PIC DELETED

Why do I get the creepy feeling that if you zoomed in on that mess of white twine by Beach Blanket Booger's crotch area, it would end up forming a second image like the people on the back of the moth who also form a skull on the Silence of the Lambs movie poster?

I'm too scared to actually look. Like the twine is actually The Gator and Joey Porsche making synchronized Shockers or something.

Beach Bunny Hott is 110 pounds of soft, chewy cookie-dough girl next door goodness. A toast, people. A toast, to her boobies.

Please don't vomit your douche infested lunch from Arby's on the perfect bouncy boobie boobs, Yakster.

It's bad enough you're spiking up what's left of your hair and are struggling to grow a chin strap.

She is delightful, and your presence is, how you say, unwarranted betwixt her throw pillows.

Yet you appear to have cornered her in a padded cel at Miskatonic University. Please do not inject her with green glowing fluid. And by green glowing fluid, I mean your salivic taint.

More poetic words of genius from the Dylan Thomas of Douche, the Scatman of Scrote, the Wordsworth of Wordup, He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks:

----
I'm gonna break it down real simple for you to understand...my whole life been poor, so I made a promise to myself about becoming rich, so I'm on a basically five year rollercoaster of ups and downs to make that dough, now I'm there.... I cracked the code to makin lots of cash...so my future is all set... cars, mansions, and of course them sexy ladies... so now you can look at it from 2 perspectives....u can think about it as "wow this kids stupid" or "wow this kid is gonna become something". Either way it dont bother me... negative and simple minded people dwell in the past... I was born to lose built to win...so I got a dont give a f@#k mentality to the haters...I dont diss em ...I dismiss them... haters will always hate...so to the life ima have, the cars, the clothes, and the sexy ladies who will enter my life...cheers...
----

He dont diss. He dismiss.

While there were a few of the stronger Vegas uberdouche from last week to pick from, this week's Weekly is for the everyman. The average douched up schlub. The anonymous working class scrote, doing their small part to contribute to a larger world. And by world, I mean ass pimple.

So while your humble narrator in all things ankle-chain/Affliction, The DB1, nurses a mild hangover due to excess sugar high during drinking last night(stupid Twinkies), here are your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Ned's Fantasy Camp

We all gotta give it up to Ned.

It's not every day that, when the rest of the Dunder Mifflin office is worried about their March Madness picks or their fantasy baseball draft, Ned is taking his two week vaca to douche it up Hard Rock Style.

You go with your awkard henna tatt, your bizarre freedom trail, and your saggy flaccid nipples that look vaguely like the evil creatures from The Dark Crystal, Ned. It's impressive. And by impressive, I mean not impressive.

Heck, ya got two sexy, slutty Vegas cocktail waitresses. So I guess your fantasy camp beats the one where you get to play slow pitch softball with Marty Barrett.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Nighthawk aka Balboabag

Sly Spittoon isn't one of the harsher dbags we've featured in recent weeks. But the chin pubes + chest reveal are enough for him to qualify as an everybag.

And for the Asian fetishists in our midst (you know who you are), tasty Sue Kim is a Dim Sum of delight.

Seriously. Her legs can cure rickets.

As to Cobrettibag, do not underestimate the power of the possessional ass pat for its douchey power. For there's nothing more annoying than Stallonebags in Don Johnson attire patting down the ass of their date while giving you a look that says, "I may sell used cars, but she's not smart enough to know she can do better."

Indeed she isn't, Nighthawk.

Indeed indeed.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Turtleman

At first I wasn't sure if Sweet Polly Stateschool would be enough to carry Turtleman to a finals appearance.

But I was pleased to see Polly got the love she deserved, even if her posture is a bit awkward.

As to the superhero myth and legend that is Turtleman, what more can be added?

He fights crime.

And by crime, I mean bling.

And by bling, I mean pop.

And by pop, I mean yellow patch in hair.

Yellow patch in hair.

