PIC DELETED

It's Friday Night and your lazy narrator in all things scrotey/shoulder, the DB1, contemplates this very equally weighted pic of overwhelming hott and underwhelming douche, and one and only one thought comes to mind.

Alcohol kills brain cells.

Which is a good thing.

I toast my cup of Night Train to another excellent week of 'bag hunting and brilliant comments in the threads from the regulars. I welcome all the newbie 'bag hunters and hotts to the site and hope you'll stick around.

If you submitted a pic and I didn't write back, I thank you for your submission and offer you a hypothetical doozer of sober busters.

I would slap an albino chicken and name him "Derek" just for the chance to gnaw on Kneeling Busty Brunette's cotton balls during her last root canal. She is a dentist drill of sweet pleasure/pain.

Pinky McFrill in the back not only has the Mark of the 'Bag, but, in case you couldn't tell, is a steaming pile of ass.

Which is why we drink. Get drinkin'.

I just remembered why I don't like Nascar.

I used to think it was the inanity of staring at cars all jammed together and going in a circle.  Nothing seemed more inane than staring at circular cars for 9 hours while breathing carbon monoxide.  

Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.

-- Benjamin Disraeli


Where's a firehose when you need one.

- DB1

Dude #1: Dude.

Dude #2: Dude.

Dude #1: Your hair is bangin', yo.

Dude #2: I know, right?

Dude #1: Totally.

Dude #2: Word. Yours, too. Off the hook, fosho.

Dude #1: Bra. I know.

Hott: Can we get out of here? Or do you two want me to leave so you can play with each other's hair?

Dude #1: Dude. Is she serious?

Dude #2: I think so.

Hott: I'm out.

Hott gets out of the limo and slams door.

Dude #1: Whatever.

Dude #2: Talk to the hand.

Dude #1: Talk to the hair!!

Dude #2 (hysterical): Bra!! Genius!!

Dudes hi-five. Then check their hair in the mirror.

anddddd... scene.

Makeup Emo Smirks,
His Retro 80s ruse worked.
Eye shadow worth cost.

How many emos
Needed to change a bulb? None!
He sits in the dark.

-- duke of douchester

the make-up counter
at Nordstrom has exploded
all over his head.

-- pfah

Flock of Seagulls mop
Eye banging a dude. Run cutie,
run so far away

-- marcos douchebagdatis

Simon Lebon's son
Scoring chicks because of dad
Douchey like the Wolf

-- plinky

Grab my black shoulder
I will probe your backside to
search for dark entry

-- rev. douche

Somewhere, carved into limestone in an ancient tongue, there is a backstory that explains the events captured in this picture.

It is a story handed down from father to son. Mother to daughter. Parrot to cheese grater.

It is a story of family. Friends. Japanese food. Wasabe. Modern art wall frescos. A blonde in a see-through mesh top. A brunette with a sexy shoulder.

And a steaming scrotebag with disjoined head proudly displaying his abs.

It is an epic tale that makes no coherent sense whatsoever. Or, to use a modern analogy, anything by John Irving.

-----
Dear DB1,

I had the displeasure of having an encounter of the douchebag kind while enjoying some Thanksgiving Eve festivities and was hoping you could enlighten me as to how the situation should have more properly been handled.

I was at a nice, multi-level bar in NYC that had an open area where there were a goodly number of people dancing, most of whom were attractive girls.

I'd been putting on my drunk whiteboy dance show for about three songs when I suddenly sensed a presence behind me. At the same time, what I can only describe as an Uber Guido danced up to the girl I was with, directly opposite from me, and started dancing right up on her. Her face underwent a cascade of emotions from shock, to dismay, to disgust as she registered the presence of the jackass with the faux-hawk and too-tight shirt with nearly non-existent sleeves to better show his 24" pythons.

Somehow misinterpreting her clear disgust as encouragement, the Uber Guido suavely asked, "Hey, wanna party? Yeah! Let's party!!!" and began increasing the aggressiveness of his dancing style. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed that another, equally offensive Uber Guido was lurking behind me.

At this point, what is a reasonable guy to do in this situation?

I have to admit that I took what I felt to be the only reasonable course, which was to swiftly flee the dance area to escort the girl to the bar for another drink, but felt like I should have done something more to further the Cause. Did I let down the anti-douchebag community?

