Reader Tom writes in with the following pic:

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Was driving the other day and came across this car…first I was lost for words, then I had to chase it down over 4 lanes of traffic for 1km to take a pic.

is there such a thing as a douchemobile?

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Yes. Yes there is.

Although your pic is like playing Grand Douche Auto. Where's my gatt and 40 kilos?

So, hung over from a night of excess, I ponder my sunday morning. Coffee? Perhaps. A tasty bowl of Cocoa Puffs? Of course.

A rank frost tipped aging club-choad Piscopo with two pieces of arm candy?

Now I'm awake.

Mmm... they are lovely. If they could only lose the 'bag of goiter, I would share my Cocoa Puffs with them. But not too much. Because I'm running low.

Yeesh. I think I blocked this travesty from my subconscious for the last fifteen years.

Definitely ahead of their time douchebaggery for these muscle ass-clowns.

PIC DELETED

Your humble narrator on all things hottie/douchey, The DB1, was interviewed and named "Internet Hero of the Week" on Richmond's Y101 last week. I may sound a little tired as the interview was done at 5:30 in the morning my-time, but checkitout.

And since I didn't have a picture to run with this plug, here's a sexy angular hottie with a tub of discount generic choad.

I remember in 5th grade world history we learned all about how early nomadic cavemen and Neanderthals were the first to use primitive tools to build huts and cut down trees.

But my question is this. How exactly does one use a Primitive Tool like the one pictured here to do anything? I can't even see lifting him in the air for any length of time, let alone using him to cut down a tree.

Performative douchewank? Or gatt busting homie who will hunt me down, pop a cap in my ass, then eat all my cheerios and leave the fridge door open?

Depending on which way you vote, I've provided two alternative commentaries:

A. (performative douchewank) Nice mandana the size of a Buick, tighty-whitey muscle t and douche-bracelet there, Tex. Did the razor get repo'd in mid shave because you forgot to make the payments?

B. (actual gangsta) You are a scholar a gentleman, a benevolent and magnanimous contributor to humanity, kind sir. Thank you for coming to the Pomona fairgrounds, and here's a free Orange Julius. Please do not pop a cap in my proverbial ass.

Well, douchewank or gangsta, I do know this.

I would love the silver belt buckle and the meaty arm I'd nibble tiny tooth crop circles into that would direct traffic for the alien landings.

Fish Slap wanted to come by and remind us that even if we have a 'bag free and hottie filled weekend, he's out there. Which should be enough to fire you up and send you out for the weekend with extra motivation.

Just knowing this guy is out there greasing on the hotties should be enough to tinge tonight's alcohol binge with the slightest hint of melancholy.

He's a choad. But that's why I'm here. To mock his ass. And so it's Friday Night. The 'bags have been mocked. The hotties lusted after.

Good night moon. Good night douche by the light of the moon.

Hello boobies.

I gotta give it up to Puka Shell Paulie.

Not only does he feature a chin of cartoonish surrealism, a vague aura of gender ambiguity, and the best peach fuzz mustache this side of a class of 7th graders in Osaka, but he's completely oblivious to the Loopy Hotts to his left.

Don't look now, Puka Shell, but the show is behind you.

Aw, isn't that sweet.

Taking care of her "special" friend so infested with douche virus that he's dribbling little Griecos onto his chin.

You're doing your part for humanity, sweetie. The world thanks you.

See? He loves you, sweetie.

I want to get away... I want to smack these douchebags... away... yeah... yeah... yeah...

The ladies may not overwhelm like yesterday's Yellow (although Saki Hottie's got a great smile), but there was no way I was passing up on posting the Twin Kravitz 'Bags.

They're like a McDonalds double cheeseburger of cheese. The pink shirt that keeps on scroting. But it's the matching 'bag hand gestures that put the Twin Kravitzs over the top.

And thanks for that glimpse of upper groin there, Kravitzes #1 and #2. I needed that like a flyswatter to the face.

I've got a headache this big!

And it's got four club-soda choadbags written all over it.

This is like one of those wacky gangs of friends who solve crimes. No, not Scooby Doo. Different.

