Random thoughts while staring at this bug glasses wearing twaddle-bot:

I would worship the used towels discarded after forty sweaty minutes on the Stairmaster 2000 by that perfectly formed brunette goddess on the left. She is perfection crystallized in immortality.

I would paint abstract art in honor of her lower buttocks, then munch on a fried pigeon to celebrate her feastlyness 11th Century style.

But enough about my future ex-wife that I would love awkwardly and borderline illegally for at least 23 seconds after getting drunk on fermented hops.

Other thoughts:

If you wear socks for more than three days in a row, they smell vaguely like creme brulee. Dipped in ass.

So I'm listening to the legendary Steve Miller Band's Take the Money and Run on the radio in my car today when it dawns on me. Those quick hand claps that everyone loves? They come at two points in the song:

1. "They headed down to, ooh, oh El Paso" (clap clap clap clap clap)

and:

2. "Billy Mack was a detective down in Texas" (clap clap clap clap clap)

What do both have in common right before the claps? Both mention Texas.

What other song has claps right when they mention Texas? Why it's "Deep in the Heart of Texas." Steve Miller's dropping in a sly reference to the claps that come right after "The Stars at night, they shine so bright" (clap clap clap calp) "deep in the heart of Texas."

Yeah, I cracked your code Mr. Miller.

Abracadabra, baybee.

Creepy wannabe Boogie Nights retro truck drivers from Iowa need to have fun on Friday nights, too.

Isn't that right, Meat?

Poppin' collars mean it's Friday, and Labor Day weekend no less.

Apologies to those of you at work if I've been posting too much skin the past few days. I try to keep my site family friendly and work safe, because I know how important it is for pre-teens as well as those with uptight bosses to be sure to study the 'bag/hott plague on a daily basis.

Speaking of, if your work firewall blocks the enlightenment and spiritual balm offered here at HCwDB on a daily basis, you can always try accessing through the alternate URL:

http://www.hcwdb.com

Your humble narrator, The DB1, has a mellow weekend planned. Finishing my book. Eating many bowls of sugar cereal and tasty HoHos. Downing a few bottles of Thunderbird. Good times.

As to identically dressed hotties and 'bags, woe is the creature that slouches towards Bethlehem to be born. But that arching back on Bleethed out future suburban Long Island mother of four on the left is very curvy.

After years of bemused and perplexed contemplation during my monastic Zen meditations, I now finally understand the lyric Rock and Roll, hoochie koo.

My eyes, bleed through pores,
Rug of douche next to boobies,
Even lice say "no thanks."

She is boobs and cute
Hairy Yank-me fan too close
Where is her navel

-Father Guido Sardoucheie

Hottie's face too close
to Pit of Douchespair. Limp hand
Waits to catch vomit.

- lemon tart

Bag my groceries,
Nut-shorts and butter body,
Drinking peach Kool-Aid.

-Honus Bagner


Too bad this douchebag
does crop rotation on chest,
plans to infect hott.

-- douchey howser, md

Collecting thoughts. Head exploding with rage/arousal conflict. Must speak.

Grooo!!...

Fweee!!...

Trying again

Bluhhh!!...

Aooogahhh??

C'mon, you can say something

Butt boobies!!

Well, it's a start

There's nothing more gratifying to me than seeing the HCwDB go global.

This site has been featured all over the world, in numerous languages and dialects.

Mostly by confused Europeans and Japanese trying to figure out what "douchebag" means, and wondering if all Americans are low culture trash whores (hint: we are).

Nonetheless, this blog, in a language that may or may not be what the redhead hottie was speaking to Vince Vaughn in Wedding Crashers, is intriguing me:

----------
Heta brudar med fjantar

Har ni någonsin sett en såndär riktigt snygg brud ute någonstans med en riktig total loser till kille? Typ en Kevin Federline wannabee som av någon mystisk anledning lyckats skaffa sig en tjej av Alessandra Ambrosio kaliber.

Det har jag. Och tydligen även personen som tillverkade denna websida.

Massor med bilder på hot chicks with douchebags.
-----------

Right back atcha, Euro people. I see there's a "Kevin Federline" reference, so you're on the right track.

I'm a big fan of Czech women. And strudel. And Doctor Who, although since England people speak English, they're not really European.

England people are more like Ameripean.

At least since we told King George to kiss our tea and then conquered the world using mass media structures that enforced our cultural hegemony through ideological affect buried within the discourse.

