That reminds me... did I leave the regressive chromosome scrambler oven on this morning?

"Shockers for all!", said the turd,
then signaled to the herd,
The drunk girl complied,
Like a beach at high tide,
And anonymous arms then concurred.

If the site's acting buggy today, I blame this tool.

I'm lookin' into the usual Blogger software freezes, but drop me a line if the site's particularly sluggish at your end.

And note that Ubiquitous Red Cup showed up to stamp Funnybag a Scrotey Tool. Not that there was any doubt in the first place. But Ubiquitous Red Cup never lies. It's the Oracle of Douchosity.

When Pittsburgh Steelers kicker Jeff Reed first appeared on the site last year, shirtless and douching it up near the ladies in a bar, many chalked it up to a one-off.

Unfortunately, Jeff Reed is sill mandanaing it up in the presence of the hott, as this pic will attest.

Now granted he's only a stage-1 douche, here. No real hand gestures. No douche-face. But she is lovely. And he makes a lot of money for having leg muscles.

So lets stamp choad on that belly, and hope he hooks it wide right.

One of the worst types of 'bags is the funny/serious tool. The fratclown who thinks adding a touch of "the wacky" will help convince hotts that he's not some humorlesss trust fund crypto-fascist metaphor for nuclear war.

Oh, Kendra.

Your parents had such high hopes when you went off to college for the first time.

Little did they know you'd be hanging in some creepy-ass basement with Trent Witherspoon, "funny" guy with the sexy stubble from Krappa Sacka Turda.

Don't ride that Harley, Kendra. It leads only to disaster.

Give it up to Pippy and Sultry Ski Bunny Perfection (SSBP), who combine all that is unholy hottie/douchey wrongness to take this Week's crown and book a spot in the Monthly.

no country for douchebags explains the power of the Pipster:

This week, after careful consideration, I have to cast my vote for Pippy. Make no mistake; JP and Miami are thoroughly depressing. Both are blight on society at large for sure and I certainly cannot find fault for anyone who voted for them.

But in the end, neither JP nor Miami could convince me. When you are forced to look at ‘bag authenticity, no one holds a candle to Pip.

And that's what it comes down to. Douchery as defined not simply by garish bling and the waft of Jersey seawater and Tag Bodyshots. But by the "douche aura." As guyladouche puts it:

I want to initially dismiss Pippy as just too plain. But he's obviously in a club...with a white deep V cut white shirt. With dogtags. (being in the military myself, that alone just screams imbecile) The Right Said Fred "I'm too Sexy" look with the half-assed hand gesture. Is he trying to be mysterious? Suave? Tough?

Well, he FAIL with flying colors.

Well put G la D. hue grand agrees:

My vote goes to Pippy. Johnny and Miami may be 'bags, but they're clearly weekend bags. For all we know, they lead normal lives, hold steady jobs, and go all out when the time comes. Pippy's subtleness, however, tells me that he is a 24/7 douchebag.

Hue is keying in on an important point -- the "pro" versus the "core" of douche. Some dress up on weekends, Paid to Douche (PTD) with Paid to Pose Hotts (PTP). These can still infuriate and rankle. But then there are the Pippys.

As douchetacular explains:

Some are distracted by his lack of douche acoutrement. Don't be. He trascends the glitzy material baubles that others must resort to to acheive his level of vile, sneering choad. Like a shaman of scrote he has left behind the empty devices of the material world to become one with the oozing tide of douchiness welling out of every pore. He is pure douchebag in every pore. You don't need hair gel to see it.

Well said, DT. However, the garishness of Miami Scammy won over many, including Julia:

I think Miami Scammy deserves the win. He clearly spent the greater part of his afternoon planning this look. Doesn't that count for anything? His bagness is tight.

Indeed it is, Julia. Johnny Pirate, despite questioning our future as a species, came in a third, but with fervent support. mr. choad's wild ride explains:

Mascara, no shirt, hint of undies from beneath ripped abs - awesome (if these were describing either of the Hotts with Pirate.) As it is, he needs to get hit in the face with a huge rotting sockeye salmon. Because I don't really like salmon, and I hate him.