I'm talking The Bloodhound Gang. If you replaced clever kids who solve crimes using their smarts with douched up rayon wearing puddles of club grease who solve nothing but smell like Axe.

But, oh, the things you and I could do together, Purple.

We'd drive across the Kalahari on a stolen Vespa with only a flat bottle of Mr. Pibb and fourteen Fig Newtons to sustain us. At night we'd lie under canopy, swat the tse-tse flies and I'd rub your thighs with Crisco and a large rolling pin until their tender flesh revitalized my spirits.

Because that's how I roll.

T-Pubes on the chin,
Flaming head bleach, cactus face.
Bullock Likes? I weep.

When he bedded her
It's the day the music died
Only sports-talk now

-- k-federbag

Crisp hair of sponge cake
plus flasher girl with man hands
equals puckered ass

-- Duck Duck Douche

Sandra, oh Sandra.
Step away from neon hair.
Gamma rays harmful.

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

His blank stare tells all.
The slight twinkle in her eye
Will soon turn to tears.

-- tricky dick

I'm not sure if we've officially categorized this trend yet, but one of the more disturbing douche accoutrement developments of the past six months has been the merging of Jesus Bling and the Douche Dog-Tags into what can only be described as "Jesus Tags."

Note their prominent display on the groin shoving douchewank on the left.

I suppose one could dub these adouchrements "God-Tags," but I'm not opening that whole can of theological douche-worms.

Instead I will simply sing Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes at these two balls of scrotal decay until they disappear in a flash of Broadway spectacle.

At which point I would suckle and fondle the libretto for Ballet Hott's audition tape until she emoted Stanislavsky style and let me hump her leg like a shreiking rhesus monkey during the rainy season.

Grab a table and hang on, folks. The Olive Loaf is riding into town. And he's got his eyes on boobies.

What can stop the Olive Loaf Experience?

Hosing him down?

Taking away his hair braid extensions?

Having angry nuns forcibly remove the rosary from his neck at knife-point?

I do not know the answer to these perplexing questions. But I do know that I would oil paint her purse in day-glo 1960s colors just for the chance to drink her electric koolaid and fly over her cuckoo's nests. Or into them. Or onto them. Mmm... nests.

That's it. This pic put me over the edge. Where's my bottle of J.D.

Here's a classic example of sweetness and heaping grease scrote wrongness.

How did this coupling come to pass?

What cultural forces brought together Sexy Sadie and The Walrus? Is there any possible way to liberate her from the grip of pinky ring choad? Could she be shown that The Walrus offends our collective aesthetic?

Or is she cursed to drive down that dark New Jersey highway forever?

Alls I know is the furry collar jacket without t-shirt, is pure class, Walrus. Goo goo ga joob.

Is this one of the Twin 'Bags that won the Weekly back in May?

Looks like a Halloween pic, which I normally don't run. Except when it features a 'bag who decided to dress up for Halloween as an even bigger 'bag.

And naturally, find himself surrounded by Jenny and Sally, the Hott Sisters. Majoring in Fashion Design, but with a dream to someday be the go-to hair and makeup team on the set of "Gossip Girl."

Don't worry cuties. Your time will come.

Just ditch the Twin. Especially Jenny with the carnal gaze. I've never looked sexier, sitting in my floor on in my underwear, Jenny. So I can understand your lustful glances.

For those scoring at home, "Affliction" shirts are +2 when scoring douchestrological rank.

Two matching "Affliction" shirts in a standard 'bag sandwich formation around a tasty ham hottie?

I don't even have the tools to measure or rank the douche echo from such an event. It is off the charts.

Then factor in the combo hair spike, and I'm sent into a spiraling social decline.

In other words I make fun of them while enjoying a tasty Hostess HoHo snack cake.

I was wondering what would be a good look to wear out tonight.

Then it dawned on me. I'm going with the combo striped shirt, black tie, douche-face, sunglasses, mandana + baseball cap combo, and top it off with a Captain America Decoder Ring from a box of Cracker Jack.

Yeah. That's the plan.