--Gaius Douchius Caesar
-----

Physically confronting the douche can often be harmful, as they're likely to pummel the average 'bag hunter. What's best is to mock them from a safe distance, while stirring your drink with that useless little red straw they always give you.

However when forced into direct confrontation with a dual douche assault, there is one weapon of choice I prefer to use: The Two Syllable Word. For instance, "Why the deviated cranium, douche-face? Did your mother mate with a split rock?" containes the words "deviated" and "cranium," which the average 'bag will not understand.

Most 'bags live monosyllabic lives. Simply introduce a number of complex words into your mocking of their grease, and you should quickly triumph. They will grow rapidly confused, and then seek out other Woo-Hotties to bother.

Ah, the Affliction shirt.

The sideways hand gesture.

The Steve Zahn douche-face.

He's not a huge douche. More like a mid stage-2er. Enough to annoy. More than a 'bagling. But less than a full fledged scrote.

I love you, pouty brunette with the green fruffy drink and the pink pyramid. Please come sit at my table and tell me about how you're temping but you really want to be a makeup artist. I'll pretend to care and nod frequently.

There's only one excuse for Chloe Sevigny Hott to be lugging around this Magilla Scrotilla like a simian side purse. He's in the W.W.E.

I'll give a Get of Douche Jail Free card to any professional entertainers whose job it is to look ginormous. No official 'bag status for, say, Hulk Hogan. So if Magilla's a famous bulky performer who needs to go around shirtless, he gets a pass.

Otherwise, shirtless uber-douche. Stamped on his forehead. Preferably in pink. Or teal.

Oh Chloe. Your cleavite beckons me with the siren call of a thousand drunk bluejays. I don't know what that means. Boobies.

Okay, who let Little Kenny loose in the strip club again?

Is Little Kenny a 'bag? Probably not. More likely, the Farmer Ted of his class. Hope you won those floppy disks, Little Kenny.

And for you connoisseurs, that's four bottles of choice boobery, vintage 1988 bottling year. 19 Year old Boobie Bottles. Perfect.

Or at least it will be until they turn 30 and start yelling at me to get a job, stop fondling their shoes and lease them a car.

To keep with the mutant tongue theme but to knock that last pic one down on the douche-chain, here's an adorable hott on the left with the longest tongue I've seen on display since Katz's Deli.

Her little pink tongue is fairytale adorable.

I'd rub its soft velvet surface with my toes, then curl up in her gums and sleep lightly with sugarplum dreams. Then I'd fondle her boobs with primal grunting.

He is standard late 30s wanna-be douche. He emulates youthbaggery because he fears his own aging process. Which makes him actual douche.

Give it up, wannabe Youthbag, and get back to your cubicle at Lehman Brothers before the temp agency finds out.

This is.

Dipping one more time into the endless creative referencing well that is Lebowski, sometimes you eat the 'bag, and sometimes the 'bag eats you.

Ripped Jeans with patches. Post-Wham George Michael Cool since 1988.

Eastern Euro Cutie, your clothes confuse, but your boobies reassure. I would raise my checkered flag and wave you in.

PIC DELETED

A tatt-douche who calls himself "Reese's Pieces,"
Tried to rip off Eminem's Thesis,
He busted a move,
On hotties to prove,
That he wasn't a poo flinging rhesus.

This week's voting was no contest, it was a slam dunk for this classic pic of club spew wrongness.

The Bakers have everything. A gorgeous sexy mamita so polluted by Chin Lip Rat Fungus Smug Smirking Asswad With Too Many Tatts (CLRFSSAWTMT) douche that she may never stop saying "yo" again.

Kid Dynamite III makes the case:

I think this one's gonna be a landslide. Mr. Chin Lip is way too short with a goat hair 'stash to be that smug. Poor P10 Hottie. This picture will be his MySpace profile picture for the rest of the year if not longer. I've been staring at the pic for too long and now my head hurts thinking about how this happened.