And ran "Friends" reruns on their TVs 24/7 until the sight of Fat Chandler caused the world to surrender.

This pic just confuses and terrifies me.

Where are we? Some motel room in Omaha? A swap meet in Tampa? A trailer park in Bismark?

Seriously. Look at Moe here.

He actually features circular tatts that echo his swirling douche-hair. Is that a first on the site? Douche-tatts and douche-hair forming a sort of conceptual echo?

Toss in the tonguebaggery, the tighty-blackey muscle t-shirt, and I'd sooner expect this oily greasebag to be playing footsies with Larry Craig in a Minneapolis bathroom than grabbing at some luscious abs.

Rosie Perez cutie isn't super smokin', but any minx willing to show off a belly that smooth, soft and lemon scented, deserves praise. And by praise I mean me staring at that glimpse of lower belly like I've just witnessed a unicorn. A unicorn of lower belly.

And who said we can't do tautological metaphors?

Some people drink coffee when they wake up.

Others get on a treadmill.

Me? I like to stare at a pic of a shirtless, sweaty delicious little doe hottie being trailed through a bathroom by two douched up urbanchoads.

Yeah.

Nothing quite fires up the pissed-offedness and gets the ole' blood rushing in the morning quite like that.

In hunting hottie/doucheys in the wild, it is rare that we find a red carpet scrote busting three of the prime signifiers of uber douchebaggery.

1. Designer Yankees cap at proper 10 degree tilt that screams club choad.
2. Facial pubes in alternate tri-vag formation.
3. And, of course, the Jesus Bling. Which in this case is Moses Bling.

Chicka looks a little too "pro" which always takes away from my fantasies of innocent librarian hotties violating me in lurid and inappropriate ways somewhere between my Dewey and Decimal.

I haven't been this shaken since the Nicole Eggert/Corey Haim sex scene in Blown Away.

Yes, I've seen Blown Away.

And yes, I may have paused my worn VHS dub on Nicole Eggert's low-rent Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct moves.

Because, hey. Nicole Eggert.

Does having willowy cornfield hair that 17th Century Pilgrims harvested for trade with the Iroquois constitute 'bag?

What other signs and signifiers give away choadpud?

Squat Ashlee Simpson Hottie has large arms, but I would still pillow dive with Dao bliss state.

Duude!! We're huge in Belgium and France!!

No you're not, Arctic Doucheys.

I promise you. You're not.

EDIT: And I also blame you for freezing my site all morning. Now get back to pumping my gas.

A mustachioed hairy douche named Wayne,
Found a hottie sipping rose petaled 'pagne.
But hottie was crass,
Because Wayne smelled like ass,
And his grease left a nasty couch stain.

Proving that The "Game" 'bag twaddles running around now with their six point seduction techniques are the fastest rising scrotanions on the Nasdouche Exchange, Memphis Choad crushed the competition and takes the Weekly easily.

This is fascinating, and by fascinating I mean fake Asian boobies, because we haven't really had a breakout Emo-douche on the site yet.

Most 'bags have tended to fall along the traditional axes. So in that sense, Emo Choad will add a different flavor to next week's Monthly Douche-Off. The flavor of poo.

the vote for scrote sums up Emo Memphis's dominant win:

Wankin' in Memphis. Eye liner. Cowboy hat. Emo-puss face. Not motorboating the pacific island hotness. Total: douchebag

Well said, TVFS. Short and to the point.

The ambiguously Aussie douchescrote Firedouche came in a solid second, with his shirtless waft and oh so sexy hottie. Ryan Seadouche weighs in on the mohawk ubertatt wank:

I have been on vacation and have not been indulging in this website during that time.

Therefore, I am allowed to have the rawest impression of each of these worthy urinal candies.

That is why I'm voting for Firedouche. I believe in heaven and hell, right and wrong, socks off and socks on during sex.

Clearly, he is the inspiration that caused Mother Teresa to soul-search her belief in God.

Amen, Mother T, Amen.

Nicely put, R.S. Lips was a disappointing third, although his side-boob found devoted fanatics. In fact, Lips himself emailed me on MySpace:

did you get my email. was on on the site before. anyway to find out you submitted it. i am a total DB bc i f@#king love it.

Thanks for sharing, Lipman. But late entry douchemails won't help your cause. Mempis Choad was too dominant. douchelicious sums up the Douchin' in Memphis:

Memphis Choad is the winner for me.

