I have three, and only three words to summarize this pic.

"Toxic." "Gross." and "potpourri."

Why "potpourri"? Precisely because of its randomness. Because the limitations of language to adequately convey this atrocity of humanity requires a dose of illogic. Thus, potpourri.

In an unrelated story, a hearty Douche of the Month to Barstoolsports.com for grabbing a bunch of my pics without a link or credit. Even worse, it resulted in dozens of people sending me the link suggesting I should use those pics on my site, refracting the simulation of the simulation back to its orginary source. Cue Baudrillard reference. Suck it, Barstoolers.

PIC DELETED

Unbuttoned cheesy silk shirt, no doubt, but is it enough to qualify for douche status?

I put it to you.

'Bag? Not a 'bag?

Not a 'bag. 'Bag-like yes. Maybe some kind of psuedo-quasi-'bag. -- massengill

Are you kidding? This is definitely a bag. He is of the same ilk of Joey Porshe. There is a bottle of GOOSE lurking off to the side of the picture somewhere, guaranteed. Not to mention the fake tan, open shirt and upturned, pink, french cuffs. -- anonymous

Open shirt + shaved chest + bagsneer = BAG. -- billy

I don't know if he's a bag or just some dude with drunken skanks, but, I wish one of these broads would poop on his chest -- creature

Oh Come On, Already!!! Mark o' the Bag on Forehead? Check Cactus Dome? Check Unbuttoned Shirt? Check MAJOR Douche Face? Check Providing Alcohol and Cigarettes to Minors? Check Statutory Rape in Progress? Check F@#ING 'BAG. --- scroter the unstoppable douche machine

Looks like Logan made it out of Sanctuary, and over to the bathroom area. Where he located Logan 6, and a Yellow Hott.

Nice work, Logans. Excellent horns gestures and douche-faces. 

You know prom night is off the hook when it's time to start busting the "flea cone."

You get down with your bad self, Kevin!!

Quick, someone check if the roof is on fire.

Oh sweet Simone, you are the hott from my freshman year philosophy class mixed with a sexy dash of Vivica A. Fox in Independence Day. You would tempt a trumpet playing Denzel by wearing a bright red dress. You are delightful.

And yet you cohabitate with a greasy ball of Vegas motorcycle oil, beaded up and ready for action. A dude whose forehead veins are about to explode with geyser-like oil while an overacting Daniel Day Lewis enunciates loudly.

Leave him Simone. You will not miss his beads. I promise.

One of the lesser known superheroes in the Halls of Justice was Waterman.

He didn't have any actual superpowers. He pretty much just hung out with Batman during breaks and brought him bottles of water. Sort of the leader of Batman's entourage.

The other superheroes used to make fun of Waterman. But he never gave up.

At night Waterman would go out dressed up as a douche and try to use his Superhero connections to get a table at Les Deux.

It didn't work.

It's hard to get too worked up over another mandana/tatt generic. Even if his shirt does spell out the Hebrew word for "Gefilte Fish."

I posted this pic because the little leopard froggie model type with the skinny arm honks my hooter. She fries my petunas. She somethings my bad metaphor.

Blondie's not bad in that cheerleader-gone-bad sort of way. But Leopard Froggie is delicious.

Well it seems our robotic douche Mr. Rebokto couldn't handle the pressure of winning the Weekly, as expressed so eloquently in the following email:

Hey my name is Andrew (Mr. Rebokto). Can you take my picture off of your stupid website.

Indeed I can, Android Hair. And so we must pass the crown to the first runnerup, The Boobermensch.

Which is really like addition by subtraction. Sure we've gone from three boobs down to two. But at least one is succulent. The other has facial pubes.

If Pinhead from the Hellraiser franchise can become a sex symbol in Japan, then surely The Pincushion can become a sleep aid in Paraguay.

I have no idea what that means.

I need more coffee.

And by coffee I mean large, wholesome, plump and juicy watermellon jolly rancher baby pump boobie boobs.

Goldilocks went riding through the club,
Where she ran into a douched out wolf-like schlub,
"Do you like my hat?" he asked.
"It drains spaghetti." she tasked.
And then erased his chin strip with a nub.

PIC DELETED

A tight vote heavy on the boobies, but Mr. Rebokto's android douchebaggery pulled ahead and took the crown in this week's Weekly.