Good call on the Myspace Calling Card, Kid D. No doubt CLRFSSAWTMT will proudly feature those huggable hips as proof of his sexual viability.

clementine of cappadoucha agrees, going Tolkein Medieval:

Just as Saruman bred the Urukhai in vats of festering rot, so too was the Easy-Bake Oven created. Some practitioner of foul arts spliced together The Leprechaun and Will Durst, stuffed him into a lame t-shirt, stuck Tumbellina's merkin on his chin and then set him free in the larger world. Despite his deformities, or perhaps because of them he manages to attract pseudo-hip-goth hotts to his side in a nauseating display of post-apocalyptic horror.

Beautiful smackdown, CoC. In fact, a number of 'bag hunters took to verbally slicing the Bakers with Hattori Hanzo sharpness.

mitch meats writes: For my money, the most gag/stroke-worthy is Easy Bake. He needs to be dragged behind a Buick through a cactus patch.

douchey-douchey-do writes: Easy Bake: such a confluence of inky doucheocity and Bleethed-out hott sets a new bar for aspiring Fred Durst wannabes.

Sir Douche-a-Lot The Third writes: But, oh, Bag #2, you restore my faith in the universe. And by faith in the universe, I of course mean hatred for all things organic. Your plethora of pastel tats makes me yearn for your drawing and quartering. But, OH, your Bleethe. That young mound of lovehappy makes me want to thank my dad for not monofrolicking that cool February night and instead defiling my mother.

Nicely done, people. Beautiful.

However, The Douche Hoagie had takers for the sandwich of wrong. 'bagavad gita makes the lunch meat:

Chinstrap-to-chinpube-to-liprivet on the right completes the toasted hoagie of choad. Scrotehawk: check. Painted nails: check. Dogtag bling: check. Backpack with Grey Goose and V8 Splash: check. Then I read the T-shirt--Cock Star Army. One visit to the website (www.cockstararmy.com) showed me all I needed to see. He is the complete douche, capable of vectoring Bleeth in all directions. Hott obviously is deeply infected.

Excellent catch on the "Cockstar Army" t-shirt, B.G. A new trend that will need watching.

And Oucheday Agbay makes a strong case for Wonderbag's purity of hott:

Leaning toward Wonderbag, if only because the other two HCs are so far gone and out in Doucheland beyond the point of no return. Whereas Wonderbag's HC hasn't yet fully fallen into the abyss (no lower-back tramp stamp tat, no hand gestures, etc). She's merely corruption-in-progress instead having already been corrupted, and that makes the pic even more frustrating to witness.

Very well put O.A. But female reader oh so bella sums it up:

I'm giving it to the Easy-Bake Oven. His chick has a nice body..and he makes my uterus want to implode upon itself.

Imploding uteruses with the power of douchitude. It doesn't get any better, and by better I mean wronger, than that.

Not sure they'll make it to the Monthly until after the 2007 Douchies in a few weeks, but raise up the Easy-Bake hott/choad. They are your Weekly winners.

Sure we can span the world for all manifestations of douche consciousness.

But sometimes it's nice, and by nice I mean turd, to kick back with the HCwDB classics.

Those garish criminal couplings of polluted hott and greasy tool. Those head-assploding servings of Original 'Bagsta.

They remind us what we fight for. A brave new world where Eurasia, Eastasia and Oceania all agree that douchebags suck, and 'Bag Brother is no more.

A reader snapped this pic in the Bulgarian city of Plovdiv.

I don't know whether to be frightened of the vampiric douchey overtones, or thrilled to see the latest James Bond villain henchman ready to throw down with evil menace.

Speaking of Bond, I've always thought that the greatest Bond casting choice would have been Elliott Gould circa 1973's Altman noir classic, The Long Goodbye.

A different direction for Bond?

Perhaps.

But there was no one more badass in the history of cinema than young Elliott Gould in that movie. He even took on a naked Schwartzenegger with sardonic wiseassery, fer chrissakes.

Don't get me wrong. Daniel Craig is an improvement over the male model douchery of Brosnan. But Gould would've beaten them all.

Hey Frank, how's it goin'?... Love the new forehead growth... well, yeah, I suppose it does look like a tumor. But it looks good on you. As does that chest shave. Very nicely done.

Me? Just shopping.

Lets see...

I'll take one extra large pup tent. Yeah, going survivalist this week. I'll take one of those full army fatigue jumpsuits that the chicks dig in Manhattan, sixteen gas masks, two flame throwers, the Ted Kaczynski "How to Live on Six Cliff Bars a Day" diet book, and four hotties to go.