Pirate FTW

But et tu douche? sums up the Pipster and Ski Bunny's win:

Pippy.

Ski Bunny's adorability is enough to generate neologisms, and the power of Pippy is magnified by the impeccable sameness of image after deleted image. The face, the gesture, the head tilt, the hairless chest exposing v-neck, the dog tags, the hott. His pics in toto aspire to an entropy-defying Unity.

Chalk up a win for the Pip, and we'll see him face off against Turd Flush in the next Monthly.

Lest there remains any doubt as to The Razor's scrotal wrongness, nor the snowcap melting hottness of his lady friend, this pic should satisfy both counts admirably.

Her thighs are like desert wind blowing through the cackle reeds upon a dew drop morning.

Bra is about to say:

1. Bra!! Another Pepsi, Broheim!!
2. Bra!! You see this chick I'm bangin' with, yo?
3. Bra!! Dig my star tat, bra!!
4. Bra!! Did Nietzsche really posit a Godless universe, or simply a universe of moral absolution?

"Holly" writes in:

---
Hey DB1-
Love your site!


Oh Holly, I will save you from this mugging using my special movie powers of plot point intervention. Just let me get in my time machine and go back to twenty minutes before the picture was taken. I'll wait outside the door, then grease tackle Muscles McCool here, allowing you and your delicious cupcake friend to exit undisturbed.

Then, presumably, you'll go home and massage each other's thighs with Crisco, while I awkwardly watch from outside the kitchen window until your neighbor, Mrs. Crabtree, calls the police on me. At which point, I'd yell out "Whooooaaa!" and fall into the nearby garbage can.

Wait, is this my fantasy, or did I just land in a mid-1980s teen sex comedy?

Excellent 'bag tag, Holly. Now get to a small cabin near a lake with your three hott best friends, and engage in a giggling pillow fight.

Luckily, Cheryl managed to find Robodouche's "off" button before any real damage was done.

The Iowa City High School prom quickly spun out of control once someone smuggled in a Sharpie.
(douche diggler)

Pablo suffered a type II neck sprain while trying to avert his eyes from the hottie/douchie train wreck in front of him.
(douchey mcscroterson)

Backstage at the Menudo Reunion Tour.
(pfah)

Although Cindy was told she'd be working with a bow tied Staff for the Mexican buzz cut festival, the look on her face clearly shows her disappointment when she realized what the promoter meant.
(anonymous)

Bif, tired of accusations of illiteracy, inked his favorite Shakespearean character's name around his torso, "Sir John Falstaff."
(mr. white)

spencer writes in:

----
Not the greatest capture (Lacks full-frontal hott), but this food court was crowded and I was trying not to look like a total creeper.

This guy just oozed douche. It's hard to tell, but he was rockin' the full orange glow, and the spikes + douche windshields were too much to resist.

Love the site.
----

While the pic does lack verification on the hott, there's a certain benign genius to this cohabitation of uberdouche and suburban mall.

To paraphrase Hannah Arendt, it has the banality of weevil.

Razor, your tri-vag facial pubes and silly hand gesture have the Lamar Latrell Popozaoed illogic of Alpha-Beta ennui.

Hmm. Something tells me that last sentence has been written before in literature. Perhaps it was Proust.

As to Pixie Hott, I haven't seen thighs that firm yet gelatinous since the paddling scene in Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama.

And, no, that movie wasn't even retro ironic good. But it did have paddling. So on its deathbed, it will achieve total consciousness.

Give it up to the douchebag Corky. Not even fetal alcohol syndrome has held back his maturing double boob grabbing skillsets.

It's a heartwarming tale of douchal triumph over limited means. Like Rain Man or Mask. Only with greasy tatts instead of genetic abnormality.

Let this be a lesson worthy of the Hallmark Channel by way of VH1's Mystery. Anyone can achieve uberdouchosity with enough effort.

Monday's selection of Hot Chicks with Douchebags is brought to you by Windex.

When your bathroom mirror fogs up from a mixture of Tag Bodyshots, sweat, spittle, hair gel, douched up wannabe rocker puds and unredeemable Bleethed out hotts, be sure to use Windex.