Sure the Paid To Post factor is high with this one. And by high, I mean hair spike.

But there's no getting around that smug Rebokto expression, that hair from the river styx, and boobies.

Bagness of God makes the case:

I'm going to vote for Mr. Rebotko. For starters, those Elvis-wannabe sunglasses are making me leak oily discharge...or was that from eating an entire bag of Wow! chips? Damn you, Olestra!!

But more importantly, if you are that close to boobtopia and are too worried about looking like a hard-ass to smile, you deserve a hot bacon-grease enema followed by a full-body rubdown with a belt sander.

Well put, B of G. Stuporfly agrees, bringing the NKOTB references:

In honor of the rumored New Kids on the Block reuinon, my vote goes to Mr. Rebokto. It's like a pair of 1989 North Jersey hotties fed pictures of all five members of NKOTB into a computer, 'Weird Science'-style and came up with this douche composite.

Hangin' tough, indeed!

Exactly, S.F. The NKOTB template was part of the 1989/1990 Grieco axis that introduced modern douchebaggery to the masses. But more about that in my book.

But the perfect singularity of The Boobermensch and her hipster toad also found support. RickyIglesiasBanderas makes the case:

So, after self-divisive internal debate, I have to go with #2. He looks like Antonio Banderas' and Enrique Iglesias' love-child.

That Latin-style uber-douche that dances to "I Can Be Your Hero Baby" and "Livin' La Vida Loca" with some salsa-flamenco-tango moves in a bar in Boston... And his girl looks like she just got off the Carnivale bus from Rio. These two definitely light up the dance floor at your local sports bar every time Santana comes on during a commercial break. They look like Montezuma's Revenge to me...

Fantastic smackdown, love child. We all know those couples, and they make me itch like crotch rash. Not that I've ever had crotch rash. Except that one time. With Rebokto's mom.

eradicatoor keys in on the healthy mamms when casting in with Frosted Flake:

I've got to go with F Flake's hott. She is first year high school guidance counselor hot. She's helping me choose between Spanish 100, and Home-ec. I'm busy fiddling with my pen, and making brief eye-contact to throw her off my scent of boob staring.

Mmm. First Year Guidance Counselor Hott. I remember them well. Baron Von Goolo agrees:

While Mr. Rebokto's arm candy is tire fire hot and Der Booberfrau is, well, nekkid, I'm voting for Frosted Flake and Angelina Alba. The way her breasteses are straining against that shirt like two puppies in a pet shop window just melts my coal black heart. Because like those puppies, if I brought them home my fair Baroness would beat me like a muleskin drum.

Yes but who wouldn't risk a beating for those puppies? Alas, it is Rekotko's week to shine his forehead. Masengill makes the case for Rebokto to take the douche cyborg crown:

Rebokto is douche v2.0. He is a desert guido cyborg with requisite douche cacti sprouting from his greasy fivehead. The playmate in training is sprouting the two most perfect of perfects and she is looking right at me

And Dunkterdouche agrees, bringing my favorite reference, the Lane Meyers:

There is no contest. None of the contenders make me want to smack them with an aquatic life form more than Mr Rebokto. Even if the girl is PTP, he has that look on his face that invites my fist like Lane Meyers invites chinese immigrants to race him.

Rebokto it is, but the PTP debate will carry on. But for now, lets raise this chest fruit and cyborg wrongness to the rafters and book them a ticket in the Monthly.

Ingredients:

One ridiculously over-developed ab section
Pointy pencil sharpened hair point
Thin chin pube landing strip
Requisite white belt
Oiled up douche-face
One dash of lime-green shirt
Hint of lower abdomen tribal tatt

Mix, stir, bake and tan for 1 week.

Add girls and shake repeatedly until the gurgling hellfires of cultural chaos emerge through the simulacrum stripped and devoid of all inherent meaning and structure.

Mock and laugh at repeatedly until cured.

TH writes in with the following airport capture pic:

----
I saw this at the airport last Friday.

Had to snap a pic.

- TH
----

Nicely captured TH, although the story of the capture could've been told with a bit more flare. Instead of Brechtian simplicity, perhaps could've used a bit more, how you say, adjectives.

