I don't know if Army McShirtless is douche or not, but as to the hottie, I haven't seen a shoulder that succulent since breakfast.

My kingdom for a touch of mint jelly and a spruce of garnish. Sure she's orange like the Prompas. But on her, it looks tasty.

The Halloween 'bag pics submitted by readers are pouring in, and I'm honored that this site inspired so many weekend costumes. Guido The Killer Gimp writes in to let us know he busted the Jerseybag look at his Halloween party on Saturday night:

----
Check it out, DB1. Went as a douche to honor HCwDB. Let me know if you're going to run the pics-

-- Guido The Killer Gimp
----

I can't tell if it's good or scary that some of these costume pics are indistinguishable from true douchebaggery. If I didn't have other costumed people in the pic, I wouldn't buy that this is a costume at all.

But nice job GtkG. Love the D&G belt, the Kissy Lips, the bling and the ultra buff Sean Connery douche-chest. Oh, and I'm now letting you know that I'm going to run the pics.

Other readers who've sent in pics of themselves going as 'bags for Halloween include C Dog, going for the Jersey Guido look. Blue, who attempted the "Joey Porsche Lips." Evan, attempting the hallowed "Double Collar Pop." West Side 'Bag goes Miami Beach Douche. Tim busts a classic douche costume with Santa Hottie in tow. And A bunch of fans of the site in Jersey went superdouche here and here. And a genius tribute to Orangebags were performed by readers here and here.

Orange Face. Love it.

Nice work, people. I'm honored to have helped inspire such costumed douchebaggery. Just be careful you don't get a taste for the Goose and start running with it.

There's a stain on my couch the size of France,
It was made by a rocker douche without pants,
A tri-hott sandwich he did find,
While looking for spare change and a curvy behind,
Too bad his career has no chance.

Remember kids, when you're out trick or treating, be careful.

A greased up muscle choad could be doggie 'baggin' your hottie.

BLAM!

KAPOW!!

BIGDOUCHE!!

It was a total landslide for creepy douched up Batbag with the saggy nipple, his sidekick Robyn, and Timmy's Hot Mom who made you brownies when you were nine and let you look down her blouse while serving them.

Batbag, like The Gator before him, is one of those supreme uberbags who forces a reevaluation of the entire spectrum of douchitude, rendering the level of hott irrelevant. Few douchefaces can achieve such a singularity. Batbag is one. walker, texas douchebag lays down the logic train:

that collection of cells that is bat bag is the clear winner here. Years of chest-shaving, squeezing his junk into 32 waist white pants, and inhaling Jovan Musk for Men has addled his brain to the point where he thinks it's cool to have a Batman tattoo AND a matching belt buckle. Not to mention those ridiculous glasses. He deserve the title, as well as being run though a wood-chipper.

Well said, Walker. deuche agrees:

Riddle me this and riddle me that....what kind of douche gets a BATMAN TAT? On top of man-boobies, none-the-less. He even has boy wonder-bag as a sidekick.

"And where...And where.......is the BATBAG?"

The Batbag is taking a well needed break from fighting crime to scrote on the hotties, that's where. But the creepy Leprechaun with his Long Island Iced Tea Beauty found fans. ron douchegay sums up the appeal:

The Leprechaun, since he has the hottest hott, and is most derserving of having a white-hot poker stuck up his ass.

Well put, Ron. I thought for sure that the resonance between Snake Pisskin and Rachel Hottowitz would resonate further with the voters, but alas, Snake came in a distant third. douche ellington plays the eulogy:

While I thouroughly enjoy the comedy of errors that is Batbag, nothing says more about what's wrong with the hottie/douchey commingling than Snake Pisskin. She represents everything I've ever wanted in a woman and have yet to find, and he represents everything I hate about the guys she will inevitably go after: the omnipresent smug look, sunglasses indoors, "designer" wife-beater, and "look at me I'm trying to be tough" tattoos.

I agree, D.E. But this is Batbag's day. Like the solo douche-fighter that he is, Batbag needs no uber-hott to win a Weekly. He operates on his own, with only Robyn's dimples to help him along. As tim brewer succinctly sums it up:

BATBAG!!! omg please.

"omg please," indeed, Tim. This is Batbag's day. Raise his douche-cape to the rafters and punch his Bat Signal a spot in the Monthly. He's bringing Robyn and MILF cutie along for the ride.

WFU 'Bags write in with their pu-pu platter of HCwDB inspired douchery at their Halloween party:

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DB1,

Here are our attempts at some classic douchebags for the WFU med school Halloween party.

The Prompa, Joey P Variation #1, and Joey P Variation #2, King D are all featured.

Our costumes were the talk of the party, and luckily the fake tan washed off easily.

Enjoy,
C Douche
-----

If there's one thing I've always dreamed of, it was opening up new avenues of costume exploration for Halloween parties. The Prompas and Joey Porsche should be honored. But something tells me, they won't be.