Is that really necessary, Turtleman?

Really?

Yes. I suppose it is.

So them's your finalists. Three enter, only one can transcend. Which one? That, my friends and fellow 'bag hunters, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Then again, maybe all Old 'Bags don't cross over into hero status when douching it up in their senior years.

Some just keep on 'baggin' in full on leathery, creepy orange wrongness.

Last week's spotlight on the 80s monstrosity that was The Boz resulted in a number of calls to highlight that other douche carrying scrote of the football field, Brothabag Prime Time Neon Deon Sanders.

And while Neon, like The Boz, has a certain inept charm that undercuts any truly noxious douchebaggery, there is no denying that this video, Must be the Money drips of early 1990s bling, hair gel and overall greasy wrongness.

But, on the bright side, at least Deon will never have to worry about a career singing, rapping or anything outside of sounding like a strangled seal.

Make your picks for the upcoming season, Neon. You just earned a place in our Hallowed Hall of Retro Douche.

We'll never know exactly what that point in a man's life is when he goes from doggy 'baggin' douche to Old Dogg folk legend. That point of crossing, when greased up taint turns into myth, legend and saggy assed scrote champion.

Alls I know is Old Dogg is my new hero.

At least I think that shiny orb floating at the base of the celestial heavens is a moon.

It's glowing, spiky, and has a face in it.

Overly coiffed fembots may be a bit scary, but it's Friday, so I'm going with it.

Because I'm sipping my Train, and getting over my flu, and contemplating that touch of bite in the spring desert air in sunny, smoggy, foggy Los Angeles.

The hipsters are flooding the Coffee Beans, rushing to stand still and contemplate their next career move, while the starlets serve plates of avocado salads and Pellegrino on Sunset Boulevard.

The spirit of Sheryl Crow gets her early morning beer buzz on, as the last vestiges of hair metal glam-douche wannabees saunter through the crackling dry Hollywood afternoon. Long hairs outside the Guitar Center. Those last few off the bus, hoping to grab the rockstar fame that was never really there in the first place. Images of Axl Rose sold them a fantasy, and who am I to tell them otherwise?

There's a premiere tonight, somewhere I'm sure, and fighting 19 year olds will pose with their Starbucks by their SUVs hoping to get onto TMZ, and wonder if their leaked topless photos will make a splash on Perez Hilton.

Danny DeVito's Hush Hush magazine prints the scoop, as the latest meatgrinders for the digital pixelated grill get spat out like so many bars of soap at the assembly line.

Red Bulls fuel the night, and somewhere a hott with perfect boobs is ordering an apple sour martini, and glancing nervously around the room. The douchebags hover, and she looks nervous.

A spiky haired choad who smells like Axe Bodyspray walks up and says, "Yo."

"Yos" everywhere, popping up like iphone chat bubbles across the cityscape as the sunlight fades.

It's another night in the Naked Networked City. Another night up in the Canyon. Swimming pools shimmer. And I get a little drunker.

Lest I ramble any further, I tip my cup of 'Train to all those who soldier onward and propel this lurching country forward on the backs of cultural spectacle and media chaos. It gets us through the day. And glossy photos never get cavities.

Turtleman was one of the secondary and less famous superheroes that came out during Marvel Comics' brief late 1990s "Popped Collar Ass Superhero" period.

It was a short lived period in comics history. Other superheroes, like Chicken Wing Man and The Fizzle didn't catch on with readers, and were quickly canceled.

But Turtleman found a few fans. Especially when he saved intrepid newspaper reporter, Sweet Polly Stateschool, from his arch enemy, Doctor Good Taste.

In fact Issue #17, Turtleman Meets the Pant Stains can be found on Ebay for around $12, plus shipping and handling.

You go, Turtleman. Keep fighting crime, one collar pop at a time.