It's also good for spraying in your eyes to remove the pain of cultural decay.

Windex.

For that de-douchificated shine.

Coming off a strong Weekly last week, we have another choice selection of hott/choad offered up like the Sunday buffet at HoJos. Last week, the vile Turd Flush rode the power of dual slutt-hott energy to a grown up fecal triumph. Over Dog, no less.

This week? Who knows which of these three couplings will rise to victory and book a spot in the HCwDB Monthly. That's up to you.

Here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Johnny Pirate

Originally titled "Why There is No Hope for Mankind," this Malthusian vision of a world where our food supplies have run out and godlessness reigns in the form of uberdouche paints a dark future for all of us.

But I needed to identify this Red Bull swilling choad, and so I knight thee "Johnny Pirate."

And let us not forget innocent Neve Campbell sweetness. And no, I will not make the standard "Party of Five" masturbation joke. Because this is not 1999. This is not my beautiful car.

Ambiguously Asian Pixie displays her wonderful underarm shaving technique. That thing is smoother than a rabbit's ass after being microwaved.

What, like you've never microwaved a live rabbit before.

Come on. 10th grade? What, you blocked it?

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Miami Scammy

There's such an incoherent miasmal stench to this pic, that I had to give it its shot in the Weekly.

Yes, "miasmal" is a word. Google it.

That smug, DeVry Technical Institute douchal expression. The double freaking belt, fer chrissakes.

As to the girl, I dispute with anyone that, underneath all that garishness, she isn't a cutie. With arching back and sweet face, hers is a sexy young plaything buried in a mountain of brandname douchery.

And if we're not here to find the essence of genetic hottness buried under a mountain of scrotal layering, then I don't know what.

Because we are a shallow and petty people.

And the boobie does not lie. It just misleads, like a shifty numbers runner from the Bronx named Benny Blanco.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Pippy


Even though I got a takedown email from the brunette in that last Pippy pic, I refuse to admit defeat for this choad. While it is true that the 'bag hunters in the comments thread felt Pippy may not feature enough adouchrements to qualify for finalist status, I'd argue otherwise.

I give you the douche-face.

And yes, my undying humpty hump for Sultry Ski Bunny of Perfection (SSBP) is a factor here. Large forehead? Perhaps. Uncanny resemblance to a young Drew Barrymore? Mayhap.

But I would still juggle koala bears in Rhodesia just for the chance to meet the Shaman who once removed the evil spirits of a Tiki hut occupied by her great aunt.

And I refuse to back down on Pippy. He is choad.

But choad enough to win HCwDB of the Week?

That, my friends, is not up to me. It is up to you. Honorable mention to Cowpoke, who just misssed the cut.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

There's gonna be a party in Vegas.

Oh yes. There will be party: Saturday, July 19th.

Why, you ask? To celebrate the release of my book, coincidentally titled Hot Chicks with Douchebags and scheduled to officially be released on July 8th from Simon & Schuster.

If you've enjoyed the site as either an occasional or longtime 'bag hunter, now's your time to pony on up and buy a book. And if you're the truly intrepid HCwDB fan, fly your ass to Vegas and celebrate with The DB1 in person. Buy me a cheap drink and I'll sign your book.

Yeah, you. Join me. To celebrate, we will party.

There will be hotts. There will be douches to mock. There will be a one legged firespitter named Ned. Yes, your humble narrator in all things boobie/scrotey will be there, drunk off my ass and drooling on the cocktail waitress's boobs while I pretend to care as she tells me about how much she hates her daddy.

Details of the day of celebration, libation and scatological procreation are still being worked out, but if you're interested in joining me to celebrate, drop me an email to get more information.

And if you live in Vegas and know how to promote a party (and I know you guys are readers), drop me a line ASAP and help me figure out how to make this circus happen. Only two rules: No annoying pedestaled DJs. And no Goose Running.

An appendectomy is surgery to remove the appendix. See also: Appendicitis

The appendix is a small, finger-shaped sac extending from the first part of the large intestine. It is removed when it becomes inflamed or infected. An infected appendix can leak and infect the entire abdominal area, which can be deadly. See: Peritonitis.