Looking at the hottie, I can't get the word compass out of my head.

Looking at the douche, I can't get the thought "I want to stick a compass in his eyelinered eye" out of my head.

Nor can we all, D.

Raise that cowboy hat to the rafters and motorboat some funbags for the Monthly. Next week's Labor Day Douche-Off is gonna be an epic confronation of hottie/douchey abominations, scrotations, libations and undulations.

Bring it, as the kids say. Bring it hard.

No, Giovanni, I don't want to come back and "partee like a rock steer" in your suite at Sunset Tower.

But I will borrow that lamp chop ab cutie. For at least 43 quality seconds of DB1 love.

Followed by a long awkward silence.

And then turning on Sportscenter.

Okay, maybe Werebag is neither true douche nor European, but simply a dork. And maybe his wide eyed cutie isn't quite the Valerie Bertinelli we'd all hoped she'd be.

But ya gotta give it up to Werebag.

He sure knows how to party like a 19th Century Lewis Carroll opium induced fever dream.

Oh prime Douche Face. My desire to smack you with a soggy rye dipped in the Hudson is great.

But first I shall long for the exotic Joy Luck Boobs which I would set off firecrackers to in February while feasting on boba and Pocky.

Were the strangling only real and inflicted by a large former Marine nicknamed "The Lumberjack," I would renounce my sinning ways and switch to decaf.

Bluejean Booty is large, firm and succulent. She sublimates desire and tastes like Cherry Coke.

On the other side of the world, somewhere in mainland China, a young boy stares at a butterfly flapping its wings.

And the boy has a flash of inspiration.

"Somewhere, on the other side of the world," the boy thinks to himself. "A skeezed up spiky haired uberschlort in a club is connected to that butterfly."

Because in Chaos Douche Theory, there is one thing and one thing only we can theorize: Club douches are connected to butterflies in China.

It's an early theory. I'm still working on it.

Beware, Fiona!

The Werebag is on the prowl!

Yeesh. Those eyes sap my soul of the will to live. I think we need to start up a new gameshow: Douche or European?

Then again, that's not always an either/or proposition.

Skinny McWad's sexy two-tone hair and stylin' mini soul patch compliment the inverted eyewear to present true uber-douche in powerful superhero action.

Watch as Skinny ropes a deliciously plump 7-of-9 hottie!

Observe his scrotey superhero powers in web-slinging motion!

Ka-pow!!

Whack!!

A-douche!!

In weighing his vote in the Weekly, reader scrotebob douchepants writes in to ask:

-----
Did Mystery put on a seminar in Memphis recently??
-----

Great observation, S.D. Is Memphis Choad actually the one and the same, the ur-douche total wankscrote doucheface that is the star of VH1's "The Pickup Artist"?

From the hinterlands of Prussian-Austrian douchebaggery, we return back to the shores of America for a nice slice of Rooster Douche and Cheesecake Pie.

Is this Hall of Scrote member Rooster Wank? Possibly. Either way, he's a festering canker sore.

Note to the ladies: pink lip gloss may be retro 80s, but it still makes the DB1's happy pants do the happy pants dance, CGI penguin style.

Where exactly are we here?

Dusseldorf Octoberfest fashion show?

Casting session for "Night of the Living Uberdead"?

The lost member of Nihilist late 1970s one hit wonder techno band, "Autobahn"?

All I know is Hans the Pasty Faced Douche-Face Boy features the rare combo collar pop + skullz belt buckle, which makes him a douchescrote even in Hamburg.

But swingin' 60s Catherine Deneuve Hottie is groovy, baby. So maybe I can get through another 10 seconds of realizing that Zombie Austrian is clutching at Belle De Jour's waist.

Then again, maybe not.

A nice smorgasboard bagel and lox sampling of quality douchebaggery and XX chromosome hotness on display in this week's douche-off. There's no clear runaway winner that I can see, so every vote will count. This is the last round before next week's Special Edition HCwDB Monthly douche-off. So make it a good one, kids.

The DB1 had a quiet weekend, turning down a chance to go to a hottie pool party on Saturday to work on the book. So I'm in a cranky mood this morning.

Which makes it pretty much like every morning. Which means I'll need to work some of this energy off by mocking the choad. But you're thinking, "Shut it dancing monkey and get to the finalists." And you'd be right. So without further adouche, and by a douche I mean Baio, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week #1: Memphis Choad

If there's one thing this world needs more of, it's creepy Emo Country Douchebags wearing eyeliner and shaving their chests.