Im lying alone with my hair shaped like a phone
Thinking of you till it hurts
I know you gel too but what else can we do
Tormented and torn apart

I wish I could carry your boobs in my heart
For times when my life seems so douchey
It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring
When today doesnt really know, but is so douchey,

(chorus)
Im all out of gel, Im so lost without spikes
I know you were right, believing for so long
Im all out of gel, what am I without hair
I cant be too late to say I was so damn douchey...

Proving yet again that douchebaggery can be more than the sum of its parts, Pointy McVulcan sets off brushfires off the coast of Paraguay through the sheer force of his facial asstastery.

Check it out: No bling. No popped collar. No annoying hat tilt. Only one massive douche hand gesture, and yet the 'bag factor is off the charts.

Or maybe it's Diana, the curvy girl from my Sophomore year econ-1 class who sat directly in front of me, was a business major, and smelled like guava shampoo.

Oh Diana. How I miss not talking to you during lecture.

Her cupcakes were manna from heaven. If manna were boobie manna.

I'll have a White Russian,
Send back the White Douchebag.
But leave Natasha.

chippendale's flunky
take your striped hair and bad tatts
sell shots to tourists

-- johnny scrotten

Gladiator douche.
He is so glad he ate her.
Excuse the bad pun.

-- douche mcallister

i am lord gorgon
from the planet doucheymus
these are my space whores

-- bcs

Billy Idol smirk
But in the midnight hour
She does not cry "more"

-- mr. white

skunky haired douchebag
macks on cocktail waitresses
call security

-- scrotisserie chicken

Two women from the future.
Need men to keep race going.
Extinction inevitable.

-- Marcos Douchebagdatis

Pinky's got game.

How do I know?

The skull on his shirt. It's got creepy batwings on it. Which means he's a badass. I'm talking Bosworth level.

And a note for the ladies. Never underestimate the power of the simple, low cut, black dress. Especially when you have ginormous num nums to show off.

PIC DELETED

Sly Stalloon isn't the worst 'bag out there. Sure he's got the touch of chin pube, and the unbuttoned shirt reveal. But he seems more like a stage 1 or stage 2 doucheface. Nothing too offensive, but still mildly annoying.

Like having to eat at the Olive Garden.

It may not be good, but you usually don't get that sick either.

I do like little Asian Soup Dumpling. She's a compact package of to-go deep fried hottness, sweet and sour and ready to serve, with no MSG, and a fortune cookie surprise.

And if you think comparing her to Chinese food is demeaning, just be glad I didn't go for the chopsticks allusions.

But I'm still crabby since I got busted for parking my car in a handicapped zone.

I haven't seen an orange hue that saturated since Nestor Almendros' cinematography in Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven.

What, too obscure?

Oh sure, laugh at them if you must. But these guys are absolutely huge in Belgium and France.

I'm talking the third biggest metal fusion acid jazz trip-hop funk cover band, as based on sales records in all of greater Antwerp, just behind Kathleen Turner Overdrive and The Rutles.

And they're hanging with The Ghost of Pamela. So they are rock and roll. And you are not.

Spikes McGangster may be making the strangest Shocker I've seen. Whereas Perry Farrell makes an impressively tough gesture while holding a champagne glass.

Hey kids, rock and roll. Rock on.

You know how certain girls who do a lot of yoga reach that rarified state I like to call "firm 'n soft," where they're tight and lean, but also soft and pillowy, like a microwaved peeps marshmallow?

It is that beautiful contradiction of ass kicking hardbody and soft bouncy boobies that weird little tiny midgets bounce up and down on while dressed in clown suits, that sends in my boobie circus.

My psychedelic boobie circus.

She is that perfect contradiction of firm 'n soft. Stone and marshmallow peeps.

Seeing her getting squished between House of Pain before they head over to Sue's house to play hockey with Mikey and T-Bone makes me want to pull out a gatt behind The Dresden.

Oh sweetie, I'm not sure if there is any hope for you.

Too much exposure to Jackbag, and you are well on your way to the dark side of the Bleeth.