I will then gang tackle a drunk cutie in ski goggles, hook my arm around her, and repeatedly head-butt her ear.

Or would that make me a screaming uberchoad?

Why yes. Yes it would.

I see something something.

Although I'd rather I hadn't.

Really. Please. Put it away.

You're distracting me from curvy femme on femme cuddling. Which is also the name for a great early 80s thrash punk band.

It's like Mardi Gras at the Tiki Hut.

With perfect abs on college cuties.

And a frog.

No offense. I'm sure he's a nice guy. Probably not even a 'bag on any real level. But a frog.

What has two fingers, looks like Kevin Dillon mated with Quentin Tarantino, and smells like a raging pile of douchewank?

This guy.

Blinded in a freakish kiln explosion because he was making her a pot? Maybe. But the sunglasses and douche-lips are enough. He is d-wank.

Not that I'm into the model/replicant look on my hotties. I prefer them real. Or at least realistic.

But he is choad. And so we mock his sunglasses at night and Pee Wee Herman bowtie.

He... wants to rock and roll all niiiiight... and work at Denny's all day...

So which is more annoying? The armpit sweat spot, the ridiculous douche-face, or Kato with the dribbling chin fungus, double fisting beer while catatonically smoking a cig?

Platinum Blonde makes me vaguely uneasy but, as they say in Oslo, boobies.

There is a disease they call douche-face,
When spotted on choads you should use mace,
For hotties exposed,
Will find douche-face transposed,
And end up living out of a suitcase.

While the early groundswell of support for the Assferno gave way to discounting for being too "professional," and the spectacular uberdouchosity of The Warthog also began to wane, the slow and steady nausea of The Miller Lite Fratchoad and his perfect blonde hottie won the race and takes the Weekly with ease.

As Darin sums it up in the comments thread, there's just something about Fratty McChoad and his blondie that was too horrifying to ignore:

The other two candidates are impressive in their own ways, but for sheer, raw, douchiness, the 'Bag Islander picture is the equivalent of a chile that seems mild and fruity on first bite, but grows and swells with heat, until your mouth, your digestive tract, and eventually your entire body is wracked and overwhelmed with burning, nausea, and sweat.

Well said, Darin. Sometimes we underestimate the power of the Miller Lite Fratchoad to personify all that is douche. As doucheland, doucheland, über alles puts it:

The guy in the 'Bag Islanders is classic douche. He's harkening back on the days back in the 80s/early 90s when he thought he was hot s@#t. Headband, the dyed hair, and the douchegrin and gesture which suggest he's saying "You da man!" Miller Lite is also a nice touch.

Heh. Nice dig at the Motherland with the name, DDUA.

But The Warthog and Dante's Assferno found their fans. Danny Noonan tees up a golf shot for The Warthog:

The 'bag Islander inspires hate in me unseen since Sam moved in with the Drummonds on Diff'rent Strokes. Yet not quite the hate I feel for the Warthog. The Warthog's proximity to one of the all time HCs (Hollish McRacky) and his complete scrote tint and face put him in a rare category. It's gotta be the Warthog.

Interestingly, the Assferno received a number of votes from our female 'bag hunters. dita von douche casts in with the pros:

I have to vote Dante's Assferno. The amount of ass in the picture, the level of douchosity, the making out chicks with the tramp stamp, the tats.... Assferno by a landslide.

And mistress julie agrees:

Dante's Assferno because it's just like watching bad porn: hot chicks and revolting douches in the same screen shot. Yuck. I don't need to see faces, just close ups here please. And by close ups, I mean asses.

The ladies love the merits of the female posterior, and who am I to argue with that logic?

But stanley ipkiss makes the case for the 'Bag Islanders to take the crown:

Close call. But i'd go with the 'Bag Islanders.

Watching a obscenely rich, braindead zombiechoad winking way to glory like a retarded genetically deformed white Congolese chimpanzee with beer and still getting the hotties makes me clutch my chest with agonizing pain. is there no justice in this world?

Oh, and the mammaries of the hottie behind makes me curse at my nothingness in the society.