PIC DELETED

And then there's Ramon.

Not a halloween 'bag. Not even a gaybag, as I've received three pics of this tool in action with hotties.

Simply a dimpled cartoon fast food logo head.

I'd drive up to that head and try to order a double cheeseburger and Mr. Pibb by talking into the mouth speakerbox.

I'd put a quarter in his ear and see if a pre-printed fortune popped out of his stomach.

And then I'd McFlurry her whoppers.

This one's 100% real.

Greased cheeks. Ginormous mandana. The bling. The douche face. And the exaggerated, almost cartoonishly enhanced female.

Yeesh.

Scary.

Incidentally, some were confused by yesterday's comparison of the Nordic Aryan Baby Head in the Sun on The Teletubbies and noted Nazi Commander of the S.S., Heinrich Himmler. To better explain my analogy, I've provided visual confirmation of similarities between Himmler and the Teletubbies Sun Baby here.

Reader TW submits his attempt at the douche Halloween look:

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Hi, honorable DB1.

After many months of studying your website on all things douche, bag, and douchebag, I felt that I had enough knowledge to pull off the task of being the coolest guy at the party. And by coolest guy I mean a complete and total douchebag.

I know you may not post these pics because I am in costume, but I think I pulled it off amazingly well, and by amazingly well I mean hunch punch vomit on my face.

Super hard spiked and wet looking hair, mandana, stupid glasses, eyeliner, retarded trimmed beard, popped collar, v-neck undershirt, 2 Jesusbling necklaces, dogtag necklace, sweat arm bands, stupid belt buckle, white belt with stars, hand gestures and douche face.

The only thing missing is the orange fake tan, but I just didn’t have the dedication to be orange for a week as it wears off.

Thanks for the great site.
-----

Phenomenal work, TW. You are a scholar and a student of all that is scrote.

But the question we all want to know, did you score with Gladiator Xena?

The Halloween pics are pouring in, keep them coming, people. These things absolutely are making my week.

Here's one of the first truly genius submissions, from Frat Soda:

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So here's my buddies and I with a hotty. We dressed up as douchebags for halloween. Took some serious notes from your website. Our shirts depict DCHE.... it's the new trend based on FCUK apparel. check it ;)

Frat Soda
---

What can I say, FS? You and your boys are learned students of the Art of the Douche Mock. Great work. Love the orange fake tan.

But my question is this. Did the Hottie simply go as a Hottie? Which is okay by me. Heck, she could wrap herself in aluminum foil and call herself a "baked potato" and I'd still Trick her Treats.

Here we've captured the rare Eastern European Douche in a natural state of repose. The wannabe Prussian Mobster who's in the gym four days a week and drives a red Mazda Miata he refers to as "his bitch."

The dude named "Arthur" or "Alex," who talks with a nondescript Russian accent, and believes he could've been the next Jean Claude Van Damme if he didn't pull that hammy after high school.

Yet here he is, The Samovar, pulling in two sophomore sorority chicks from the local Fashion Institute.

It's as inexplicable as that smooth and clammy chest he's revealing.

I would love Aqua's ample bosoms like a malnourished Nepalese tiger. Named Joe. Who dances with Mowgli to Disney songs during Disney On Ice. And then licks Aqua Hott like a salt lick back in the green room. Because, uhm, I like big boobs. But you probably got that subtext already.

Like a douche fastball, the splitter deceives. He cuts towards the plate and then suddenly drops with dripping forehead and cheesy facial pubes.

Can rockerbags like The Splitter here be redeemed?

Or have they gone too far down the yellow brick road to the land of Munchchoadville to ever recover?

Not sure. I see a glimmer of hope somewhere beneath all that gel. Maybe I'm nuts, but The Splitter's douchery seems more Gary Gygax than Richard Grieco.

Sadly, Cowboy Boobies is beyond hope. Caught in a deep centrifugal toilet flush of rank scrotological reject, she is Bleethed to the point of no return. But hey. Can Cans.

I believe there's an Outkast inspired Andre 29.99 douchechoad somewhere in this pic. I know he's a tool. But enough about him.

I'm distracted.

Distracted by heavenly pillows that dancing schnauzers in lederhosen chase over chocolate covered mountain tops shaped like 19 year old flesh tatines.

Firm, succulent mounds that rise like a glowing boobie sun, gazing down at the dappled hinterlands. Like that sun with that creepy Nazi Baby Himmler head on The Teletubbies.

A Sun Boobie that commands me, in a firm tenor voice: Grab me, DB1! Paw me like a blind man looking for his car keys in a jar full of marbles!

And I would.

Because I dare not disobey the Boobie Sun God.

Dear Black People of America,

On behalf of this guy, I sincerely and humbly apologize.

You've endured the horrors of Slavery. The long and painful Civil Rights struggles.

Seperate but Equal. The busing crises. The cooption of your music and culture by white artists like Elvis.

A half a millenium of exploitation and degradation in this country.