All we can do is take away your charge card from Loehmann's and tear up your subscription to In-Style until you've become deLohaned.

It's hard to take this 'bagling seriously when Anthony Michael Hall just walked by and paid him a dozen floppy discs.

Beware the Angry Red Abomination,
Especially when he's got lip mutation,
But Boobs on his lap,
Looks tired and needs a nap,
Go ahead, Red's got fears of castration.

Well what should've been an overwhelming landslide victory for the Yo-Yo ends up being a
disqualification.

Therefore, since Yo and Leopard couldn't fulfill the duties expected of them as HCwDB of the Week Winners, we hand the crown to the first runner up. Kid Scrote. Yes, it's a bummer, as the Yo had one of the most convincing victories in awhile. But The 'Scrote also found his fans. Abdouchah the Butcher makes the case:

I have to give it to Kid Scrote despite the fact that he looks very much like Dave Kusworth, one of my favorite semi-obscure rawk singers. Unfortunately he probably considers LA Guns to be da shizznitt. Also, I think the douche-to-hott ratio is the most extreme in his case. Good luck, Scrote-man. And by good luck I mean your gal causes penile turgidness.

Indeed, Abd the B. And Senor Squash agrees:

Which brings us back to Kid Scrote The Unwashed, and his Significant Bleeth, Haley Pantypudding.

The unholy pairing of the oversized mandana to keep his lice-infested pelt out of his eyes, and her swim attire created by the shaky feeble hands of her saintly Grandma Nell as she quietly fades in her final days at the Trail's End retirement facility, leaves us with one nagging question:

Whose wet suit hangs in the background and is it used for kinky sex games involving six boxes of out-dated Rice Krispies, a bucket of spoiled kiwi fruit, a trampoline, and twelve liters of imported cat urine?

And if not, why not?

Oh, and boobies.

Kid Scrote, FTW.

Nicely done, SS, I'm not feeling as bad about the disqual any more. Kid Scrote definitely meets the criteria for a win. As Douche and Tonic makes the argument:

Kid Scrote.

Because the pant-shorts stopped being cool about 10 years ago. So did showing your boxers just above your pants. And so did mandanas. And the whole "scruffy dirt-ball with a heart of gold" act.

....I think someone is missing a time machine.

Yup.

While we couldn't crown our landslide winner, HCwDB Nation turns it's bemusedly annoyed eyes to you, Kid Scrote. Woo woo woo.

Don't let us down, and we'll see your mandana'd douchery in the Monthly.

Yo-Yo Bag writes in:

----
I would like my picture to be taking down immediately. I do not wish this to effect my career opportunities because of the stupidity of some individual who submitted it. Thank you.
-----

Well, it's always my policy to picture be taking down when not wished to the effect of.

Revised HCwDB of the Week winner shortly...

Oh, Rehab at the Hard Rock. When the DB1 is low on hottie/douchey pics, you are there.

When the submissions aren't rising to the boobie/scrotey levels of quality control, you are there.

You're my security blanket and my horrorshow.

But thank you for being you.

And in an unrelated story, it seems The Joey Porsche Crew is off to join the army. The douche army.

Would you like to see what else I've popped?

It's like watching The CW casting call for I Love Lucy: The Next Generation.

Only instead of Lucy/Ricky and that old couple upstairs, we get four club couples of talentless shine. Watch the lack of hilarity ensue!

Coming up on the CW at 9pm, after Hangin' With a Bunch of Overweight Black Folks and Angry Supernatural Teens With Lots of Pop Culture References.

Man, I love that Tuesday night lineup.

When the other five guys from Ned's insurance office took their vacation in Sarasota, Florida, to play in a week long Fantasy Baseball camp, Ned had other plans.

For Ned had designed his very own "fantasy camp." It involved Vegas, a couple of bottles of Tequila, and Candi and Amber.

Ned called it "Fantasy Doucheball." And it's spreading like wildfire.