An appendectomy is done under general anesthesia, which means you are asleep and do not feel any pain during the surgery. The surgeon makes a small cut in the lower right side of your belly area and removes the appendix.

If the appendix ruptured or a pocket of infection (abscess) formed, your abdomen will be thoroughly washed out during surgery. A small tube may be left in the belly area to help drain out fluids, pus or general douchebaggery.

When you're more concerned with getting a picture of yourself attempting to bite into a pretty girl you've backed into a shrubbery than in the girl herself, you are a cactus douche.

You can see Koala's thought process: Wait'll I get this on Facebook! Da boyz'll know who's king!

Run away, Sherilyn Fenn cute. He's not just one of the guys.

Who has a finger pointing at the camera and is a huge pile of excredouche?

This guy!!

Heh. I always wanted to do that joke.

It's Saturday morning. My bowl of Lucky Charms isn't doing much to help the Night Train that decided to slap me upside the head at 2am. But not like I'd slap Baby Brunette's butt check bottoms on the left. The one with the power thighs that could crush walnuts flung at 80mph off a racetrack in Daytona.

Come to me, my thunder thighed petunia. And bring your three friends.

I was heading into my local Trader Joes to stock up on Peanut Butter Joe-Joe's cookies when he stopped me. A young boy, maybe five or six years old. He was playing with a tennis ball and waiting for his mom by the entrance.

"Whither the douchebag?" he asked me, his eyes confused.

Unsure if he meant "wither" or "whither" in the old English sense of "to what purpose," I asked him to repeat what he'd just said.

"Whither the douchebag?" he asked again.

I realized he meant to inquire as to douchebaggery's origins. It was a surprising question from a kid so young. Perhaps he'd glimpsed the tatted up uberdouche visage of Xenu somewhere. Somehow the land of Armani-Exchanged tools had invaded and overwhelmed his young senses.

A question so complex deserved a proper answer.

"Kid," I replied. "The collar pops not from without, but from within. As you grow older, you must fight it. Do not fear the douche. Confront it. Overwhelm it. And enlightenment will be yours."

He nodded.

"Thanks." he said quietly.

I wasn't sure if he fully understood. But as I went inside I'd hoped I'd set his young mind on the right path of de-douchification and enlightenment. The path of self inscription.

I felt I'd made a difference. At least a little bit.

Later, at the checkout line, I hit on his mom.

PIC DELETED

I know you're already sick of Pippy, but it's Friday, and I'm running out of quality pics submitted this week.

Besides, there's a certain genius consistency in 'bag reflex. It's like a form of douche Tourette's Syndrome.

Ordering a pizza? Sideways hand gesture. Flagging down a taxi? Sideways hand gesture. Begging your parole officer not to report the Tijuana weekend? Sideways hand gesture.

And Perfect Ski Bunny Hott remains the fruits of my loins. I'll even let her bring her brunette friend along. Because I'm generous like that.

Why do I get the feeling that Gabe from the accounts services department at J. Walter Thompson likes to spend his weekends dressing up as a pimp and telling the mature hotts that his name is "Javier," and he's from Colombia on "business"?

Give it up, Gabe. She ain't buying.

Oh, and a memo from Tim in accounting: It's your turn to bring the donuts to the office meeting on Monday.

I don't know if Erik Estradouche is really that bad, probably not, I just want to know why the hell my college birthday parties never looked like this.

I see you, little white lingerie princess, yes I do... Have you been naughty? Would you like to me to talcum your bottom, then spend two hours in the garage washing your car while you run up charges on my credit card?

Dammit. I knew it.

Jaundiced alien
Facehugger laid eggs in hott,
Take off, nuke from sky.

it's Tori Spelling
clubbing with Steven Tyler.
Apocalypse now.

-- pfah

Grandpa loved red skulls
Botox bag clueless while
Molesting my sister

-- something horrible

Bleethed out buxom blonde
Stoned roadie for Buckcherry
Bag hand gestures match

-- the davinci choad

The boobs are massive
Skeletor is the devil
The world is ending

-- danny noonan

hey michael jackson
good to see you like girls now
so what made you change?

