkies. As Lone Scrote McQuade put it:

The Twins are a cold and unfeeling duo of disease that reels in and destroys men of lesser character with the dark lady of scrote. They are the real threat for now. And so are they crowned.

In any given month, The Twin Bags would be enough to take the crown. But the Creeper just overpowered all competition with that tongue. That creepy disgusting tongue. As Zen 'Bag Master chozSun sums it up:

That said, whereas I can seek calm and balance in towards some type of resolution that is Chandler and Bumper, the picture of The Creeper stops me in my tracks. Whatever energy I can pull from wanting to destroy Creeper to save the hottie, it goes for nothing when you take in the entire picture the Creeper, the connection of tongues and the look on the hottie's face. The Creeper's expression is that he has won not only the battle but the war itself. Next, if you look closely enough, you can see the hottie'e soul being sucked dry via tongue. Finally, the look on the hottie's face is not of "help me!" but of "there is no hope for me, save yourself". But by the time you were close enough to take in the wrongness of what you were actually seeing, her warning came too late as you are keeled over in sheer agonizing misery and hopelessness. This picture shows that not only there is no hope for mankind but there is nothing you can do about it.

Very eloquent smackdown, ChozSun. Or, as Mistress Julie more succinctly puts it:

Again I vote for the Creeper. That guy oozes gross.

Yes, Mistress J. Yes he does.

Raise The Creeper's ponytail/puka/tongue to the rafters. We have one of the most genuinely creepy, sleezy 'Bags in awhile, polluting a hottie with an alien zombie tongue that lays eggs in our brains. I'm actually a big frightened that that tongue is out there. And you should be, too.

Hey! Sling Blade! Some people call it a Keiser blade. I call you a douchebag.

Now get out the pic so I can celebrate performative lesbianism without your doughy ass mucking up the view.