Soul Plane. Flavor of Love.

And now this guy.

Please take him out back and beat him with garbage cans while talking over each other like you're at a screening of Robocop. It's the only proper response, and you'd be doing all of us a favor.

Sincerely,
DB1

We don't usually consider the flip-side of the hottie/douchey coupling.

What happens when we invert the codes of douche affect?

When we reverse our meaning structrures surrounding the cultural desire to set a hair gel fauxhawk on fire and then hump his cutie's leg like a windup chattering teeth?

When we consider the ramifications of a tatted up beach choad and his hott from an inverted, negative paradigm?

Or are they simply ass?

After last week's surreal abstract masterpiece combining modernism, expressionism and Seurat like douchilism, Douche or Dali, today's three selections of choad/hott are a cartoon inspired sampling of superdouche and the cuties that love them.

Three comic book frat soda brain grenades of choad/hott.

A shmorgasboard of tasty breakfast cereals, bagels and lox, and three ass-kick worthy douchestains. I'm giddy like a paint sniffing rhesus monkey. Must be Monday.

Here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Leprechaun

When first appearing on the site, The Leprechaun was a deceptively annoying douche. At first he just struck us as standard 10 Degree Fred Durstbag.

But then his Limp Bizkit began to gain traction. Like an oil slick. Or really bad jock itch.

Or maybe it was his delicious hottie that made this couple Finals worthy. She has the look of carnal perfection that slays dragons and makes animated penguins tap dance like Savion Glover.

Or maybe it's the Ikea porn set couch they're sitting on. Could their location have any less ambiance? Because no lighting quite sets the sexy mood like shadowless, evenly lit, florescence.

But what takes the cake is The Leprechaun's sneering look of possession. His feral growl touched with the faintest hint of fear and terror that he's going to lose her to someone else.

Yes you are, Leprechaun. Were that that person you lose her to be me.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Snake Pisskin

To Escape From Douche York, this perfectly sweet co-ed hottie needs to gut Pisskin like a fish, then dive through a nearby dorm window like an old west gunman.

Speaking of the old west, anyone ever see Westworld with Yul Brenner? The sci-fi western where the robot gunmen go crazy and start killing the rich people?

Good times. Tell me Snake Pissken here couldn't be a robot cowboy from the future.

As to Rachel Hottowitz, I would light sabbath candles and tie red string around my wrist just for the chance to daven to her perfection. She is delightful.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Batbag

POW!!!

THWACK!!

DOUCHE!!

Not much more to be said about greased up Batbag and his sidekick Robyn.

The only drawback is the MILF cutie isn't quite up to the standards of The Leprechaun and Snake Pisskin.

But then again, Batbag. Douche Wayne. Those glasses and that highly thwackable douche-face are enough to make any week's finals.

So them's your three.

Remember folks, first Zen yourselves. Gaze upon each pic with new eyes. See as if for the first time. Allow each pic to summon invective from deep within your psyche. Bile from deep within your upper G.I. tract.

Which combo of delicious Key Lime Hottie pie and douche choad make you want to punch a homeless Maori child named Umbutu?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Growing up in Boston, I had the twin-fecta of achievements in Fenway Park. I caught a pop foul (on the fly) off the bat of the immortal Mike Benjamin in 1998.

And I was busted for scalping tickets outside Fenway.

The fat guy who scalped about a thousand tickets a day every day outside of the Kenmore Square T station had the cops (who clearly were on the take) hassle me for selling two tickets I'd gotten for free from a friend. Jackass.

But other than the scalping thing, Fenway and the Red Sox hold a key place in my heart. So it is with great joy that I offer congrats to my hometown team for winning the big one. Second time in four years. World Series Champeens.

And congrats to the city Boston itself. After all those years of futility, we deserve this.

Like that perky boobied Cambridge Rindge and Latin hottie I met at the Ratt in the mid 90s, I would take the T to Harvard Square and celebrate loudly over a Sam Adams in the hopes of a late night sloppy makeout near that creepy cemetery with the graves from the 17th Century.

Tip your cup of 'Train to the Sox, people. To the Sox.

Good night, you princes of Maine. You Kings of New England.

Shirtsies?

We don't need no steenking shirties.

Shirtlessness?

The new popped collar.

Underwear peak?

The new douche-face.

Tiny Dancer who knows not what she climbs on?

Just plain wrong.

It's early morning on a Saturday, and your half awake narrator on all things Brain Grenade/Bone Zone, is contemplating the morphing douchological plague.

After a doozer of sober busters I had an epiphany last night.

I've been overly cruel to New Jersey. I owe the Garden State a bit of a mea culpa for overstating its role within douche hierarchy.

This is not to say Jersey isn't one of the central fronts in the War on Douchebaggery. It is. Only that compared to areas of Long Island and Staten Island, Jersey really isn't producing grease choads at quite the rate one would assume.