But Summer Hamptons Toad is a worthy stage-2 capture. And Trina the Danish Au Pair appears to have a nice dash of Euro-Hott, although perhaps a few too many danishes down below. So good on you for the 'bag tag, TH.

Good work.

Somewhere, deep in the heart of Romania, the shirtmaker weeps.

For he, like his father and grandfather before him, is a maker of shirts. A master craftsman. A skilled tailor, an artist with needle and thread.

Alas, the douche plague has taken his spirit and cast his soul into the nethers of a swirling blight of Tag Bodyshots and cheezed out tribal tatts.

For the shirtmaker knows that his artistry, his skill, all his family talent, will be lost forever.

Because shirtless tools in cargo shorts with metallic arm bracelets and Marisa Tomei Hotts on their arms no longer feel the need for his product.

And so the lonely shirtmaker in rural Romania weeps. He stares dispirited at his threads, his collars, his materials. Not even a fake "Armani/Exchange" logo can save his trade from ruin.

So he reads his Tolstoy by candlelight, sips his port wine, and cries out for the lost shirts of a shirtless culture. And then he mocks their freedom trails.

There's a number of questions that jump to mind when gazing at yet another shirtless bug rubbing up on a dominatrix hott.

Why, shirtless in the livingroom? Can anyone explain it?

Is shirtlessness the 2008 pink popped collar of go-to douche maneuvers? And if so, can somebody knock me in the head with a checkered Vans sneaker?

But most importantly, who is that porcelain figure holding hands with Micky Mouse on the fireplace? Mark Twain? Jeff Goldblum? Kurt Loder?

I'm so confused. And it's only Tuesday.

I'm inclined to give pre-Spiderman Mini Tobey Maguire a nottadouche pass.

Sure he's got the 10 Degree Hat Tilt and stoned, quizzical "duude" thing going on. Sure he's fondling that Southern Comfort with the sexually repressed rage/confusion of a Christian Coalition preacher.

But he's managed to finagle Ali Landry Hott into hanging in his dirty kitchen with the faux brick patterns despite being a shrunken version of Spiderman. And she brought Michella, her blonde friend from the temp agency.

So mini Maguire, you're okay by me.

Sharona, you've chosen poorly.

Now get the hell out of that retro-future 1970s sci-fi nightmare set and get to Sanctuary before Logan Five finds out you're dating a Sandman.

Dreadlock #1: Yo man, I gots a fine busty Coors Light Blondie next to me who I thinks is naked!

Dreadlock #2: That's nothin' bro! I gots a fine brunette half-Indian hottie on my side!

Dreadlock #1: Yeah homes, she's pretty sweet. But mine is sweeter, yo.

Dreadlock #2: Get outta town! Yours might gots the bigger boobs, homes. But mine's got sexy Comanche hips!

Dreadlock #1: True dat. But yo, neither of us get to go home with 'em.

Dreadlock #2: Why's that?

Dreadlock #1: Look at what we're attached to. #81's got no game. And besides, these girls are P.T.P. Paid to Pose.

Dreadlock #2: Not only that, but we're weedy strings of hair that smell like patchouli.

Dreadlock #1: No kidding. I wish Enrico would wash us one of these days.

Dreadlock #2: You said it, bro.

I believe it was the great American novelist Herman Melville who first described the link between the basic primal hunt for oil that drives human conquest of nature, and the destruction it causes:

Not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of man's blood was spilled for it.

Human douche grease functions much in the same way.

It is produced not simply by the scrote fish that patrol the deepest recesses of clubland. It is not simply the byproduct of plankton, seawater and Axe Bodyspray. Douche oil emerges from the skin of Flipper McChoad as part of a complex economic exchange system in a larger ecosystem.

The lace hotts gather to the grease flame like 19th century whale fishermen. Dazzled by the economic and culture impact it signifies.

Now if only we had a harpoon gun, I could end this strained metaphor.

Is it me, or is this guy the white Bill Duke? You know, the guy from Commando that Schwarzenegger impales on a chair leg.

Purple Hott's got the squat, powerful thighs of a frontier's woman. The kind that can rock your world all night, then get up and build a yurt before breakfast.

This week's selections of hott/choad wrongness taste like flat Mr. Pibb filtered through a lace stocking and transformed into a Hott Toddy.