Thanks, Frank. See you next week.

I can't get too worked up about everyday average Joe here. Sure he's got all the signs of uber-douche, from the low cut shirt, to the ancient Sanskrit prayer on his left shoulder. The combo mandana + hip-hop rosary + sideways peace sign.

Even the rare tri-chin-pubes formation.

But something tells me his name is Joe, he works at CostCo, and he's very helpful if you need to find a 1265 oz. bottle of dishwashing detergent.

And really. How can I diss on Joe at CostCo?

The hott, however, revs my motor like a test drive Vespa.

Two-tone aviator glasses and the spiky Mt. Rushmore hair on a douche-face are like that mutant gum stuck to the bottom of your 10th grade math class desk.

I'd fear touching his gooey substance while learning about trigonometry.

She is corn-fed Indianapolis perky cute.

That midwestern two drink minimum hott. Not too hot that you can't take her out for fear of a douche-scrum attacking while you're ordering a cocktail, but still cute enough to cash in them boobie chips like you won the California gold rush.

Is this two skate choads,
Is hott my fantasy,
caught in a 'bling slide,
no escape from douchosity.

Open your eyes,
Look up to dumb hats and see,

He's just a scrote boy,
He needs no bodyspray,
cuz it's cheesy face, cheesy clothes,
Two toady chumps with dumbass poses,
Any way the club goes, doesn't really matter... to her... to her...

(I'd keep going to the "Scadamouche" part but small boobied blondie has radioed my googoo.)

Sweet Pecan Pie, why cohabitate with a Dude Who Should be Paddled?

With cascading hair, a wonderful smile, and the curve of award winning cranberry sauce backside, I would like to partake of your sweet pecan pie.

And yet, alas, McSnot fondles.

It tasks The DB1 on a Monday after a long flight back from the east coast in which he now smells like dirty socks. I read that the hotties like the musky scent of unshaven sweat. Then again, I read it in Newsweek. Which is like trying to stay current by watching Lifetime. The cultural capital is stale, baybee. Very stale.

Brunette Vixen, you are lovely.

You have the playful tongue and high cheekbones of British aristocracy by way of mid 1980s Penthouse Forum letters to the editor. Your Annie Hall tie and Debbie Gibson earrings perfectly compliment your Sloane Peterson hair waves of amber grain.

I would read you Plato using energy saver lighting under tropical canopy, while massaging your toes with chicken fat.

And you brought an ambigiously Asian hottie sidekick to the party. How thoughtful. I will ravish her next after recovering my stamina by sipping Earl Gray tea and listening to Bad Brains's seminal I Against I album on my itunes.

For bringing a second woman into our common law marriage, I would buy you useless baubles until you tired of me and cheated on me with your aerobics instructor, Mustafa.

And Shirtless Turd, your plaintive cry echoes in a Godless universe. Your exposed nipple neuters cats. Your smug smirk tasks me. I turn to Brunette Vixen for comfort. But it only somewhat soothes the cracked fissure of your taint. Because you suck.

We have two weeks of pics to cull from for this week's contest thanks to last week's ginormous 4-pic monthly clash, with The Limey barely beating Batbag in a smackdown douche/hott spectacular.

Speaking of that Monthly, a stellar comments thread took place in that debate. If you missed it, check it out here.

As to me, I'm flying back from a weekend of turkey, gravy and making fun of nine year old orphans on the street by denying them their porridge. Because I'm sensitive like that.

Here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Douche Hoagie

What do you do when facing a sandwich with a hott filling so succulent, and two moldy pimento bread loves?

Do you take a bite?

Do you strip off the foul and try to feed it to the local pigeons, hoping for one of those ex-lax urban legend reactions you used to hear about in fifth grade?

These two choads have all the requisite bling, hand gestures, douche-faces, hat tilts and fauxhauks to be award winning 'bags.

And she is perfect, if inflated, tanned perfection. I would lick her used George Foreman grill after she made a roast and note that the Snozzberries tasted like Snozzberries. Who ever heard of a Snozzberry? We are the music makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Easy-Bake Oven


Every great hottie/douchey coupling, no matter how much they veer into surrealism, contains a basic gut punch of dude-duism.