Jersey's in the mix. There's no doubt of it's douche influence. But there are other cities and areas far higher on the pie-chart of hottie/scrotey violation.

I'm looking at you, Chicago and Dallas. Douche clone factories. Dystopian nexus points of aesthetic violations. Of fist pumping blight. Even cities you wouldn't assume would pump out the pumped up douchescrotes. Atlanta. Memphis. Even Vancouver.

Even my City of Angels. Actorbags and unemployed stubblebags working out their "Game" moves on the latest crop of 18-24 year olds fresh of the boat from Sheboygan. But alas, as the fires recede from the hills of Malibu, I tip my Red Cup of the 'Train. Because, no matter how Bleethed they may be, the young hottie boobies are still bouncing.

Special thanks to reader Pfah for the kickass new banner for the site. He is a supreme 'bag hunter, and I honor his rapier wit and ability to lust after the boob while mocking the choad with erudite aplomb. Good to have you on board brotha.

Question. Across the long and glorious subsections of douchological classification, what are those attributes that most rise to the top? That transcend ordinary scrotitude and invoke a higher plane of choad consciousness?

I would argue there are certain 'bags who summon the 'bag spirit without need for primitive hand gestures nor the Kissy Lips. What I like to term spectral douchitude.

Snake Pisskin here is one of these privileged deities that I speak of.

It's not just that he's corralled a sexy future librarian that I plan to awkwardly greet outside of her sorority house until she maces me and kicks me in the shins. How I love that soft blue dress and two tone brunette hair. She is a creamy dark haired soft serve ice-cream tilt-o-whirl of cotton candy carrot sticks. And if that last sentence read confusingly, it's only because she dizzifies my wiki fantastic.

But it's the tat-douchery that Snake embodies that sends this pic off into strato-wrongness. Pisskin's ass chin. Top it all off with the bug glasses and you have a nice frothy serving of spectral douchitude far greater than the analytic sum of its parts.

In short, it's Friday. He sucks. She's hott. And it's time to start drinking.

Anonymous D-Bag writes in:

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This should be a book on how to pick up some chicks. Because guys that look like that when they go out, including myself, get chicks. My you should use these pictures to learn something. Cause were getting laid and your not.
----

What about my not? Oh, you mean you're not. As in "you're not a very good speller, but your Affliction t-shirt is da bomb."

Keep touting your hott as proof that your douchebaggery is justified, Anonymous DB. And I'll keep posting the pics and mocking your douchey ass, regardless of the quality of boobies in your presence.

Because simply scoring a cutie does not justify the aesthetic cultural violations that your douchuous gender inverted narcissism performs on our society.

And you smell like poo.

So what defines the parameters of human existence?

Is it the way we construct the careful elements of cultural armor to launch ourselves like fiery pieces of Sputnik into a collision course with a large quantity of hott in the hopes of grabbing shards during our atmospheric plunge?

Is it through a madcap endless chasing of the name-brand identities of trend culture in the vain hopes of grasping that just-out-of-reach brass ring of "now"?

An endlessly impossible journey of paradox, a quagmire of corporate inspired chase in which we are brand-name rats scurrying for a mythic product to transcend the sexual competition during our underground descent into the Land of Boobological Firmness?

And is it so wrong that I want Angry Blonde White with the tiny side-boobs to shackle me to a radiator and spank me while dressed in a giant Snoopy costume?

Rat Chin writes in:

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What's up. I'm really liking this site...except for the fact that I'm on it. Hell, I'm probably going to be coming back here and checking regularly. However, you guys have a picture up that a friend of mine (he's the real douchebag) added of me. It's a Halloween picture and I'm wearing a costume that I would not dare wear on a normal day. If you guys could remove the pic, I would really appreciate it.

Please just let me know what I need to do in order to get that taken down in a timely manner.

The picture title is "Rat Chin" or something along those lines.

Thanks.
(Rat Chin)
------

"Halloween Pic," Rat Chin? Let me consult my Magic 8-Ball. It says, "All Signs Lead to Not Freaking Likely."

But alas your Ten Degree Hat Tilt with the Sticker Still On (TDHTwtSSO) and chin scruff will be lost to the spirit world.

So instead here's a picture of some z-list scenester named Scott something or other whom I've never heard of, but readers keep insisting I run since he's a grade-A douche.

'Sure he looks like douche,'
Cute lil' Jenny told her mom.
'But he lifts my box.'

Faux hawk and real tats
Her perfect boobs make this scrote
Grab his small package

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

Reflective hottie
In background calls DB1.
"I found another!"

-- boatbutter

Narcissistic douche
Flexes for his blonde hottie
Grips light-weight package

-- clementine of cappadoucha

really bad carpet.
must be at the Douchebag Mall.
box full of white belts.

-- pfah

Douchey warehouse 'bag
I lurk behind Galaga
to steal the blonde hott

-- douche mcallister

I'm getting a lot of emails inquiring on the best steps for dressing up as Hottie/Douchey couple for Halloween.