In faux paneled bait shops, on the outskirts of the interstate, near that exit the truckers take, but before you get to the McD's that employs half the local high school, lies many examples of girl-next-door Dianes getting mugged by emo'd up postmodern tatted up Jacks.

And if that sentence was a mishmash of literary aspiration, mocking critique, run-on habdashery, and John Cougar Mellencamp references, I blame the codine.

Uhm, Frankie, could you stop slacking off and posing with the guests? Table #10 needs a refill on their waters.

Mmmkay? Thanks.

And in a related story, I'd boobies the boobs while boobsing the boobies, just for the chance to boobs the boobsies while boobsing the boobs.

Boobs.

And while you're mulling over your vote in the Weekly, somewhere, buried deeply within this lineup of Miami Beach Cheerleader Playthings, I've carefully hidden a Fratty Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Hint: He's the one who's paying.

He'd be this guy.

Thank you. That's the clever headlines you get when The DB1 is cracked up on Nyquil and Advil.

In case that coffee wasn't workin' for ya on this Monday morning, I thought I'd fire up all our collective consciousness with a jolt of satanic Hard Rock Rehab ubersquatt.

And tasty Spanish Cinnebons. Mmm... cinnebons.

Your narrator in all things teat-party/Declaration of Scoadependence, The DB1, spent the weekend recovering from a nasty cold/flu, dazed out of his mind on the couch, and half consciously watching bad teen comedy movies on TBS.

But even in my Nyquil inspired daze, I still realized that Rob Schneider's The Hot Chick was like a root canal to the soul.

That being said, my comments may be brief today, so pick up the slack and help me soldier on through. The good news is this is an excellent Weekly. And by excellent, I mean basic cable has too many commercials.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Inflation 'Bag

The only downside of this otherwise perfect blending of hott, inflatadouche and creepy, hilariously awkward embrace, is the vaguely porny feeling we get.

I try to disqualify porn couples from contention, as calling them out for being greasy combos of hott/douche is like calling out the Quakers for being wussies who can't take a beating.

Yeah, you, Quakers.

I'm talking about your mom.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Kid Scrote aka Two Boobs

Baw wit da baw, de bang de bang douchey douchey douchey,
Say that 'baggy, said up jump the 'baggy.

He's like the Travelling Wilberry, if you merged Jeff Beck, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, Kid Rock, and a gallon of southern douche grease into one person.

Then again, he's kinda sweet. Underneath all that scruff and giant mandana, there's just a kid who wants to rock.

She is down home key lime pie goodness, but in that inflated artificial sweetener, kind of way. Like Key Lime Pie with Olestra.

And boobs.

And a curve on her back that could melt ice and punch kittens in the snout.

Stupid cute kitten snout.

You deserved that punch, stupid cute kitten snout.

I have nothing else to add to this pic.

But since it takes up so much space on the page, I'll keep rambling. Besides, my Dayquil hasn't yet kicked in.


HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Saturday Yo aka Yo-Yo 'Bag
PIC DELETED

I don't think I realized the stealth power of this pic when I ran it on Saturday.

But really, getting back to basics, is there anything worse in a hottie/douchey coupling then what's going on right here?

The sweet, innocent cutie with the crooked smile?

Yo MTV Douches, busting the worst hand gesture since Bob Dole let go of his pencil and tried to boogie at the USO dance?

Yup. The DB1 is cracked up on cold medications.

And them's your three. This should be a tough contest. Any one of these three could win. But which one will?

Make your votes known, as always, in the comments thread.

Reader Danny Noonan writes in with an important retro scrote:

----
DB1-

You certainly don't need creative input from me, but I was thinking the other day about the possible genesis of some of todays protodouches and I think a possible candidate for a Greico rival is Brian Bosworth.

You remember him, he played linebacker for Oklahoma and the Seattle Seahawks back in the 80s. He popularized the mullet with designs shaved in and hair dye.