Chin Lip Rat Fungus Smug Smirking Asswad With Too Many Tatts is that dude.

CLRFSSAWTMT has so polluted a Perfect Ten Hott, that she becomes lost.

Her boobs bekon.

But her hand warns us to stay away.

What to do?

That conundrum you feel, my friends, is what every great HCwDB pic offers. We stare into the douche-abyss. And we see ourselves.

And the DB1 pours another bowl of Lucky Charms. Because they're magically delicious.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Wonderbag and the Missing T


Our second bread related 'bag in the contest, Wonderbag's sullen "Blue Steel" look and Ten Degree Wonder Bread Yankee Cap Tilt both club arctic seals out of pure spite.

His "DJ" bling necklace, four layers of shirt and covert 'bag hand gesture all mock The Buddha's transcendence.

She is Gymnasium Hott, the kind on the college track team who dated that dude Chad that you always hated. Gym Hott once had a pseudo-deep conversation with you while drunk at a frat party only to forget your name the next day in Art History.

Or was that just me?

Their combo tasks the soul. It is wrong. But her hips are so, so very drinkable right. What to do? Why mock and lust, of course. Mock and lust.

So which of these three slices of doucheyness and hott rises to the top of the "wrong" pile?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

If there's one American comic strip of the past fifty years that should jump to mind when you think of douchebags, it's gotta be The Family Circus.

Now I know what you're thinking.

How could such a charming All American Family of heteronormative whiteness that perpetuates outdated gender stereotypes and patriarchy contain any signs of modern douchebaggery?

The answer is clear: Jeffy.

Jeffy is douchebag.

Oh sure, Billy seems the obvious choice. Billy's more aggressive with the ladies. Billy's got the comb-forward fauxhawk. But Billy is simply 'bag wannabe. 'Bagling if you will.

Example #1: Billy The 'Bagling


In the picture featured here, Billy's detailed global search to determine the name brand of his shirt suggests the Armani-Exchange club culture from whence all of modern 'baggery has sprung.

But Billy is simply searching.

He is an aspirant.

Note his father's blank Norman Rockwell stare. A stare that says, "There are no black people in my America."

His father is unthreatened. Because Billy is bland.

Blank.

As such, Billy hasn't touched true douchebaggery.

The douchebaggery of Jeffy.

Example #2: Hip-Hop Jeffy

This picture demonstrates the complexity of Jeffy's douchuous maturity, even at his early age.

Note Jeffy's in-your-face aggressiveness.

His macho preening.

Jeffy is hip-hop. Jeffy is gangsta. Jeffy is pounding the rhythmic tribal beat of the new douche review.

Jeffy isn't afraid to bang his proverbial bongo, even in the face of his cartoonist father's generic passive-aggressive reach.

Jeffy holds his sticks authoritatively. As if to say, "Step back, yo! Or I will shove this stick up your ass, old man."

But the key to Jeffy's douche is in the rebelliously stylish pants-suit roll up move.

He is Fly.

He is Fresh.

He is ready to party.

Example #3: Jeffy Macks the Hott

Here's the mark of a true 'bag in action.

Jeffy sees his mama-hott paying attention to someone else.

Unafraid, he interrupts and demands he been seen. Not only that, he makes the horribly crude double entendre about her open mouth.

He is busting classic aggressive douchal masculinity in the presence of a curvy hott.

Now I know what you're thinking: That's his mom, dude.

And yes, for the purposes of this example, it is.

But in the larger context of Jeffy's powerful douche maneuvers, it illuminates.

Note also Jeffy's clenched fist. He will not be denied the affections of the hott. Even if he has to interrupt and point to get it. A hallmark of any hyper-aggressive 'bag.

Example #4: Jeffy Tells Authority to Step-Off

In this final example, Jeffy interrupts his father's story about the merits of the Ku Klux Klan to inform his father that he sleeps with "purple dragons."

As any urban scholar knows, "purple dragons" is street slang for "Hispanic hookers."

With one aggressive sentence, Jeffy shatters his father's white suburban construct and announces he is rebelling.

Jeffy has no need for authority or boundaries.

He only needs slick leather pants.

And purple shoes.

It won't be long until Jeffy is fist pumping to Kanye remixes while grinding his package into a 17 year old from the Valley named "Sharon."