I'd be careful about impersonating a 'bag too accurately, as you may get your ass kicked even on Halloween. But for those adventurous enough to try, I think it's a great costume. If you pull off an accurate Hall of Scrote impersonation, I'd be honored and impressed.

Please send any and all pics of such attempts.

Jesse "The Douche" Ventura, a huge fan of the site, actually went with his friend to a Halloween party dressed as a HCwDB couple. Uhm... a little disturbing, but A for effort, guys.

Now if you'd only gone as a Prompa, I'd be really impressed.

After a series of army experiments using radiation and a glowing green liquid made by Doctor Douchuous in an underground lair went horribly wrong, young army private Bleek Blather found himself transformed into...

Captain Shirtless!! Hero to the common douche!!

At first I was going to reject this pic on the grounds of professional stripperdom, but now I'm not so sure. Do strip clubs let in douche superheroes like Captain Shirtless? Or is my fervered imagination convincing me that hotties actually dress up in tiny bits of lingerie of their own free non-economically-inspired accord?

And what about Sweet Polly Purebred on the right? How does she figure into this equation?

Tune in next week for the further scrotey adventures of Captain Shirtless and the Stable of Ambiguously Pro Hott!! Same douche time!! Same douche channel!!

An ode to Pumpy, from reader D. Baggins.

-----
Ripped and shredded was this giant man
massive chest, legs, arms and even his paws
that could grip three boobs with one single hand
a feat that did inspire shock and awe.

A man whose myth is most Herculean
descended from Zeus, this modern he-man.
He belonged in the Colosseum
crushing mere mortals like tiny tin cans.

Sad, the day we learned of his passing
the sorrow lay heavily on our minds
gloomy condolences were amassing
death took him so young, life is most unkind.

Ending on a note that is light and loose
rest in peace Pumpy, I tip you my goose.

Sincerely,
D. Baggins
------

Listen up, Ice-Man From Homoerotic Volleyball Scene in Top Gun.

Your attempts to do the Peaches point contain the awkward muscle spasms of the untrained amateur. There is no douchological grace to your douchebaggery. Your left hand clutches with spasmic Keyser Soze gimpery rather than true 'bag hand gesture.

Even your underarm sweat stains bespeak the awkwardness of amateur 'bagling status.

Keep practicing. And take That 70's 'Bag with you.

I'll corral future O.C. Soccer Mom in the back room where we will play Parcheesi with chocolate dice while I softly nuzzle her bunny slippers.

We gotta get an E! True Hollywood story crew on this developing situation. Grover just hasn't been taking the post-Henson years well.

Intentionally misspelling words even when the letters come together right in front of him. Refusing to identify which one of these things is different than the others.

Wearing a mini Harry Potter scarf by way of Doctor Who, The Tom Baker years.

Hitting on Simone, the tough talking Brooklyn best friend of the lead character who gets all the good lines in the script but is still cute in her own right.

Come on, Grover. Get it together. Maybe Scooter can get you some new bookings. I hear he's at William Morris now, repping Steve Martin.

There's the Crips. The Bloods. The T-Birds. The Lost Boys.

And then there's Gangsta Blue. Straight up douchin', yo. With his mind on his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap, and his Wonder Bread Yankee Cap on his mind. Slippin' on gin and Goose.

I would pull those drawstrings until your aqua blue parka closed on your face like an iris in bright sunlight. Like a puckering butthole on a ferret in the presence of an alligator.

And then there's Sally, you Chicken McHottget with five different dipping sauces. You fast food french fry of dee-light. Your groove is in my heart.

You are paid to pose with Gangsta Blue, and yet the pain of a thousand sunsets lost to the ether courses through my psyche like an arthritic synapse.

No irony here. No halloween dress-up. People really dress like this.

I tell myself that. Then I deny it. No, it can't be.

It isn't possible anyone would think to themselves, "You know, my spikey hair and muscle-t look would go so much better with a rolled up bandana tube right through the middle of my forehead."

But it explains it all. Just like Buckaroo Banzai says: wherever you go, there you are. It is a tautological truism.

Or, at least, it explains why I drink. And why smiles on army blondes keep me going.

Something about this pic just strikes me as unsanitary.

Not annoying. Not infurating. Not confusing. Not even cannibal zombie musical inspiring.

Just unsanitary.

I want to lysol my eyeballs. I want to scrub my corneas with bleach until all conceptual bacteria is washed from spiritual summon. I want to detoxify the visual codes of existential plague embedded in the meaning structures of the semiotic significations of, well, douche.

In short, gross.

stevex writes in:

-----
Dear DB1:

Could you explain why douchebags always make kissy lips when being photographed? Are they tasting their own sourness? Is there a collective unconscious douche bank in their brains that tells them all how to behave?

-----
Being a 'bag is hard, stevex. So much pressure to gel up the chest hair. Turn yourself orange. Appear "Gangsta" tough at all times.