He wore a bandana religiously. He sported half-shirts and leather vests with no undershirt routinely. He wore tight fitting acid washed jeans. He inspired a generation of white guys to some horrendous fashion fauxpas (myself included). He was truly ahead of his time in his douchification.
----

Excellent points Danny, and congrats on shtupping the forever ultra hott Lacy Underalls.

Football players, like rockstars, are given minimal leeway when it comes to scroting it up. But the Boz brings rank cheese to that rarified Billy Ray Cyrus level.

During the early 1990s "Famous Non-Actors in Action Hero Roles" film movement -- what I like to refer to as the American Poo Wave, or the Cool as Ice Era -- The Boz made a tremendously rank impact in the film Stone Cold. For that movie alone, we must clear space for The Boz in the rank of late 80s early 90s proto-douche.

When you see the 80s Boz Mullet Look, you realize that slapping The Boz about the head and face area with a smelly, dead, week old mackerel may be the only societal recourse.

PIC DELETED

If Yo-Yo 'Bag here doesn't fire you up while you enjoy your Frosted Flakes on a Saturday morning, I don't know what will.

Pawing Brunette Vixen with simo douche hand gesture #162. It takes a certain talent. A douche talent.

Yo.

Knawwisayin?

Yes, Kevin Federline, the Typhoid Mary of Hollydouche, turns thirty years old today.

This is sort of impressive. Maintaining cultural puke status for such a long period of time demonstrates an almost supernatural ability to be a heaping serving of worthless whitetrash jello pudding pop.

You are an energy suck of all that is worthwhile after five millenia of human development, Federbag. You make me itchy. And not in a good way.

And yes, Paris Hilton is a ball of douchebaguette on her own. Together, these two make me want to spray Lysol into my eyes while scrubbing my crotch with a wire brush.

Simon writes in:

----
Dear Douchebag1,

First, let me say I am a huge fan of you and your site. You are providing a long overdue service to society. Like Shakespeare himself, you are utilizing recycled stories - in this case douchey pictures - that elicit universal human reactions, and attaching your own unique written composition to them. Kudos!

That being said, I have been debating whether or not to commit suicidouche.

I am not a douche bag, but I have certainly had some weak moments in my life when I have been captured in HCwDB worthy photos. I am torn as to whether or not I should purge my soul and send you some of these pictures.

Your thoughts?
----

The first part of any healing process is admitting you have a scrotal grease problem. As you can tell by my moniker, every male on earth has douched it up in service of chasing the hott. It is part of any culture's mating dance.

But this does not mean we can't rise above our collective spectacle of media saturated club-poo and reach a higher consciousness. The first step, simply admitting your own prior greasebaggery, is perhaps the hardest. So kudos! You are on your way.

Secondly, yes, you must send me your pics. Through painful mocking, you will experience enlightenment. Just as beating your child will teach them to fetch you that beer, the mocking of the scrote is a form of negative reinforcement that, while painful, pays long run dividends.

Like Dali and Picasso before him, Vinny wanted to capture his essence, and his girlfriend Jenny's boobies, through the art of self portrait.

Could it be? It is.
He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks,
Dollar Signs, Not White.

Ice cold juggsicles
Divert my attention from
Pimple-faced wigger

-- maximum overdouche

He Bangs Bitches is
attempting to impress with
boobs of his sister

-- anonymous

Girl is opposite
of tough, unchewable steak.
She's super tasty.

-- douche almighty

Repeat. I am douche.
Patrolling girls dorm for prey,
Chesty hott sprays mace.

-- 'bag lanta

Balding,baggy eyed vampire boy,
Blondies boobage too big,
Casket won't close

-- Marcos Douchebagdatis

If we took our basic understanding of inflation and translated it through a genetic DNA metaphor, we'd have this spectacle right here.

They're what happens when the dollar devalues. And by dollar, I mean boobies.

Someone grab that lightsaber on the table and end this thing like a Jedi Alan Greenspan.