You go with your bad self, Jeffy.

Jeffy from the Family Circus. The True Douche of American Comics.


So to recap. Signs that Jeffy is douche:

1. Obsession with Lego bling
2. Pushyness and aggressive male posturing
3. A tendency to cry when confronted
4. Leather pants
5. Shaved patterns in his hair
6. Manipulating mom-hott to cop a feel
7. Psychologically destroying his sister Dolly through vicious innuendo until her low self-esteem sends her bulimia careening out of control
8. The weekend in Tijuana with that hooker and donkey
9. The fourteen bottles of Grey Goose hidden behind the fish tank
10. Vanilla Ice "Cooler Than Ice" limited edition pajama one-piece
11. Doing the Guido Dance for 3rd Grade show and tell
12. Extensive collection of vintage Matchbox muscle cars

Jeffy.

Total and complete douchebag.

Next week: Jughead.

PIC DELETED

Take a shirtless douche, press his face in a Gutenberg printing press, toss in a hand gesture and have him paw a sweet Suburban SUV Hott, and it's Friday Night Shots time.

She is sweet innocent pureness, bottled and served at room temperature.

He is a week old tea bag.

Together they make a couple of pure, 100% Columbian Wrong.

One of the deepest betrayals of primal douchitude involves the exposure of self-worship.

Like this turd. Starin' at the flex. Eroticizing his own bicep rather than the curves next to him.

Caught in this pixelated frozen digital moment, the Jerz exposes a core truth. Douchitude is about the worship of the self over the lust for the boobs.

Or else, it's Friday, and the DB1 ate too much turkey. Stupid tryptophan.

So, on this weekend after Thanksgiving, I return to the eternal question. Why hunt douchebags and the hotties that love them?

We hunt the 'bag because we hunt ourselves. We hunt the hott because we love boobies.

In their distorted image, in their ridiculous clownishness, we see the fun-house mirror reflection of our own vanities. Our societal insecurities. Our collective garish absurdities.

I mean look at this guy. His shirtlessness of the soul. His vacant "duuuude" stare. The slutt-hott on his arm. The Puma wristband. God just deducted two points from your score for that alone, bud.

In their swirling cocktail of foul cultural rot, in that psychoanalytic space between cutie and douche, we find beauty and truth.

Oh who am I kidding.

We like to mock choads because they suck monkey poo. Pass the damn turkey.

Middle fingers cry,
For hott thigh and worthy abs,
yet lost to huge ass.

Finger rage caused by
Total lack of fashion sense
Except for boobies

-- dion didouchie

Grey Goose is on shelf,
Lightning bolts and veins on jeans,
Someone help these two.

-- bill bellidouchechick

Magnificent rack!
Juicy and delectable!
Nice Thanksgiving hams

-- ed

I would love to eat
My Thanksgiving leftovers
Off the hott's belly

-- douche almighty

Flick-me-off-Fergie?
Little Playboy tan decal?
Blow it out your ass.

-- boatbutter

Happy Thanksgiving, from all the hottie/douchey couples of the world, to you. The reader.

Even Douche-Bert and Douche-Ernie want to say Happy Thanksgiving.

May your turkey be tender like The Rooster Wank, crowing on an early summer's morning.

Heyyyy 'bagger 'bagger 'bagger.... swing 'bagger!!

Three blondies were bored by the pool house.
When up popped a douche-head named Klaus.
'Mein frauleins!" he cried,
With Germanic aside,
'Mein tattoo says my hair's been deloused!"

In this glorious smackdown between classic douche and the absurd spectacle of a Euro-wreck, it was a race to the finish. But the sheer power of accessory, as well as the hott, helped The Limey to overpower The Batbag and take the comic book crown.

As swami 'bagavad gita medidates on The Lime:

When I first saw the Limey, I felt like Arjuna after Krisna revealed himself: glorious, yet terrified. He has bestowed upon us the visage of the ultimate choad: the 'Bagavan. "The Limey is Time; He is the Destroyer of Worlds." How could he not be DB of the month?

Indeed, Swami. Sir Douche-a-Lot the Third agrees:

Couple said extreme 'Baggerdom with such tightly snugged slugs that they resemble ole' Chin 'Bag's chin. Oh no. my mind is possessed with 'Bagger to the point that I no longer enjoy fresh cleavite without recurring images of God's mistakes.