Sometimes the 'bag just wants to display affection. Love. Sincerity.

Since impressing the hott gives him little opportunity for such outward displays of affection (outside of the arm-lock and dual hand gestures maneuver), the Kissy Lips become one way the douche can say, "Hey, I might be wearing a mandana and muscle-t shirt displaying my ginormous tribal tatt. But I love you." And I mean that in the abstract, not about 60s Swingerbag and his generibuddy, pictured here sandwiching a Malaysian Paprika.

So the Kissy Lips is that moment when a scroteface can let his guard down. When they're telling you they love you. Is that so wrong?

Why yes. I suppose it is.

There once was a nanny, Bridgitte.
So Swedish, with boobies petite.
But douche-face soon pounced,
With hand gestures pronounced,
And Bridgitte soon smelled like lunch meat.

This week's Weekly came down to an erudite and gentlemanly duel between Queen Bee and the Power Chord and the team behind Douche or Dali.

Polite, class system based slaps with a white glove. Aristocratic high culture conflict of interest. And a hella lot of grease and surgery.

Pulling out the win in a blaze of shirtless grease, surgical boobies and the sliced eyeball in Un Chien Andalou was the sheer scrotal power of the Douche or Dali posse. Notadouche sums up the appeal of this surreal masterpiece. And by masterpiece, I mean monstrosity:

It's hands down douche or dali. These two pukewads make me want to gouge out my eyes with a rusty pair of nail clippers. At the same time hottie's magnificent rack of the future (with tiniest hint of nipple) forces all of the air out of my lungs in one manic blast, cartoon style.

Or as squatch puts in:

Douche or Dali hands down. Any pictuar that can bring out the Aqua Douche Hunger Force into the comments section in full screaming Mimi mode gets my vote.

This was an interesting win in that the sheer scrotal force of The Dali Douche-Melt overpowered the transformative hottness of both Queen Bee and Tony With the Car Dealership's Princess. And Tony and Power Chord were no slouches in the skeeze department either.

LiteraryAlchemist makes the strong case for the sheer wrongness of All American beauty Queen Bee, and 1980s Power Chordbag:

Queen Bee and Power Chord have it all. From her disarmingly charming smile, lovely eye(s) and Veronica Lake effect, to his bagtastic 1980's pr0n-star-frollet.

This asswipe, given the three from which to choose, most earnestly believes his appearance, douche-inspiring expression, and tea-bagging goggles makes him special. He guy stinks of post-frat-midlife crisis. He is "Aqua Velvaman" (apologies to Skunk Weed).

Should Queen Bee succumb to his "charms" she will likely be sorely disappointed to find that he stuffs his crotch, drives a calico and wrecked IROC and lives not in his mother's basement but in his younger, cute sister's former bedroom in all its pink and pony decorated glory.

Power Chord FTW. And please. PLEASE. Someone slap that choad smoking grin off his face with a chainsaw.

Very nicely put, L.A. I may add Queen Bee to the list of future ex-Mrs. DB1s at some point. She is everything I desire in a counterpart who I will spend lots of money on while she gradually grows to have contempt for me.

But Tony With the Car Dealership's sleaze also found support. As Charles Nelson Douchely puts it:

But, Tony. Cripes. For all I know, this could have been the next night at the same bar as Power Chord. Stumbling drunkly over to the hottie, giving a slurred "whats your sign" to her and an offer to let her massage his chest hair. She finally agrees to let Tony take a picture with her in return for him not kidnapping her cat.

But Mr. Potassiumhead makes the case for the cartoonish spectacle of Douche or Dali to rise to a state of privileged meaning structure in our Derrida inspired simulacrum:

Douche or Dali! The piercing blue eyes with nothing behind them, the shaved chests, bling that is noticeable yet doesn't-overshadow-pectoral-development, and the lips, the pursed lips.

Combined with their facial expressions, you can hear the "mmm" emanating from the depths of their shallow souls, probably only overpowered by the Axe that is no doubt also emanating from their shaved chests. The man pubes are a added bonus.

And iutodd agrees, summing up the vote thusly:

It's hard not to pick Queen Bee... everyone knows of a girl as hot as she is. And everyone hates whoever she is with. Usually they look like Power Chord... visions like that cause men to break down and cry in public. But I have to pick Douche or Dali. It's classic hcwdb. Pictures that don't seem real are the hallmark of this site. And pics like that should never, ever, ever happen.

No. No they shouldn't.

So raise the Dali Twins shirtless skin jerseys to the rafters, and let Jessika's inflated boobs distract from any questions about her potential to "surprise" you down there. They are this week's Winner. And we'll see their painted brushstrokes with melting clocks and ants coming out of hands in the Monthly.

I only violate the hottie/douchey combo requirement for a pic on this site on rare and special occasions.

This is one of those occasions.

We celebrate the Prompas because we care. And by care, I mean orange.

And by orange, I mean orange.