-- johnny scrotten

Ah yes, the lesser known Ben and Jerry's ice-cream flavor, Miamy Scammy. It's made with vanilla ice cream, Italian flavoring, Axe Body spray and chunks of mud from Miami Beach.

Can't understand why it never caught on.

We haven't had a good Hoverbag on the site in awhile. Generally speaking, we define Hoverbags as any scrotal pud that mucks up an otherwise perfectly good lesbian kiss pic.

They're rendered douche status simply for showing up. Thus, an otherwise harmless dude like Little Joey here becomes Hoverbag simply for attempting the "double shocker" while smoking a stogie behind your classic sophomore year college coeds in their "experimental phase."

And let us all celebrate the college coed "experimental phase" period. It lasts about a year before they each hunt down a stockbroker husband and move to Staten Island.

PIC DELETED

I haven't seen such a blank expression since Not Sure switched America from Brawndo to water.

Speaking of Brawndo, The Thirst Mutilator (it's got electrolytes!) I think it's time to officially welcome Mike Judge's Idiocracy into the pop-culture referencing fold. I wasn't sure it was going to make it, and while not likely to reach the saturation of Office Space, Idiocracy has enough genius in it to more than deserve to enter the discourse.

Welcome to CostCo. I love you.

It's lunch time. Tony and Clara are hungry, but they're not sure what to do. They need your help.

Should Tony and Clara:

A. Order from Taco Bell
B. Order from White Castle
C. Order from Subway
D. Confront their societal constructions of self, explore their authenticity and attempt genuine communication through philosophical inquiry and deep introspection.

Vote now!

Firm Boobied Leelee Sobieski Brunette writes in:

----
Dear Douche bag exposers,
Hi! I found myself on your site listed as "sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette" under Friday, April 18, 2008. I thought it was hilarious and I laughed really hard even though not all the comments are too flattering for me, I have a good sense of humor.

Anyhow, although there are probably many pics of me with "douche bags" on my myspace profile because I have a diverse group of friends and am nice to everyone, the "douche bag" got tagged with should receive his own month for all the hot chicks he tries to take advantage of and the ridiculous wardrobe he consistently sports, not to mention what he does for a living.

Anyhow, I just thought I would share with you his myspace profile for some excellent material for your site. Feel free to grab some, I think your site is hilarious!

Have a fab day, and happy douche bag hunting. :)
Ciao,
Becca
------

Ah, cute girls with 'bag hunting skills and a sense of humor. Becca may be a candidate for the DB1's third future ex-wife, somewhere around my early 40s after a stint in Reno sent me to the clink for six months.

Cowbag probably isn't true douche, although the shaved chest and rippling face that looks like Lake Winnipesaukee after six jetski Hells Angels rode through its waters definitely are punchable.

But hey, if Stripper Hott's body were any tighter it'd fuse oxygen into ozone. And by oxygen, I mean me. And by ozone, I mean me after coitus.

So yeah, Cowbag's not really classic douche. But I'm going with it.

Mainly because exposure to the new Carmine Gotti Song is so nauseating, its core radiating Jersey douchosity so foul, I need a little counterpoint.

Cowbag and his stripper hott are definitely that counterpoint.

EDIT: Apparently they're a famous celebridouche couple in Britain. Which is kind of like being the best juggler in Armlessland. I don't know what that means, but it sounds good.

Pippy just wants peace for the earth,

So why must we mock his douche worth?

The hottie will say,

Pip, Pip, Pooray!

It's one thing to Run with the Goose. It's another to show off your Batman Underoos in the process.

I feel your pain, scrunchy minxy Minnesotan-like blonde chimpmunk cutie.

Snag Underdouche's Goose, and we'll make cocktails by the fire as I rub your forearms with Vick's vapo-rub and you tell me about how daddy didn't love you enough.

Pip's a classic example of when a ball of metro taint has his douche factor exponentially ratcheted up simply by being in the presence of Sultry Ski Bunny Perfection.

SSBP is all that melts snow in Oslo.

I would nervously ask her if she knew the time. After waiting awkwardly for three seconds while she ignored me, I would grab her straw and run away with it.