Part boobcoholic. Part turdscendant. Yep. The DB1 is off his meds and referring to himself in the third person. So shoot me. I spent the weekend chasing Hollywood Hotts through Jackie Treehorn's party until a cop arrested me and told me to stay out of Malibu. At least I think that was me.

But, lest I continue grunting and blinking like a paralyzed French editor of Elle Magazine, here's your finalists:

PIC DELETED

There's been much discussion of whether to discount the PTP (Paid to Pose) Hotts when considering the merits of a hottie/douchey pic's worth.

I haven't made an official ruling. I'm inclined to agree that PTPers downgrade the wrongness factor a full two f-stops. Which loses crucial details on a slow speed Kodak grease moment.

Then again, when a choad's robotic jaw, shiny head and hair that resembles dystopian hellfire from a late enlightenment oil painting congregate next to two gazumbas of mellonic juicyfruit perfection, there's trouble in them there tribbles.

Megods, that last sentence just made English teachers across the nation do a Jerry Lewis spit take.

I blame my public school education.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Boobermensch


Wednesday's Haiku offers us a boob of superior philosophical perfection.

What Nietzsche describes as the "Boobermensch."

The perfect post-moral state of boobal perfection.

Then there's MTV Trip Hop Tree Hugga 'Bag.

He's not the worst we've ever featured. Almost one of the cool stoner dudes from the quad you'd hang with during 11th grade lunch. But the tri-vag chin pubes just punched an Asian orphan named Wong Fei-Hung in the ballsack.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Frosted Flake

With a Hott Toddy of boobcoholic hott, and a run-of-the-mill choad, The Frosted Flake actually offers a pic that's more than the sum of it's parts.

Something about this couple just cries out for intervention.

And, at its core, that's what every great HCwDB pic offers.

The desire for all of us to collectively separate them for the good of humanity.

But really, what it comes down to is boobies. Boobies I'd suckle, grope and fondle like a panda jacked on Red Bull. Boobies I'd take plaster of paris impressions of, and then make bagel and creamcheese paperweights.

So which of the three is our weekly winner? That's up to you.

To celebrate the official entry of quartasian into the Urban Dictionary (next stop, Websters), cast your vote for one of these three HCwDB couples.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

We've seen greased up orangebags. But pinkbaggery?

Neil Patrick Hairless needs to be hosed down by firemen then tossed into the Hudson wrapped in a carpet before Kendra, the sweet, plumpy sister of your best friend, gets polluted.

Random thoughts on a Saturday as I contemplate the tard factor of teeth grillz:

John Mayer, rocker, poet, soulful guitar player of complexity and depth, has stopped blogging. Apparently crappy writing defending Jessica Simpson's breasts worked against the careful "deep thinker" construction of his record label persona.

The Ghost of Stevie Ray Vaughn laughs at your sorriness, Mayerbag.

Lifetime HCwDB Emeritus, The Gator, along with his giant scarf, has released a five minute video so filled with ridiculousness, I couldn't post it without a NSFH warning (Not Safe for Humanity). There are no words to describe this uberdouchebaggery, and the entire country of England shares in this shame. To wit:

"Do you want the Lamborghini? You're going to get the Lamborghini!"

"Every man has two arms and two legs. It's the person that wants it more who'll get it."

"I'm not going to punch you in the face."

And you thought the Gator achieved epic douchebaggery simply in picture form. Keep an eye on the hidden Grey Gooses at the 3:30 mark.

And finally, I really really like Chips Ahoy cookies. They're tasty.

EDIT: For those in the comments threads slowly hypnotized by The Gator's pull, I'd remind you that his background image on his laptop is a picture of his own abs. 'Nuff said.

Holy sweet mutton chops, when did shirtless douchebaggery become this rampant? We're talking 60% shirtless dudes.

That's gotta violate at least one of the Geneva Conventions.

Someone please rescue Candice and Beatrice before their sorority sisters find out they're slumming it over at Kappa Assa Douchebag.

And yes, I see you, Oscar De La Heya in the back. Put down them pop guns before you shoot your eye out.

It's Friday.

Even Zebra Pants knows it's time to start drinkin'.

Nothing beats passing silent film icon Rudolph Valentino through a 21st Century hip-hop lens, then tossing the remains through the refracted amplification of name brand simulacra until it deconstructs into a gray, hooded and overpriced turd.