That's the key to this pic. The cleavite. The glove. The chin pubes. The blank, vacant, lobotomized look of too many hours of basic cable and downloaded porn. It is douche-hell personified.

talayatu makes the case for a 'Bag Soda and Lime:

Limey's hott is superior, even with that awful frontal lobe hair bump thing guidettes often have nowadays. The shocker, the one glove, the bling, and especially the dang soul patch, but also the fact I don't want to look at Scrotington that often... it's gotta be Limey.

And burnsy agrees:

The Limey's racing stripe makes me want to eat a baby.

In an irrational world, the only rational choice is irrationality. Well said, burnsey.

However the Batbag fans had their KAPOWS to say about the lurid spectacle of superdouche in the age of mechanical reproduction. bernard mcshaughnessy lays the smackdown for the Batbag:

It is like someone took a lump of douche and molded it into a doughy douche-package, then s@#t on it, wiped his/her ass with a comic book, crammed the feces-smeared pages into the lump of douche, popped a silk shirt on it, threw it into a night club and then ran for the state line, ass on fire.

Yup. Pretty much sums it up. Beautiful smackdown B McS.

Long-time friend of the site and supreme 'bag hunter baron von douchehausen throws some spew Jack Scrotington's way:

I got to go with Jack on this one. When you are an aging 'bag with a receding hairline and you pay to have your scraggly dirty blonde locks braided up to look like an imported overpaid soccer player, well, you deserve a shot at the annual.

Well said, BvD. But it's the everpresent anonymous who makes perhaps the clearest case why The Limey deserves to win:

Of the four candidates the Limey contains both the girl I would most like to lick and the douche I would most like to see trash compacted.

And that's what we're all about here at HCwDB. On Turkey's Eve, we must remember to contemplate the hott as well as the choad. Like turkey with gravy. Or poo with flowers.

The Batbag, we'll see again. Oh yes. We'll see him again.

But today, the classic Hott/Scrote combo of The Limey is our Monthly Winner.

Is that a Fish Slap wannabe? Or the Slap himself out of costume?

Feral Hottie has the wild-eyed look of Weena, the primitive Eloi in H.G. Wells's The Time Machine. I would rescue her from the Morelocks, then teach her English in a condescending aristocratic way, while casually fondling her thighs and explaining that it's a "friendly custom."

Cuz I.... have become... comfortably pink...

doucheton writes in:

-----
Hey DB1,

A question that has been nagging me: You know the saying, "If you think you have an alcohol/drug problem, then you probably do."?

Well, I always laugh at your postings, but truthfully, deep down, I sometimes get an insecurity that others can think that I am a douchebag. Sometimes, DB1, I even worry to myself that I might be a douchebag.

Are these theories analogous? Should I be worried?

Thanks

Doucheton, Texas
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A quick rule of thumb is that those who laugh at The 'Bag Within are at least somewhat exempt from embodying The 'Bag Without, to borrow from my mystic training for a moment.

He that sees the douche, can be the douche only in physical form. But not spirit. For the festering spiritual rot of true douche requires opacity of mind's eye. The inability to witness the skeezal self.

Fear not. Your road to de-bagging may not yet be complete. But you are on the right path.

Two perfect balls of cornmeal "best friend of the girl you're chasing, but who'll make out with you at 2am" hott and a Gary Busey uberdouche.

Where's Shane Black to write me a tired, cynical cop who's close to retiring but suddenly realizes he has to kick one last douchebag in the nads?

Oh that's right. He's banging hotties in his house parties in the Hills.

Damn you, Shane Black.

Kick me some of that mid 1990s goldrush cash and invite me to the damn secret room.

We've seen classic 'bag sandwich formation many times on this site. When two 'bags crush a slice of hott in between them like a cuban pork sandwich with a slice of pickle. And a ton of mayo. Mmm... Cuban sandwiches.

But this is more like a Douche Hoagie. Rank, foul rolls of bread and a slice of delicious brunette chicken breast in between. Who's licking her lips at me. Because she wants me. And hey, she's got great taste in men, so I can understand.