Orange.

PIC DELETED

What's with the rat chin on Vanilla Mice here? It's been cropping up all across the douchological spectrum of late. Like a mutant virus. Or early 90s Porn Star crotch. Or chin herps.

10 Degree Hat Tilt (with sticker) features 'bag hand gesture with requisite finger bling on the left, and, oh yeah, the douche-face.

And please, dear god no, is that a Scarface t-shirt? Where's Crazy Eyes with the LCD screen on the ceiling when you need him?

Racing Car Hott makes me happy to be in Georgia. Just so long as I don't venture outside of Atlanta, I should be okay.

So your humble narrator in all things boobie/bone-zone sits here on a Tuesday and scratches himself. For I face a conundrum.

Do I run a new Prompa prom pic I just received, which sadly features no hotties and therefore ventures outside the M.O. of the site? Or a tasteful new pic of the late, great Pumpy, or is that in bad taste?

Decisions, decisions.

A special thanks to anyone and everyone who has been sending me pics for the site. If I don't respond, it's not because I don't care. It's because I drink too much and my feet smell like a Peruvian hooker named "Chiquita."

If you have a brilliant photo of a pretty young thing with a heaping serving of scrote, cuddling or otherwise commingling in a sickeningly wrong way, send it along at a reasonably small file size (but reasonably large pic size) to douchebag1@hotchickswithdouchebags.com. Or if just want to say "'Bags suck, but hotties are pounce worthy," drop me a line.

And in the meantime, enjoy Old Red. Yeah I know he's not old, but the name just seemed to fit.

Na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na, BATBAG!!

Check out Leprechaun 'Bag, touching the inner thigh of his hott with the possessive insecurity of a cornered doberman.

Don't growl at me, Leprechaun 'Bag.

My attempts to enjoy Long Island Iced Tea Hott are hampered by my fixation on your Ten Degree Hat Tilt (TDHT).

And the fact that no matter how tough you pose, Leprechaun 'Bag, you're still letting her use your lap as a side table for her purse.

Frathunter writes in:

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First and foremost, love the site.

2nd of all not only do I have a douche for ya, but he’s the douchiest of the douche. He works for our company and at first seemed like a nice guy, which I suppose he still is. but that's neither here nor there.

After a long night of drinking and playing poker (introducing him to my blue collar buds) his first night here… he began to reveal the douche underneath... the Truth Douche.

I am not making any of this up... here’s a sample of quotes:

He got up to grab us a few beers while playing poker and shouted: “Who’s in for a Brain Grenade?" Of which I asked him what the hell is that? "You know, a Frat Soda!” I said a beer? I’ll take one.. my friend said I will also have one... to which he shouted: “I got a doozer" (2 I’m still guessing here) of some "Sober Busters."

We didn’t let him speak for the rest of the night. I have sent along a few shots (that I will need to send in a couple of emails thanks to our awesome firewall here at wk).

I also would like to add that he always mentions taking girls to the "Bone Zone."
-----

You had me at a "doozer of sober busters" but the "bone zone" takes this whole thing to the next level of genius. If a "doozer of sober busters" isn't accepted in the 2012 Revised Webster's Dictionary, then I'm not doing my job properly.

Stamp this brain grenade and frat soda drinking choad one of the first official SlangBags we've featured on the site.

Mainly because most of these pics can't talk. Which is probably a good thing.

Arrr, avast there, bro!! It's talk like a douche-pirate day!!

Shiver me Timbaland!! Arr!!

Ahoy!! Tell me how ye like my mandana, matey??

Avast, I'm loaded to the gunwales with douchey tribal tatts, arr!!

Yo-ho-ho, and a Bottle of Grey Goose!!

ahem

Sorry. I'm over it now.

'Bag hunter extraordinaire and sexy blond minx, K Hottie, checks in with another capture story:

----
DB1 -

I am out in L.A. visiting a friend and we went to Opera on Friday night . . . during "fashion week". We asked a random guy to take a picture of us and he said that his only condition was that his friend had to be in the pic with us. We tolerated his request . . . and then we saw his friend.

Oh my God.

Any other girl would have been mortified and neverminded his ass, but not K Hottie. Under my repulsion, I was jumping for joy at the chance to deliver another smashing photo for your viewing pleasure.

The capture story is great and includes him telling me all about his work in the fashion industry, but I don't have time to sit down and write it out. I would like to point out the string around his head, the pleather pants, clearly the ampersand shirt, and just the overwhelming essence of douche. I can't wait to see what name he gets!

-----

A name for this guy? How's Southern Scumfort? Although in the grand scheme of the douchological arts, he's really not that bad.

Except there's that white belt again.

Is the white belt the new Ubiquitous Red Cup? The key signifier of douchebaggery presence in a scrote?

Uhm, honey, when they say Jersey is the armpit of America, they don't mean that literally.

But there's that white belt again.

Was there a sale at Loehmanns last month?