There it is, coming out the other end of the hundred year pop-culture digestive tract, chewed, digested and repackaged.

Gangsta Valentinobag.

But I forgive.

Because both of the Hott Brunette's shoulders are politely asking me to nibble on them.

And who am I to refuse a request for shoulder nibble? In pygmy culture, refusing the shoulder nibble would be met with ritual castration by the village elder.

A douche cactus (plural douche cacti, scrote cactuses or poo cactus) is any member of the succulent plant family Cacataceae, native to the Americas, Europe and most of Orange County. They are often used as ornamental plants, but some are also crop plants.

Douche Cacti are distinctive and unusual plants, which are adapted to extremely arid and hot environments, showing a wide range of anatomical and physiological features which conserve hair gel and scrote with impunity.

Their hair has expanded into succulent structures containing the chlorophyll necessary for life and douchery, while the follicles have become the spines for which douche cacti are so well known.

Douche Cactus flowers are large, and like the spines and branches arise from bling and sweatbands. Many cactus species are night blooming, as they are pollinated by nocturnal insects or small animals, principally moths, bats and STDs.

Cacti's sizes range from small and round to pole-like, tall and smells-like-poo.

Veronica writes in with a 'bag capture story:

----
I was working for a magazine and this was one of the interns there. I was wasted and the guy from pub district asked to take my picture and he had to be in it too lol.

The funniest part of this story I guess is this is at an Ed Hardy party in San Diego and there are like a bunch of models and s@#t there, so in order for him to feel more cool he borrowed his friends beemer to drive there and the entire time kept dragging girls outside to show off a car that wasn't even his.

I think his name is xavier I don't remember though... lol (just proves what a great impression he made right?)

I'll have to dig through my pics and find some but ya thought I had to donate something to such a good cause! :)

-- Veronica
-----

Excellent work, V, the sleaze factor on this guys' face is worth the price of admission right there. But what's with your hand on his upper thigh?

Never encourage the douche. Never.

It's like house-training a dog. Swat him with a newspaper on the nose, then feed him Alpo.

Asian droog hottie
Dates kung pow beef with cashew,
He's an Easy Ride.

See the pasty choad
fondle gift of dong-taper:
Ben-Wa anal beads

-- darksock

Noxious scrote odor
prompts look of abject disgust
from queen of pleather

-- bagwagger

All work and no play
makes Nicholson wannabe
a greasy douchebag

-- d. baggins

He ponders a move,
An American Reject.
"I'm big in Japan."

-- clementine of cappadoucha

headline reads like this
"Tila Tequila picks Douche"
that is a real shame

-- sir lanceadouche

Tia Carrera
You've really let yourself go
No more schwing for you

-- bcs

two caterpillars
rest on his sleazy forehead
and eat eye shadow.

-- pfah

PIC DELETED
----
DB1,

I recently finished reading 'The World Without Us,' a narrative of how the earth could react if all humans disappeared.

Animals would still exist, begging the question, what unexpected creature would then best (or worst) evolve back to homo sapiens douchebagus?

your pal,

jacques doucheau
----

In anticipating a post-human evolutionary scenario in which a new form of homo douchebagus would emerge, you have to take a number of factors into account.

Which post-human global climate would most allow animals to begin preening, gelling up their scales/hair/feathers, and macking on the animal hotts?

I sent your question along to Doctor David Tennant at The Research Institute for Animal Douchery. Tennant determined that mating habits of the Kimono Dragon, Australian Douche Dingo and the Ab lobster off the coast of Maine are the three most likely areas for producing a dominant strain of animal douchery in a post-human evolutionary landscape.

But don't count out the tree frog.

Those are some douchey-ass tree frogs.

Sometimes Baby Huey needs changing on the dance floor.

And yes, that may be the same hott whose lost breasts inspired a thousand poets to switch to decaf a few weeks ago. Submitter assures me this pic is by a different photographer and therefore a-okay.

For all of our sakes, but most importantly for healthy pale boobie's sake, lets hope so.

The early stages of Grieco Infection in a hott, or what we call The Bleeth, can be observed in two distinct forms.