A truly great HCwDB pic has a touch of surreal madness. A dash of Warholian cartoonishness and Dali inspired absurdity.

Like our most recent Hall of Scrote member, The Trainwreck, a superior pic should be head slappingly confusing. It should challenge conventional douche orthodoxy and make the head spin with confusion.

DaDa Douche, if you will.

As such, Memphis Choad is more than the sum of its parts. Like a Duchamp installation. Or bolt on boobies on a hot Asian hottie.

HCwDB of the Week #2: Firedouche

Speaking of dada art, The Firedoucher has a touch of Australian rugby football playing madness mixed up in a blender with bicycle wheel stuck in a stool. On a strict scale of douchebaggery, Firedouche may be off the charts.

And do not underestimate the power of Librarian sexiness. Slap a nerdy pair of eyeglasses on this wild eyed pointy nosed brunette hottie and the DB1 might fall in love.

Again.

Stupid love.

Because there's no better indictator that I've found my soulmate, my spiritual dancing partner in the afterworld, than the primal urge for boobie suckling.

Firedouche and choke collar hott. Worthy contenders on both the rage and the fun bag cliff diving scales.

HCwDB of the Week #3: Lips

At first I wasn't sure if the former Friday Night Drinks was a Finalist, but after a weekend of meditating at my local Buddhist shrine, I've concluded that yes, the Buddha hates him. And therefore he is choad-worthy.

At first Lips seems more like some average wankdouche who hit the lottery, lost his shirt, and decided to do the douche-dance. But the ridiculous streaked hair gives away larger 'bag decrepitude, and the rosary is just uber-'bag.

Plus, as more than a few commentators noted, that's some serious quality side-boob on the blonde. It is perky white wine goodness.

So what say you? Which leggy/greasy combo invokes the perfect combo of idiotic performative male douchebaggery and luscious arousing female hotness?

And on an unrelated note, what's the over/under on when "McLovin" becomes as annoying as Borat impressions? I'm betting September 2nd.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Black Bikini Hottie with the perfect abs from yesterday's "Where's Waldouche" writes in:

----

Hey, thanks for the props, Black Bikini Hottie. And stay away from them trash 'bags.

"Bamalam" was a reference to one of the greatest songs I ever heard on K-Billy's Super Sounds of the 70s, "Black Betty" by Ram Jam. Whoa oh, Black Betty.

I haven't heard twin guitar solos that divine since I found my dad's old Thin Lizzy tapes.

Lest anyone doubt the pervasive and far ranging influence of The Trainwreck's introduction of The Doggie 'Bag, here it is going old person Ft. Lauderdale dollar coupons at the Bagel Shack stylin'.

Speaking of Early Birds, condos in Boca, and driving 10 mph in the fast lane, it's nice to see Douchology spread to all corners of the economic and cultural spectrum.

You go with your bad self, Gramps.

Because, oy, that sciatica's going to act up tomorrow.

There's a motion on the floor to promote our most recent HCwDB of the Month winner, The Trainwreck, to the hallowed Hall of Scrote.

If you're new to the site, or generally inebriated, you can find the hallowed H.o.S. in the left hand column if you scroll down.

I have very exacting and detailed standards for exactly which hottie/douchey pics are worthy of H.o.S. and which aren't. Like if I'm out of Cocoa Puffs. And if my pee smells like asparagus.

But mainly the barrier is lo:

Does the 'bag in question not just personify uber-douche, but actually influence and alter our comprehension of 'bag aesthetics? And if in addition to that ur-douche douchebaggery, does his hottie rises to the "I'd skin a leopard to masticate her flip flops" level?

So what say you?

Does The Trainwreck rise to the half-assed standards and inconsistent guidelines that the DB1's drunk ass requires?

This is a weighted vote, as the "Doucheywood 10" have primary say, but feel free to make an argument either way. Also any suggestions for other neglected hottie/douchey pics for the Hall? It doesn't have to be a Weekly or a Monthly winner. Just a pic whose uniqueness lingers in our collective Jungian memory like a festering cold sore with an exhilarating shot of whiskey hot mixed in for relief.

Buried deep within this gaggle of bikini hotties I've carefully placed a scruffy white trash uberchoadbag who thinks he's a hip-hop Nubian prince.