So I'm watching football yesterday, and that Taco Bell ad comes on with the annoying fauxhawk hipsters offering up witty Madison Ave focus tested repartee about the super coolness of chili con carne. Older Madison Ave created "cool guy" lectures younger Madison Ave created "cool guy" about the proper way to spread the chili on the chips.

Because nothing's quite so tasty as processed rat meat on a taco shell that was probably made by 9 year olds in giant gothic Taco Bell slave factories somewhere off the coast of Baja.

So anyways, the ad. One ad executive created hipster douchebag turns to the other and says, "Always, ALWAYS, put chili on your con carne."

And I'm thinking to myself, are they subtly ripping off, or paying some sick demented homage to Alec Baldwin's brilliant monologue in Glengarry Glen Ross? Some last, desperate attempt by a hack copywriter to pay tribute to brilliant writing and feel less awful about his lot in life? In the middle of a freaking Taco Bell ad?

I turn it over to the late, great genius, Bill Hicks.

We miss you, Bill. I couldn't have said it any better than that.

On to the finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Queen Bee and the Power Chord

There's a certain everyday rot taking place in this pic. That retro musician dude stuck in the early 1980s who still somehow manages to score the superhot sister of your best friend.

I'm looking at you, Hannah.

You flirted with me all through high school. Let me see you change by the pool and pretended you didn't know I was there. You even made out with me at your brother's party on Senior Skip Day.

Then you went off to Michigan State and two years later you came home with Power Chord douchebag. That mid 30s Ron Johnson who works at the stereo store at the Mall and drives a Camaro.

The dude who doesn't care whether she comes, stays, lays or prays, whatever happens, his toes are still tappin'.

For bringing up that memory alone, crossbred as it was in my confused subconscious with Fast Times at Ridgemont High dialog, The Queen Bee of Hott and her Power Chord of suck are a worthy finalist.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Douche or Dali

I appreciate any hottie/douche pic that vaguely resembles mid century surrealist art.

Although Peroxide Blondie is a bit too "enhanced" for my tastes, her Daisy Duke hottness still resonates.

Then there's 84 Degree Hat Tilt. Who looks vaguely anime. Or a rejected character design for Disney's "The Fox and the Scrote."

And then the shirtlessness, continuing its rampage across our culture like a swarm of killer bees.

All bad.

Very, very bad.

Make it stop. Please, won't someone make it stop.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Tony With the Car Dealership

There's a certain extra something lurking in this pic that just prevented me from not including it in the Weekly.

I think it's Tony.

But it could also be sweet perky Katie Hottie, with the sinful body that she probably hasn't remotely figured out how to use.

Like a Ferrari being driven by a 89 year old great grandmother named Claire.

Some hotties have the car, they just haven't figured out how to drive stick yet.

Or are my entendres getting just a bit too silly?

Oh, and Tony?

Shoulderpads. Are douche.

I don't know whether you should win HCwDB of the Week or donate those pads to help Cuban illegals sail across the Gulf of Mexico.

So them's your three.

In the grand tradition of Taco Bell, I put it to you like a case of the runs. Which of these three is worthy of Weekly status? Car Dealer Tony and his Sweet Cutie? Queen Bee and her Power Chord? Or the surreal Douche or Dali posse?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

It's Sunday, and The DB1 is hungover from last night's carousing attempts to save the hotties of greater Los Angeles from pollution by endless stubbly actorbags.

Sure they might not have any visible means of employment. Or evidence of actual talent. Or a car.

But dammit if they aren't one of the DeVry Technical Institute's featured alumni in this month's newsletter.

And check out their prominent headshot in between Ensign Harper from Enterprise and Suitcase Opener #22 on Deal Or No Deal featured on the "Wall of Fame" at the Celebrity Cleaners on Hillhurst.

They're so damn charming, ladies. I understand. Simply overlook the herps sore and pound another Lemon Drop.

Here's to you, Seal 'bag with the abs and tongue disease. And here's to you, Stephen Baldwin Douche Face. May your audition for "Featured Audience Member" for the pilot of "Boy Meets World: Miami" go swimmingly.

Because it may be Goofy, but at least it's Disney, right?

Soprano #1 writes in:

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well let me start off by saying i appreciate your honesty.. but obviously i am featured on ur site this month.. im the one with my friend and his girlfriend in the middle.. its pretty f@#$ed up that u have the time to bash me but u kno what i take it as a compliment cause i get hot girls and that just proves it.. id really appreciate it if u took me off ur site because its not right.. u have a right to ur opinion but i have a right also ..so do me that favor and take me off. thanx
----

I don't like to think of it as "bashing." I prefer to view it as an erudite cultural critique of the neo-Marxian understanding of social capital, or what Adorno calls the "culture industry."

Or, put another way, I likes to tool on teh spikey hair grease douche.

And since I didn't have a pic to accompany this email, here's a gaggle of hott with two carefully selected choice premium toilet cleanses.