I feel your pain, S.I. And I'm pleased to see the undefinable affect within the nausea inducing hottie/douche cohabitation of the 'Bag Island carry it to a victory.

Sure it's not as obvious as other pics. But it's there. Oh yes. That rank foul odor of hott and choad, mixing amidst daddy's boat and a warm can of Miller Lite.

Chalk up a victory for the White Man's Overbite, and punch the 'Bag Island a ticket to the Monthly.

Que bella! Rio Hottie is a a tasty drink of water. The tan-lines curve along windy skin rivers of trickling water over rocks. She has poetic boobies of boobage poetry. I would, uhm, grab them.

Hmm. That wasn't so poetic. Just true.

Gunter is your typical metro-bag urban club going douchewank. Just the right hint of chin-fungus and cactus hair. And by right, I mean wrong.

Yes, there have been others like Gunter. And there will be again. But that doesn't mean I can't mock his shaven chest and zombie face. Or the unfair possession of Rio Hottie.

Together, they wear white.

Every bar has one.

The 'Bag in the Bar. The dude who stays until close every night. The creepy weird guy who everyone's friendly with, but not too friendly because you're not quite sure if he has a job, or even an apartment outside of his well worn spot sipping Bud Light's and chatting up the weary bartender hottie.

Here's one of these BitBs caught in action, mugging a doe eyed bar wench straight out of a 19th Century Manchester pub somewhere in Northern England. I'd ask her to serve me a mug of Mead, and then discuss land taxation and the problem of the proles.

One of the true legends of HCwDB, the power of "Hall of Scrote" enshrined Fish Slap's oily charms to pull unbelievable hot chicks remains potent, greasy and completely douchuous.

Just look at the lineup of hott that the douche who deserves a slap in the face from a dead halibut has pulled here, here, and here.

Now we find the 'Slap featuring the early warning signs of leathery Gator-like Wrath of Khan chest? Is there no end to the scrotal intermingling of 'bag signifiers among the triumphant uber-douche specimens that pull the hottest of boob-hott?

Here's to you, Fish Slap. And by here's to you, I mean a dead mackerel to the face and I'd feel a little better.

Not much. But a little.

Watch out, Newt!! Facehugger wants to lay douche-eggs in your stomach!!

Or, to paraphrase Ripley in the landing hanger: Get away from her, you douche!!

Heh.

Yeah.

Obvious. But I went for it.

I'm not sure when the wool cap, tilted and pulled low over the ears, became a staple of the douche wardrobe rotation. Usually you see hats like that on weary middle aged Russians climbing up-hill through the snow to fetch the weekly bread shipment from Minsk.

Here we see it on a severed floating pimple-head popping up about three mature but dirrty cuties like a plastic whack-a-mole.

Someone clearasil that wool cap before drunken blonde on the left does something she'll regret in the morning.

Of all the many permutations and combinations of Douchebag hat tilt, this may be a first.

The 180 Degree Z-Axis Triple Lindig of 'Bag Hat Tilt. Impressive, Creepy Toad. Most impressive.

His doughy shaven chest makes Calcutta Nuns rend their garments and convert to Scientology.

She is goofy Long Island Iced Tea with lemon goodness. I'd order her with my steak and popcorn shrimp at the Sizzler.

I reiterate the following guideline for all douche classification:

Those who purchase shirts with annoying crude statements on them as a means of demonstrating humor and personality, have neither.

It's not so much that the state school douchewanks piss me off. Although they do.

It's watching them scrote their scrotey wares while being totally and completely clueless to the level of outrageously unbalanced hott that God has seen clear to bless them with through their four C+ years of business school malaise.

You just don't deserve that, Az State Wank. Not even remotely.

Although Mia Sara Hottie does seem to have one ginormous leg. A Ferrari stealing school skipping Rooney embarrassing thighosity.

But I would still crash Cameron's car just for the chance to secretly watch her change by the jacuzzi.

In an impressive display of hair carving ability, Stardouche has qualified for 'bag status with neither hand gesture, face gesture, tatt nor giant goiter in the shape of the letters "D" and "B."