Look closely. Carefully.

Skip over the douchey bug sunglasses on Perfect Abs Black Bikini Bamalam.

Can you find him?

It's Friday, and I know what you're thinking.

Waaa, DB1, I drank last night! I don't want to go out drinking again!

Now you listen. And you listen good.

Look at this ubersquat piece of douchemeat.

He's out there. Right now. Underwear peaking out. Jesus bling. Cuddling with the hott.

So what are you gonna do about it? Sit around bitching about it?

Well, yeah. I mean that's what I do all day. But you can do something else.

You can get out there, drink yourself into a tizzy, and make fun of him to his face. Then hit on his hotties.

That's right. Stop yer whining. Get out there. If your mocking only enters 1/10th of that primitive douche-brain of his, you'll have accomplished something tonight. If you can save a hottie or two in the process? All the better, my friend. All the better.

An important clarification to this new and troubling 'bag move: The Douche Vodka can also be attempted with champagne as well as by assorted douchebaguettes suffering from too much exposure to a neighboring 'bag-star.

Nice lips, Frog lips.

Speaking of Frog Lips, The Holy Grieco, Hallowed be thy Douche, the Source-Douchebaggery for all of Scrote Modernity, made an appearance on dlisted.com yesterday. I can only warn you. Click on that link with caution.

Among the many givaways of encroaching oblique douchebaggery among the 'bag/hot is what is now being referred to as The Douche Vodka.

The Douche Vodka is the maneuver in which a 'bag simultaneously gropes a firm lower back while also proudly displaying his giant Grey Goose as a form of alcohol phallus substitute.

Scrotologists working deep underground in radiation protected douche-labs in Provo, Utah, remain perplexed at the spontaneous emergence of the Grey Goose signifier in the summer of 2006.

And yet it remains a crucial part of the puzzle as we seek to parse the mystifying mating patterns of hot/scrote commingling. Much like the outbreak of crotch rash among the wildebeasts of the Serengeti, the rapid spread of Douche Vodka maneuvers among the American Douchebagsus Scrotsus remain deeply troubling.

Ketel One, as we all know, is quality. Grey Goose, guilty by association, is now 'bag.

Fish Slap Douche returns.
The goggles, they do nothing.
Pumped up 'bag. Kill me.

Motor boat motor
boat motor boat motor boat
motor boat I'm done

-- huskerbag

The Fish Slap denied!
He makes self-love, habit leads
to carpal tunnel

-- baron von douchehausen, club promotions helper


Havasu calms him.
His restless soul hides behind
his terse, angry mouth.

-- boatbutter

Kelly Kapowski's
Bellybutton vomits jewels
A one-star d-bag.

-- please hammer, don't douche 'em

Star-bellied Fish Slap?
Seus is rolling in his grave.
Stars are the new lame.

-- kellybelly

If daytime Soaps ever want to find the rank equivalent of that Luke n' Laura coupling, I think we have a contender. Just think of the dramatic dialogue possibilities:

Douche-Luke: Uhm. hey.

Hott-Laura: What's up?

Douche-Luke: Nothin.

Hott-Laura: Me neither.

Douche-Luke: Word.

Hott-Laura: Haha, you're such a sweetie!

Douche-Luke: Yo.

Regardless of their linguistic limitations, I would burn cherokee incense in ancient Buddhist temples to honor Hott-Laura's ancestors. For they provided the genetic materials to assemble a quality nectarine flavored scratch-n-sniff bed bunny.

You know a cutie offers fertile loin when the curvy form of hidden boobs transcends even a plastic garbage bag dress.

Ah, the Oldbag.

Among the many permutations and variations of the douchey/boobie comminglings, there's nothing quite like the middle age crisis 'bag hanging on to fading glory with every graying follicle. Wearing giant blinged up necklaces around the ever expanding gut in a desperate attempt to coopt the signifiers of youth to hide the existential crisis of mortality.

Hang in there, oldbag.

You've got two cute young popsicle hots by your side. Add one more giant bling necklace, and you'll be there. Eternal youth, baybee. Eternal youth.

Shaved chest and Tag Bodyshot shirt.
Douche gestures like moldy yogurt,
Her curves are divine,
A vessel of wine,
But the douche makes me want to drink dirt.

When attempting an upper level 'bag hunt like the aristocrats used to do in England, to hunt the truly repugnant 'bag/hott duality, there are some test cases worth avoiding entirely.