Yeah, I'm making Fed jokes on the same day I'm featuring the Spitzer whore. Because I'm hung over. And large boobies excite me.

Hipster Librarian Glasses. I forgot how much I love them on a perky young thing.

They just scream, "Spank me with your Dewey Decimal System, then ravish me behind the photocopier outside of the downstairs bathroom." Mmm... delectable. Even on one standing next to a Nerd Kobra Kai.

I need a ruling on this one.

Yes, he's got the stupid trucker cap at 10 Degree Hat Tilt. And yes, he's got the ginormous watch and worst of all, thumb bling.

But I can't stamp choad on this guy. He just seems too goofy. I was leaning towards a nottadouche pass, but figured I'd open it up for debate.

She is elegant, delightful and classy. We would listen to Puccini operas on my retro hipster record player while we nibbled on creme brule and discussed philosophy. And then we would mush chocolate criossants on each other's lower abdomens while riding around the room on a sheep dressed in a garter belt.

In my continuing quest to be groundbreaking here at HCwDB, all while sitting around in my underwear and scratching myself, a reader brings us a look at the Spitzer Call Girl in hard partying fratchoad action.

Yep, there she is. Not sure which one she is. But she's one of these two.

There was no doubt that when not banging elected officials for coin, this girl was giving it up for free to the frat-douche.

Happy Birthday! The site turns two today.

At the risk of sounding like an emo Mayerbag, it's been a pleasure and a body wonderland to keep you laughing. And also to see how far we've grown since it was my far off grumblings in a corner of the intarwebs.

We get to do a service on behalf of the hopes and dreams of a less greasy tomorrow, while staring at boobies the whole time.

We're part ideological crusaders, part pervs.

There's lots of good stuff coming up in year three, including the book release in July. So to the 'bag hunters who send me pics on a daily basis, couldn't have done it without you. To the regulars in the comments threads, bringing the funny every day is an amazing thing to behold.

We will untilt those cracked up designer Yankee caps one at a time if we have to. We will liberate the hott by teaching the hott that what she thinks is attractive is a Madison Ave marketing strategy.

And like Winston Churchill, Lewis and Clark, and Bill Murray's unit in Stripes, we will prevail.

That's the facts, Jack.

This is the point in history when the Sex Pistols get remixed and featured on Dancing With the Stars.

So it goes with subaltern culture. First the suburbanites are scared. Then they're intrigued. Then it's mass processed at Wal-Mart.

If you can't beat 'em, recontextualize 'em.

It's very very very very cold out,
You can tell by the douchey-ass sprout,
Yes the yellow nipple,
On Scrotey McWhipple,
Almost distracts from the Sexy Blonde Patsy Kensit Shout-Out.

Transformation. Mutation. Flatulation.

With the spreading cloudstorm of pixelated shadow, the spectacle reaches its wispy conceptual tendrils across the lands. And so we help each other reinvent identity through the stimulus of visceral club culture echo as manifest. The erotics as sold to us in quick-cut flashy post-Fincher shakycam bite sized bytes.

The store bought $499.99 cloaks of the self-as-other, meant to cut through the white noise of mass-media saturation and present sexual viability as defined in the forum. In the conceptual arena of shared viability. Mutual judgment. 570 channels and nothing on but quick cut visual cacaphony. Image stimulus, postmodern recycle.

Inflated, tatted up, visual embodiment of cartoonish simulacrum. The erotics of media funhouse mirror refraction.

And boobies.

At least there's still boobies.

They're the one authenticity we can all still grab onto as we float through the swampy seas of choppy media soup. Floating onward on our liferafts of self. Our paddles of critical thought keeping us afloat.

But that sea is choppy. Grab a boob and hold on tight.

I get the two Catholic School Girls Gone Bad. I even can rationalize Patchouli Boy in the middle.

But what's Shirtless Marty Feldman doing there?