Instead, he's busting what appears to be either the Bat Signal or a shamrock. Shaved into his head. And unless you're a rookie linebacker getting hazed on the Cincinatti Bengals, that's some douchey-ass hair.

Smirking Lip Gloss cutie is all sorts of trouble. And trouble happens to be my middle name.

Okay no. My middle name is Bernie. Stupid Bernie. Why aren't you Trouble?

Some 'bags are hard to spot.

Their scrotey wiley charms are hidden. Covert. They must be parsed out using only one's cunning and a small Malaysian boy as trade.

Other douchewanks hit you over the head with a large polo mallet.

Like 10 Degree White Shadow 'Bag.

Thwack.

Ouch.

Is White Shadow the legendary Fish Slap? The chin says possibly.

But all I do know is that Bustier Hottie is a tiny bouncing ball on top of the closed captioning sing-along words of my heterosexuality. Words that say boob.

To celebrate the joy that is the Dunkin' Donut, I'm dedicating this week's Weekly to the creamy honey glazed goodness of the greatest East Coast donut chain this side of Winchells.

Sure, the Krispy Kreme fans have their upscale high rent classy 'nuts. But the true hero of the working man is the Dunkin'. With crackified coffee and surly high school counter employee, nothing quite says "New England Repressed WASP Dysfunction" quite like the Dunkin' Donut experience.

And no, this isn't a sponsored ad. I just loves me the D.D. Living in L.A. has its shortcomings sometimes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The 'Bag Islanders

Don't understimate the sneaking gut-punch pain of this perfect curvy schooner and Miller Lite Fratchoad.

At first it seems a relatively benign hottie/douchey coupling.

She's adorable. He's annoying. But there's nothing too nauseating about the combo.

At first.

But then you notice it. Like a chocolate frosted donut, its afterburps lingering in your esophagus. Long after your initial consumption.

As we've learned in the past six months, the sailboat is the new Long Island. The place where pudgy doughboys score hotties simply by their proximity to water and an expensive boat.

What puts the 'Bag Island into the finals is the look on Grimace's face. His winking nod to his buddy. Ignoring the hott in favor of the "We rock!" gesture.

And the two Island choads in the back engaging in intensive debate about the merits of "The Hills" versus "The Real World" don't hurt neither.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dante's Assferno

There's an utter genius to this satanic otherworldly swirl of unholy monstrosity.

It is arousing, sickening, and makes me hungry for a pop tart.

But there's also the vaguely "porny" drawback.

As with any great HCwDB combo, what we look for is the amateur. The clueless choad unawares of the hott he doesn't deserve. The authentic that renders the curvy/hairy combo so intoxicatingly infuriating you want to splice your eyes with an egg cutter.

But this boat pic appears "pro." Can the zombified soulless trolls truly compete on the hottie/douchey rage factor?

To answer this question, I can only say ass.

Ass.

Lovely, lovely ass.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Warthog

There's something ethereally and otherworldly captivating about this pic. Maybe it's The Warthog's bizarre shade of orange.

Maybe it's the sweet Dutch Girl Hotties, one of whom has her finger in the dyke.

And yes, I just made the worst joke ever.

But putting aside the lameness of that absolutely embarrassing and shameful pun, there's something incoherent and wrong about this pic that I couldn't stop staring at.

The middle cutie is Reese Witherspoon club tramp sexy. And the Warthog's "Kill" t-shirt and douche-face are enough to up anyone's blood pressure before their morning coffee.

Is it enough to take out the Assferno? Or the 'Bag Islanders?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

How's a little Velvet Smog with a candy cane chutes and ladders Pink Hottie to counterbalance the fumes on a lazy Sunday.

Mmm... this pic has just the right ratio of hottie/doucherot. A Tiny Dancer with a perfect smile and shoulders of saltwater taffy I'd nuzzle like a lost dairy cow at 2am in Nebraska, and a heaping pile of 'bag hand gesturing frog intestine.

It's enough to make me want to get down like that Groovy Dude in the back left. Shake it don't break it, Groove Man.