Beyond even helping through the benefits of the collective mock that we provide here at HCwDB on a daily basis.

Can't help save ya, perky ski slope nose brunette hottie with ample bosom. Your proximity to Fire Douche means any attempted saving would result in my whiskers getting singed by the sheer force of uber-scrotology.

But the choke necklace is choice.

Greaser #1 from the winning HCwDB of the Week pic The Greasheads, posts in the comments thread:

----
I'm the douchebag on the left! Thank you for this award! I am sure you are all total winners and probably sleep with way hotter girls, so congratulations on being such a badass!
----

To respond, I'll turn it over to King Douchuous the IV, HCwDB Weekly Winner, July 2007.

King D: Yo man, even I think that forehead is greased up to the bejeesus. I'd hose you down myself but I'm planning to use my All-American mandana and fantastic popped hair to charm the hell out of the two award winning tatines to my right. But seriously dude. Hose the 'head down before it kills someone.

Listen to King D the IV, Greaser #1.

Try not to think of it as losing a hair style. Think of it as gaining a matted forehead.

Billy is not retarded, and please don't refer to him as such. Billy is what we like to call "special."

Billy can't figure out how to shave certain parts of his face, and his constant need to make ridiculous douchey "metal" hand gestures while groping at his Asian sesame noodle cutie are simply involuntary "special" muscle spasms.

So do not mock Billy, for he is a Douche Awesome.

Instead, simply whack him in the face. With a giant stuffed panda bear dipped in kerosene.

Ah, the douche-face.

That key early signifier of encroaching douchebaggery in one lacking the obvious markers (10 Degree Hat, Pink Popped I-Zod, etc.)

I missed you, Douche-face.

And by missed you, I mean I didn't miss you.

And by I didn't miss you, I mean you suck like monkey poo.

And if you're not up for reading my extended look back at "Better Off Dead" you can simply mock this wannabe tat-choad desperately trying (and failing) to live up to the Pumpy boob grab.

Nice try, Poindouchester.

She's all sorts of cuddle-hott cheesecake cavity sweet goodness. I'd dip her in cool whip and serve her for dessert at the Epstein's Bar Mitzvah.

As we all know and love, and by love I mean Billy Zabka, the 1980s were a classic period for teen comedies.

Those early proto-douche teen archetypes, the high school 'bags and hotties, were in embryonic archetypal form in the 1980s teen comedy. Those still forming hottie and douchebaguette characters would come into maturation under the power of the Grieco Virus in the 1990s and 2000s.

One of the first triumphant teen comedies of the mid 1980s managed to introduce not one, but two, early Douche Archetypes (as well as two hot chicks caught in their pull). As you can tell by the image, I'm talking about the 1985 classic John Cusack comedy, "Better Off Dead."

If you haven't seen it, go out and rent it. Now. Truly genius, and some of the most quotable lines ever. There's cinema. There's literature. And then there's this:

My little brother got his arm stuck in the microwave. So my mom had to take him to the hospital. My grandma dropped acid this morning, and she freaked out. She hijacked a busload of penguins. So it's sort of a family crisis. Bye!

As to the early douchebaggery on display in Better Off Dead, there was the classic Nordic Aryan SkiBag, ski champion of the K-12 and all around douche-nozzle tool, Roy Stalin.

Yes, the writer/director, Savage Steve Holland, actually named his bad guy Stalin.

A lot of teen comedies present douchebag villians, but how many have the guts to name them "Stalin"?

This was also the period when teen comedies could still plausably cast actors in their early 30s to play high school students. Good times.

The basic plot driver is that Cusack's an aspiring high school skier, Lane Meyer, and Roy Stalin is the captain of the ski team. Stalin steals Cusack's girlfriend, Beth, and Cusack decides he's going to win her back by beating Stalin at a ski contest.

Here's Stalin after losing the big race. Look at that guy. Tell me he doesn't set the table for all sorts of modern day scrotery.

Even back in 1985, Better Off Dead understood that Hotties pulled into douche-orbit sometimes aren't worth saving.

As Lane Meyer pines to win Beth back, it slowly dawns on him that sometimes the hottie attracted to the douchebag, to put it bluntly, sucks monkey poo.

Beth isn't worth saving. Exposure to a source douche like Stalin has polluted her beyond recognition.

Instead, there is Monique. The French foreign exchange cutie living across the street.