In a surprising upset after early voting showed The Retarded Spider in the lead, The Small Package managed to pull out the HCwDB of the Week victory. And by victory, I mean societal suffrage. snoop douchey bagg goes townie on his ass:

Small Package gets my vote for resembling every jerk-off who hangs around Providence RI (the Triple-A league of douchebaggery, just an IROC drive away from the majors) on Saturday night.

Ah, yes. Providence. An enclave of scrote, if not so much hott.

douchefinity agrees, even with the power of The Retarded Spider's blonde boobyness:

Retarded Spider certainly has a superior Hott, but the expression of small package is just to douchey to ignore.

Small Package it is.

Yes it is,douchefinity. lone scrote mcquade agrees:

The only one here that inspires any rage for me is Small Package. We've all known a guy like him. His previously mentioned complex of being too short (no pun intended) will force him into creeping out a few chicks. Then, once he realizes he's getting nowhere, he'll pick a fight with some relatively harmless dude. Scrotefucks like him shouldn't be allowed in public after 9PM.

When I look at Amazon McBlondiecurls, I think UCLA women's volleyball.

Mmm... UCLA girls volleyball girls. Very choice.

But douchedeville reminds us that new hand gestures should not be ignored, casting in for The Retarded Spider:

Retarded spider FTW. He just stumbled out of a Star Trek movie and although he's high on ecstasy he is trying hard to duplicate Mr.Spock's hand gesture but he can't do it so it translates to Live Long and Be a Crippled Douchebag. His hott can try my phaser though.

Any sexual entendre involving phasers is so dorky, it merits a sort of respect. Good work, D.de V. And the well monikered i drink your doucheshake agrees:

Smug creep trounces paleolithic tool any day. The retard spider FTW!

Coming in a distant third, but with support, was Stamosbag. miss merry sunshine makes the argument for creepy Full House 1980s sitcom douchery:

Stamos 'Bag get my vote. He icks me out to no end...the others I just feel sorry for. He looks like the kind of guy that would grab your crotch and think you would then marry him. Effing gross.

Gross indeed. But The Big Ego on the The Small Package was too douchey to ignore. schwagle makes the case:

Most douches today have the option of playing off their douche look as "style". But this guy has no such retreat option. Due largely to his shirt, he projects a deafening roar of "I know I'm awesome" to everyone in a 3-mile radius, though the pitch at which he does it is only hearable by dogs. He has a look on his face that I cannot even accurately describe in words. Yes, his douchiness is beyond the scope of the English language. Factor in that, in a rare feat, his face is more oily than his hair (both of which put the Middle East to shame), and you have my vote for this week's Weekly winner (and by winner, I mean poo).

And iutodd reminds us that the laughability factor is also an important part of any Hottie/Douchey pic:

Small Package only because the picture made me laugh. The ridiculousness of this picture is classic HCwDB.

And the ever-present anonymous takes it home for the Package:

What can Brown do for you? He can leave a Small Package at the door to the Weekly Winner's Lounge.

So lets scrape off our collective shoes and reserve a place for the Vacuous Amazon and the Squat Package in the Monthly.

So have you ever asked yourself what happens to Hottie/Douchey couples in their later years, when the early bloom of their youth begins to fade?

Now we know. They don't disappear.

They just turn more orange.

So douchey, a caveman can do it.

Gregor Bagsa writes in from the Czech Republic:

----
Just discovered your site and it's doucherific. I reside in the Czech Republic which, along with the rest of Eastern Europe, is chock-full of hotties with the requisite douche counterparts.

I'm still feeling out exactly what constitutes a douchebag, but this pic is my first best guess.
----

Not a bad first 'Bag Tag, there Gregor.

Czech women have that perfect combination of large eyes, beautiful lips and blank, vacuous stare that screams "I don't read, but I will spank your bottom with talcum powder and send you to bed without supper."

And they would.

Because I was a bad boy.

I dub this hand gesture, the "Mild Surpriser."