I think an argument can be made that 1982's Zapped! is an underexamined nexus point for the emerging pre-Grieco douche revolution that led into the 1990s scrotal grease plague.

Watching this clip has that wonderfully innocent early 80s teen douchebaggery/hottie action. It's like quasi student film teen parody. It's got the form of a teen comedy, only somebody forgot to add actual jokes. And it's paced slower than something involving quadriplegics and running. Like a marathon.

Yes, that slow.

But oh, Heather Thomas, you saucy blonde minx, you. And watching a pre "Charles in Charge" Baio/Aames douche-teaming is like witnessing Hope and Crosby in their prime.

If Bing Crosby was a choad. And Bob Hope was a douche nozzle.

Still, there's something genius about "Zapped!" And by genius, I mean dated.

This isn't even doggie stylin'. More like Panda Pawin'.

G.I. Choad is rockin' the military haircut like he's storming the beach at Harrah's Hotel and Casino. He's paradouching in to the Strip to take out some hotties, Green Beret style. And by Green Beret style, I mean Panda 'Baggin.

No real bling to up the obnoxious factor. But the sunglasses and cell phone stylin', as well as that pucker lipped douche-face, qualify for State Trooper Fratchoad.

And of course, the Tri-Budlite bendable hottie with Kung Fu Grip. She's all sorts of slutty tablecloth raunch.

The kind you never, ever, under any circumstances, introduce to your mom. Instead you rent her an apartment on the upper east side and keep the whole thing quiet.

But even paying that $2200 a month rent is worth it. Every penny. No doubt about it.

There's not a lot of obvious signs to give away the scrotal scrotundae of Toothy McChip here. Well, there is the Corey Hart (sunglasses at night). But otherwise, fairly low on the douchological spectrum.

And yet his Douche Aura pervades the pic like a glowing otherworldly apparition of sackless eunuch song.

Swan Hottie is the perfect drink of water for a friday night. I would hug her blue satin curves like a 2004 Mazerati Coup on a windy road. I would sail her America's Cups around the shorelines of Australia.

Which is to say I would, uhm, enjoy cohabitation for at least 23 awkward seconds of fumbling and groping. And then gasping for air and nearly passing out.

To truly appreciate a paradigm shifting douche force like The Gator (now safely ensconsed in the Hall of Scrote), one need only observe the follow-up scrotes. The Jr. 'Bags who emulate his choady iconography with 1/10th the ability.

Like a cheap knock off T.V. set, Gate Jr., has none of the pull, the affect, the power of douchal emination that is contained in the gale force douchebaggery that is The Gator.

But he tries. Like every wannabe, he's doing his best.

And he does have the uberhot chicks. God damn. I would gnaw off my own earlobes using a time/space continuum just for the chance to wash, dry, fluff and fold Beauty's two perfect Beasts.

So I'll give him that.

EuroBlonde writes in:

------------
-- (E.B)
------------

Wish I had a better picture because those Dual Paprika 'Bags apprear to be as choady as Euroblonde's hint of swelling boobage is tasty.

Mmm... swollen bosom. A bosom that bespeaks a Utopian future of angels and ice cream. HoHos and Night Train for all.

Love the "bandito" look, Bo. But I can't tell whether you're about to play center field for the Kansas City Royals or you're wearing a table cloth from a Chinese restaurant.

Nor can I tell why there's a sideways peace sign making crack ferret jumping into frame.

But the MILFs are tasty in that sexy Parent-Teacher conference way. I'd ask them to discuss little Tommy's C- in History, and then I'd ravish them by the arts and crafts area.

I can't tell if this is the same douche-mutant as last year's The Warthog, because I can't stare into that gaping maw long enough without wetting myself out of fear, revulsion and horror.

Nor can I take the time to appreciate the Dutch Girl Hotties. He's just too disturbing.

We should, however, give credit to the Warthog for his fantastic performance in that classic Twilight Zone episode. Because douchebaggery is in the eye of the beholder.

Except in this case.

That's pretty much objective douchebaggy.