On our left of Rocky Dennis 'Bag is a stage-1 Bleeth. Still pure and unpolluted. A sweet smile and perfect humpable lickable lollipop body.

On our right of Sneery McBugglasses is a stage-2 Bleeth. Large sunglass growth, but still no hand gestures or annoying bling. A perfect tiny Phoebe Cates mouth. And the potential Quartasian factor is a huge plus.

The difference is subtle, but important to note.

When attempting to save a hott from douche virus infection, stage 1 and stage 2 Bleeths are still very much rescuable, so both of these girls qualify. It's the stage-3/4 toxics that are much larger challenges.

And Spiky McClevershirt's belt buckle sucks.

Sippin' on vodka and tonic.... laiiddd back... with his mind on his stock portfolio, and his stock portfolio on his mind...

Sometimes you need to tell your girl you love her.

By giving her multicolored straws.

Tony the Frosted Tips isn't major 'bag. But the low cut shirt and the outrageously perfect hott on his arm are enough to mock his ass repeatedly in spite of the average douche status.

It is my dream that the affable homies in the background will take one look at that frosted hair and trashcan his ass in the alleyway.

She, however, is Alba Hott by way of an Ukrainian orphanage.

I would hunt down influenza infected Caribou dressed as a space monkey just for the chance to play Gershwin tunes on a kuzoo outside her grandmother's nursing home.

She plays racquetball dressed only in Victoria's Secret.

And she does not sweat.

I, the reader of Hot Chicks with Douchebags, would like to smack this tool with:

A. A sock filled with camel poo
B. Donald Trump's toupee dipped in soy sauce
C. A copy of the lost Eddie Murphy autobiography, From 'The Next Richard Pryor' to Norbit: How I set African-American Culture Back 50 Years with One Movie
D. A stern verbal lashing that makes extensive use of the words "douchuous," "scrotorious," and "Seacrest." Followed by a Jean Claude Van Damme roundhouse to the face.
E. A massive class action lawsuit on behalf of culture, civilization, and shirt buttons everywhere.

There once was a stringbean with douche lips,
Who shaved his chin pubes into strips,
He hid his girl's bras,
While saying to himself, "Bra...
her boobs will finally show off them nips."

Hence, like a douchebag.

You probably could tell I tipped my hand yesterday when I posted Playah #2, that this was Wally's week to shine. And by shine, I mean forehead.

The ever present anonymous makes the case for the Wally Playah Experience:

Wally's hott, on the other hand, has the down home Midwestern look of a gal who's just dusted off her boobies after a long hard winter, unpacked her stilletos and is planning on the first rental limo sex of the new year.

Combine this with Playa's two-toned sneakers, greased ballsack forehead/chest double-whammy shine, and a look that makes me want to shove him into a garbage can and kick him into oncoming traffic... and we have a weener. I mean winner.

Well put, anon, and the garbage can shoving perfectly sums up the genetic reflex upon witnessing this wrongness.

dr makes another good point, focusing in on the "single button theory:"

The detail that puts him over the high bar of doucheatude is the single button done on his jacket. I imagine that he was previously unbuttoned there, to highlight his hairless and douchetastic chest. Buttoning up for the photog makes him even more horrible.

The button is the key, well observed, dr. Accomplished 'bag hunter batou lays the smackdown even further:

Wally reminds me of vomit. A big festering pile of puke laying in a port-a-pot just after a 3-day outdoor music festival. Anyone who wears a blazer sans-anything underneath it should be executed by firing squad, no questions asked. I'd love to be the first to give him a swirly in the above nasty-pot just for "being himself". Which is poo.

Well done, batou. When one of the regulars goes to the vomit metaphor, you know the douche factor is high.

Poor Zero didn't find much attention, but longtime 'bag hunter Amerigo Vesdouchey decided to lay into his college age lameness:

I'm voting for the Zero. He might not be the biggest 'bag, but he represents probably the most commonly sighted 'bag in the wild.

Plus, and, more importantly, his corruption of that previously untainted Peach is a saddening catastrophe. So that's one for the zero. He can go to hell.

Agreeing for the Zero, no country for old douchebags brings the pain:

Zero is the winner.Just the sight of him hanging out with that angel of sunshine is just inherently wrong. It's like killing a mocking bird with a chainsaw on Oprah while singing Michael Bolton songs.You don't do it.