Amazing career stats for Jeff 'Bagwell:

.343 Douching Average. 425 career hairspiked follicles (left handed). 16 career hairspiked follicles (right handed). 1,263 career uses of the word "broheim."

Young Princess Mononoke may not embody classic hottness tropes, but that's exactly the type of Long Island Choice that'll cook you dinner, give you a backrub, then dress up like Wonder Woman and spackle your toes with chocolate syrup and cool whip.

Her legs make Daoist Monks scream silently in protest of their chastity vows.

New, from Lipton!! Just add water and presto!! Tatted up stardouche, only .99 Cents at the Stop-n-Emo!!

Red's curvier than Mulholland Drive at 2am after too many cocktails. I'd ride slowly and cautiously over them at 20mph, stopping only to pass out behind the houses near her Laurel Canyons. That metaphor makes no sense, but I blame it on the boobies.

Remember those Easy-Bake Ovens that Hasbro made when you were a kid back in Kindergarten?

When you'd wander over to talk to Suzie during playtime, only to discover that while you still couldn't figure out how to tie your shoes and peed on yourself on the way to school, Little Suzie just baked a mini-cookie?

I bring up this story because after Little Suzie left, I tried to bake something in that Easy-Bake oven. A mash-up involving cake mix, Uno cards and Legos.

It came out smelling like charred lizard flesh.

Like this couple here.

Bury it out back. In the garden.

In a white casket lined with red silk.

Here we are. The HCwDB of the Month.

Who will join last month's winner, The 'Bag Islander? That, fellow 'bag hunters, is up to you.

But before we get to this 4-Choad/Hott Clash in the last Monthly before the annual Douchey Awards, I've made a couple of executive decisions:

1. The Stereodouchtonic Twins are in the Hall. They're just too ridiculous not to be.
2. Ricky will not get his own space in the left-hand column. But for embodying the glorious Everybag, Ricky will be receiving a Douchie Award in December's annual Douchies. So Ricky fans can boogie to his award winning averageness forever.

On to the finalists:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Douche or Dali?

Ah yes.

The surreal masterpiece of abstract grease-art.

The neo-pointilist post George Seurat mish-mash of abstract douche by way of a pop culture Warholian lens.

It's almost mean to subject you to this pic so early on a Monday.

But contenders, this picture is.

One classic 'bag sandwich, to go. With extra silicone.

And a choke necklace on a shirtless choad. What more could you want? Aside from a lobotomy to forget this monstrosity is even real.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Batbag

As acclaimed novelist Michael Chabon explored in his 2000 novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, the first American superheroes were drawn by the immigrant children of greased up Eurodouches.

Batbag here is not simply superhero.

He is also metaphor for the deep-rooted cultural negotiations at work in mass art. The everyday pop artifacts that expose the threads of cultural influence. The "low culture" items explored by all historical materialists. And by "low culture," I mean greasy tatted eurodouche.

And lets not forget Bobbin', his scrotey sidekick. And the MILF Cute.

Yup. That's a quality pic. Forgot how much I missed the Batbag.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Jack Scrotington

A deceptively douchey pic when it first arrived, it took awhile for Jack Scrotington's skeletal cornrows to catch on.

Jack is like a W.W.E. 'Bag. The Stone Cold Steve Gator stare.

A couple of Ring Girl Hotts on either side. Pink Pout on the left is deceptively cute, with highly suckable neck.

And don't forget Scrotington's creepy, obsessed #1 Fan, Ted.

Get out of the picture, Ted.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Limey

A perfect balance between a sexy Miami Beach hooha and a pouty one-gloved uberdouche.

As with any great HCwDB pic, the balance between the polarities is strong with this one.

And hey.

Pink lipstick.

Which looks good on her, too.

Special props for the combo one-glove-Shocker move. Where's Bruce Campbell to lift up a shotgun and blow that hand away?

Even now we have your darling Linda's soul... as she suffers in torment!!

Sorry. Had a quick Evil Dead II moment.

God damn. I don't envy you your task. These are four worthy hottie/douchey pics. But only one can win. Only one couple can emerge from the Octagon of Douche triumphant. Which will it be?

In this, the week of Turkey, which is your pic of carved choice?

Think long. Think hard. Think another euphemism that could be either sexual or sports related. Vote, as always, in the comments section.

Et tu, Steve Urkel?