Beach boobs and sand crabs,
Asian Johnny Chase says "'sup,"
Skinny sand turd smirks.


she's paid to be there.
Vanilla Ice needs to eat.
hey Duck Dong, go swim.

-- pfah

The face of a crab,
The body of a goddess.
Perfect for blind man.

-- the alpha douche

close to the shoreline
is that a great white shark?
lord, hear my prayer.

-- doucheronomy 68

Pursed lips, peroxide
Is that doggy style invite?
Call Godzilla quick

-- Dion Didouchie

douche grease and hair bleach:
the greatest threat to oceans
since Exxon Valdez

-- douche vader

What once seemed a trend has exploded into full blown cultural ubiquity: Hottie/Douchey boat mating.

I'm not sure why the presence of lounging around with Miller Lites on a motorboat brings out the inner hot-chick justification to show off her wares to neighboring scrotewanks.

But what is it about the presence of boat that allows ocean turds to float onto dry land like shriveled whale poo?

Take Grinny McPud here. Rides on the short bus? Perhaps. Ignores the hott grinding into him in favor of a "Hey dude, we rock!" gesture to a compatriot choad? Definitely.

And so we write "balls" on his head. And lust for blonde ambition.

Man, and I thought The Creeper had a skeezy vile tongue from the pits of Satanic arena rock.

This is like a solid sandwich of nuclear scrotastic fusion cuisine. It should be on the menu at Koi. I'd look away but my irises just melted into puddles of gummi bear goo.

The Hard Rock Casino and Hotel.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

Douche Mecca.

Kissy Lips.

I'll have the muscle choad and slutty hottie cocktail.

With a side order of mandana.

To go.

Angry 'Bag has the Freddy Rodriguez in "Six Feet Under" scruff thing working He douches by day, cleans up corpses by night.

Bottom 'Bag has the frosted tips and clueless expression of the lobotomized mental patients featured in Frederick Wiseman's Titicut Follies. Because referencing 1960s cinema verite is what I'm all about, yo.

Healthy Brown Tipped Blonde's smile is like the musical cadences of the stutter speech of 1990s David Mamet dialogue. I would overact Pacino style if it meant I could Garry her Glens with a hoo-ah.

And that's just way too many film/tv references for one post. I feel post-modernly dirty. But not Portland Doctors on Craigslist dirty.

Many aspiring 'bag hunters ask me, "DB1, how does the Douche Virus travel between hottie and choad? In how many myriad ways does it transmit?"

After first complimenting them on the proper use of the word "myriad," I explain that Grieco Viral transmission passes through the simultaneity of physical contact and a 'bag gesture of some sort. For instance, the douche move pictured here.

Douche Licking is amplified in its potency when the choad in question simultaneously makes a 'Bag Hand Gesture during transmission. And wears a silly shirt.

Observe the scrote-to-hott infection in action.

Or you can just stare at the Rainbow Pillows and drool like an Australian hyena pumped full of amphedidrine. Like I am. Because the Scrotal Sciences take a back-seat to bouncy rainbow pillows.

Just ask Jonas Salk. He was obsessed with boobies. That guy just wouldn't stop.

I think it's high time to promote The Gator to the Hall of Scrote.

And by high time, I mean douche time. And by douche time, I mean kicking Gator in the nads and doing the 6-boob bongo dance, which reached #12 on the charts back in '92.

Megods. Look at this monstrosity of choad.

This pic crystallizes all that is the ephemeral about the cultural trainwreck of hottie/douchebaggy commingling. In what fair and just theological framework do women this hot congregate in the presence of one with Nerf football head, greased up shaven chest, and the low cut black garb worn by Zod in Superman II? Why, in hottie/douche land, of course.

I would nuzzle in Pink's flesh pillows like a homeless sparrow seeking regurgitated food from its sparrow mother. Peep. Peep.

I put it to the floor.

Any objections to The Gator for the hallowed "Hall of Scrote" (found in the left-hand column by scrolling down), speak now, or forever hold your grease.

Or, better yet, use this thread to laud the genius of The Gator's supreme douchebaggery. And by laud, I mean mock.