Monique is suffering under the unwanted advances of 'bag prototype #2, The Creepy Nerdbag. Nasal spray snorting Ricky Smith.

Here's Monique exchanging Christmas presents with Ricky, played by future "Head of the Class" star, Dennis Blunden. (yeah, he's got a real name somewhere, but he's Dennis Blunden).

Monique helps Lane to win the ski race. After winning, Beth throws herself at Lane, but instead he picks Monique. And his best friend, Charles De Mar, snorts snow.

If there's a better teen comedy from this period, I can't think of it. I don't know if I can adequately explain what Better Off Dead meant to my childhood.

Taping it off HBO in 1986 or 1987 I must've watched that movie over 200 times. I related to Lane Meyer. I wanted to be Lane Meyer.

His frustration with high school stupidity. His dream Camaro car. His goal to save the Hotties from the Stalins of the world.

And the fact he danced with animated cheeseburgers to Van Halen songs.

I wore down my VHS tape because I wanted to be Lane Meyer. And because I wanted to quietly and awkwardly hump both Beth and Monique while a Japanese race car driver narrated like Howard Cosell.

Thinking about Better Off Dead the other day, it suddenly dawned on me.

I live 20 minutes from the Glendale house where Better Off Dead was filmed. And really, what better way to spend a Sunday than a short drive to visit the house I'd seen so many times on that worn VHS copy that got me through middle school?

I drove down the 5, switched to the 134, and took the exit into suburban Glendale. I drove up the winding roads to an upper middle class neighborhood that looked nothing like Lane Meyer's small ski town. I parked and looked around.

And there it was:


Exactly the same.

Except for a lack of windows in the garage, it was pretty much the same house that had imprinted itself on my impressionable young mind back in the late 1980s.

The fictional house where my projected self resided among so many awful meals and a younger brother who never spoke but knew how to pick up trashy women.

Yup, the same faux brick paneling. Same angled English Tudor windows.


Here's a straight on frontal view.

I can almost see the imprint from the Camaro.

This was the house that Badger's space shuttle took off from.

This was the house where that sweet 1967 Camaro lay dormant under a cloth cocoon.

It was bizarre. Surreal.

I felt tingly.

Here's a still from the film.

Note the basketball hoop, the windows on the garage and the large bushes growing. It also appears they redid the blue door from a two door entrance into a single door entrance.

Also note the Camaro in foreground left.

Ah, if only I could find a tomboy French hottie obsessed with baseball to help me fix it, I really could be Lane Meyer.

Gee I'm really sorry I blew up your mom, Ricky.


As to the door and the house?

Nearly exactly the same.

Here's a closeup on the door today.

I was giddy taking these pics. Because I'm a huge douchebag.

And my feet smell like gouda.

But I still love Monique.

And I still love Beth, too. Is that so wrong?


Here's Lane's dad dashing out of the house to save his beloved garage windows from the "Two Dollars" paperboy.

The awkward lawyer dad trying to speak "teenage" to his annoyed son.

Good times.

It's got raisins.

You like raisins.

But what about Monique's house?


Across the street, there it was.

Ricky and Ricky's mom's house.

Monique was staying in the upstairs room on the right, I believe, but not sure.

I'm not sure this is the exact same house, it was hard to tell in the movie what it looked like. This may have been redone since the film.

Tentacles. Tentacles. Big difference.

Ah, Monique. I would play sax and serve you fast-food, then take you to a Dodgers game.

I would ski the K-12 on one ski, then turn down Beth, just to toss oranges at a parking sign until you giggled sweetly.

I would practice language lessons over fast food hamburgers shaped like a pig.

Reflecting on my pilgrimage to the Meyer house, I thought back on the weird delirious state that repeated watching of a favorite film causes, and the odd sensation of actually visiting a location that exists as sort of a temporal projection of the subconscious. Then, realizing my thoughts made no sense but satisfied that my quest had been fulfilled, I decided to head home.

On the way I decided to stop off at Subway, have a sub, and contemplate my journey.

I won a free cookie playing the Scrabble Game.

I munched on my sandwich and reflected on Stalin and Ricky. On Beth and Monique. And on Lane.

Maybe I'm till trying to be Lane Meyer. Maybe I'm trying to save the hotties from douchebaggery, one K-12 ski slope at a time.

Maybe someday I'll rebuild that Camaro and drive Monique to Dodger Stadium.

It could happen.