And longtime reader first time caller lyndon ladouche concurs:

My vote is for the Zero. She is so milky smooth, a dove with Bambi eyes, and he is coagulated diarrhea.

Indeed, L.laD. And with the Rehabber's getting barely any love, it was Wally's week to sheen. ferro94-dread pirate cash brings the Fast Times and Ridgemont for the final smackdown:

White sneaks.

No shirt.

Total douche.

So in honor of the late Heath Ledger, whose work as the Joker looks great, I dedicate this week of Wally Playah mocking.

Wally, we salute your innovative douchography, and we'll see you in the Monthly.

I can't tell which one of Roger Douchetry's songs I like the best, Won't Get Douched Again, Baga O'Reilly or Boris the Scroter.

But I do know that I would make love time long time with each of these groupies with the swingin' London 1960s sexual power of a young Michael York.

Yeah, baybee!! They are tasty.

Wally Playah reminds you to vote in the HCwDB of the Week contest by scrolling down (if you haven't already).

By sticking out the sickly tongue.

And starring in the new internet viral video, "Two Straws, One Cup."

oooo oooo eeee oooo... Everybody's Beach 'Baggin'!!

Grab a Gidget, slap on that mandana, grow the chin fung, make the douche-face and twist the night away!! Cuz you'll have fun, fun, fun, 'til your daddy takes the bodyspray away...

Not since the skeet surfing craze of the mid 1980s has a beach craze swept the nation like Beach 'Baggin'.

So get on board, kid!! Long sleeve shirts and pants at the beach look grrreat!!

When I was about nine of ten, my friend Andy and I lit off a firecracker next to a small tree that was covered with ants. It was a big firecracker we'd bought on the 5th grade black market. Bigger than we'd ever lit before. We lit the fuse, then ran for cover.

After the firecracker exploded, we ran back to see what happened. The tree was fine, but the ants had all been blown into a brown mushy paste.

We laughed.

The end.

So maybe that story from my childhood wasn't bathed in nostalgic Neil Simon glow. But it does sum up this pic.

Post firecracker exploded ants brown mushy paste.

Also the name of my favorite punk band from 1993.

PIC DELETED

My eyebrows just spontaneously combusted into two small flames of hellfire.

The wrongness of Mr. Rebokto's android mug being embraced by young Jenny McCarthy Hott sets palm trees aflame with societal injustice.

Yes, it's likely a promo event. And yes, she's likely PTP (paid to pose).

But I would suckle those rib fruits like a three month old Lemur infant starving due to Madagascar summer drought.

I would nurse my Lemur self back to health, and then crawl between her perfect pink hind-loaves and dream of sugarplums while gnawing on her upper thigh.

Fruffy drink in one hand, uberhott in the other. Gelled up quisinart head is pretty rank, but no overly douchey hand gestures or kissy lips.

I need a ruling.

Is James Spader Ice a 'bag? Or not a 'bag?

Peace signs.

From social protest to douched up "gang sign" made by glassy eyed Joe DiMaggio club trolls in hats three sizes too large for their heads.

How far we've come.

Skinny Brown Hott has that cute chimpmunk overbite that always makes my happy pants do the turtle dance. Yes, she's flipping me off, but if I put on my alchy goggles, I can translate that as either "I want you," or "Is it safe?"

Ladies, when you feel something rubbing up behind you in a club, you should:

A. Giggle and blush
B. Call security
C. Politely ask the popped collar turd to remove his genitalia from your buttocks area
D. Swing your elbow into his face and call him a douche.

Adnan Ghalib, man-whore to broken down former pop stars, technically doesn't qualify for this site since he doesn't actually cohabitate with hottness.

But looking at this pic of scrotal antimatter in action, there was no way I could ignore him any longer.

For prancing about town with every signifier of cutting edge 2008 Douchery -- from the landing strip chin pudes to the multiple rosary bead Jesus Bling -- Adnan gets a well deserved 2008 Honorary Douchebag of the Month.

While it's true he's not penning pseudo-emo articles defending his douchery and making false claims to a deeper complexity, (::hack hack: ::John Mayer:: ::cough hack::), Adnan's spectacle deserves note.

If we analogize The Lohan, The Simpson and The Spears as former supernovas of hott now burned out into husks of red dwarf detritus floating in the celebu-sky, then turds like Adnan Ghalib are the douche moons in orbit within their dying, decaying universes. Former solar systems of spectacular gravitational pull, now reduced to pop culture entropic burnout. Previously white hott burning streaks of light now pulsing in spectral fade like priasmic color swirl. Dimly flickering fadeouts in a distant corner of a rapidly realigning constellation tabloid sky shift.

As one of the many satellites of douchery orbiting the broken down psychological trainwrecks of early 2000s former celebuhotts like Britney Spears, Adnan Ghalib deserves the Federline Award.

Even Stephen Hawking would type out "douchebag" in a staccato electronic voice synthesizer to explain the physics at work in this abomination of humanity.

Suck it, Adnan. Have an Honorary HCwDB of the Month, and enjoy the last few moments of refracted glory within the dim, flickering flameout reentries of the 2003 Class of Hott. The landing will be hard, cold, and in a forest somewhere in the midwest.

And while you're mulling your vote in the Weekly, I've carefully hidden a Giraffe Necked Waldouche somewhere within this uneven lineup of hotts.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Hint for difficulty: He's wearing a white collar and had chin graft surgery.

I'm feeling giddy today. Not sure why.

Yes, the 'bags are still out there, performing tricks for fish like trained dancing bling seals preening on the diving board swimming pool aquarium show of life. And if that's a crappy metaphor, I blame the frosted flakes.

Stupid frosted flakes. Influencing my run-on sentences with their tasty sugar high.

But I feel giddy. Because within the 'bag/hott dialectic, we find truth. Beauty. Honesty. And poo. But before I ramble any more, lets get to the goods. Here's your Weekly finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Zero
PIC DELETED

Grin it up, Zero.

You are a popped collar of pud.

The truly potent and effective HCwDB pic must involve serious hottie pollution taking place. The Zero has every bit of post-collegiate fratbag entitlement assitude within that smug grin, and the pollution factor is high enough to put this pic in the Weekly.

She is a drink of purity. A holy meditative burst of utopian ideal.

She argues for a better tomorrow. She is the negation of Thomas Hobbes dystopia simply with the power of perky boobies and a nice smile. And when you can contradict depressing English philosophers simply with a smile, you gots some power.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Wally Playah


Yo.

I'se playah.

I gots the goods, yo.

I'se the baddest ass in Omaha.

I'se shirtless and that's what makes the ladiez faint, yo.

It's hard to argue with the sort of monosyllabic logic that a guy like Wally would likely produce in his defense.

But it's the white sneaks that render this pic a Weekly finalist.

White sneaks.

No shirt.

Total douche.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Rehab 101


The 101, in addition to being one of my favorite coffee shops in Los Angeles, is also a reminder that no matter how cliche the Rehab hott/douche has become, it's still extremely potent.

101 'Bag has the wonderful synergy of fauxhawk and chin stain.

The hotts are glorous, tatt free, and want me. How do I know they want me? I can tell. Because they're looking at me with that look that either says, "Ravish me, DB1, with a bottle of ketchup and a midget named Tony," or it says, "Did I leave the iron on?" I can never tell which.

So like the time traveling paradoxes in the movie Primer, does the weeble produce fungus?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

That Snow White/Rob Lowe clip was just too random to leave up on the site, so I blew it away. That's what happens when the DB1 posts after drinking too much Mad Dog 20/20.

So instead I'll post this pic of a Skippy The Fauxhawk, tackling an amply endowed cutie with the fervor of suburban white boy horny awkwardness.

Because it's Sunday. And giant leather boots are gonna walk all over me.

To make up for the pain of that last clip, here's some Phoebe Cates. Phoebe Cates cures all.

Many in the comments threads have been commenting on how being 1/4 Asian elevates an already luscious package of boobies to another plane of uber-hott. No truer words have been spoken, other than perhaps "douchebags smell like poo."

So we celebrate the quarter-Asian hott, or what I'd like to term, the "Quartasian." The most famous Quartasian has to be the luscious Phoebe Cates.

So we coin the term and enjoy the hott on a Saturday afternoon by basking in the perfection.

Savor this respite, for it will not last. The 'bags are marching as we speak.

Yep.

It's drinkin' time.