One of the most balanced, and toughest, Weeklys we've had in awhile, created a brilliant and hilarious comments thread. Kudos to all the 'bag hunters who raised their voices of outrage and mock to parse the hott/douche dialectic with rapier wit and raging id.

But in the end the power of Turd Flush's vacant stare and blonde's incredible side boob were too much to overcome. carl lazlo makes the case:

Turd Flush. I think it should be noted that I fear the ramifications of this breed of bag. He seems to be a Zombie-Bag or 28 bags later douche. That skin color can only be produced with douche sweat, eye-liner and prolonged excusrions into the tanning bed.

He is indeed the Zombie Turd. In upsetting the power of uberdouche that is The Dog, Turd Flush came up with a mighty win. mitch meats explains:

If Dog were with any other woman in the known universe, he would be a shoe-in. But, alas, it must be Turd Flush. His vacant gaze sees the nipple on my soul.

And colostomy bag explains how the toxic swirl of hott and turd commingled to win:

The Turd Flush, on the other hand, actually has some hotts, albeit slutty ones. He inspires the more conventional feelings of rage and disgust, but on much higher levels than any other of the more recent entries. In fact, if anyone ever truly deserved the status of "colostomy bag", it would be Turd Flush.

Yes it would, CB.

Like Hagler-Leonard, this is a controversial win that will be discussed for many a month. The Dog is so beyond regular douche, a couple of intrepid readers discovered that if you google "cocaine" and click on images, you'll find the Dog snorting away.

That's gotta be one of the signs of the douchepocalypse right there. But in addition to Dog's support, the Prince of Pud nearly pulled this thing out in a huge upset. g0dluvsugly explains:

without a doubt. prince of pud. he has the intent and he has the hott. the chin strap. the chest flex. the shocker. the fauxhawk. the disparate 'bag-to-hot ratio. this pic lacks nothing.

But fret not, in the 2008 Douchies, methinks Dog, and possibly even the Prince, may merit Douchies for their unique contributions to ending our cultural worth while polluting girls along the way.

Alas, only one could emerge. And it was the Flushed Poo of Turd.

As all choads lead to rome puts it:

Turd Flush - because people with no talent in life have to try twice as hard to prove they are worthwhile. At the club, they may seem to be attractive, successful sex mongers, but all I see is a BA in English, 2 months of community college, and a beauty school drop out.

Well described, ACLTR. Give it up to the Turd Flush, and we'll see him in the Monthly.

From Enlightenment, to the Age of Reason, through Modernity and Postmodernity, ours is a world of many cultures and philosophies each exploring the universal questions.

What is life? What is love? Do shirtless mandana fools at clubs deserve to have their Red Bulls peed in?

I believe it was Descartes who first asked, Why does the douche-face annoy?

I still don't have an answer for you, Descartes. So pass the Foie Gras and we'll journey onward until dawn.

Creepy eyebrows and the ridiculous facial hair are somewhat goofy, but otherwise there's not enough to stamp "choad" on this guy's forehead.

Maybe the necklace?

I dunno. I'm inclined to give a nottadouche pass, but figured I'd open it up to the floor.

Kimmy is all sorts of girl-next-door adorable sweetness, with a hidden body of sinny sinn sinn. Oh yes. I'd drink melted chocolate peep malteds of her distilled essence. I'd leap over tiger lilies dressed as a Northumbrian clown just for the chance to mildly annoy her great aunt by poking her with a Qtip.

Willy: Yeeeeeee. Ya know what's rad?

Blonde: What's that?

Willy: Showing my swimming trunks, bra.

Blonde: I'm not a bra. I'm a girl.

Willy: Whatever, woman. Just check my undies. They's fab.

Blonde: You smell like Axe Bodyspray and moldy wonder bread.

Biff: Yeeeee. That's what Willy's talkin' bout.

Blonde: I, uh, gotta go now.

Willy: I'm Willy!! Willy, yo, man!!

And.... scene.

Tell me I didn't just make a Willy Loman joke. I feel dirty.

What's with the black fingernails on the Nordic vampiric Dave Grohl on the right? Surfers should never go goth. Get thee to a hackey-sack field, stat, boyo.

As to Two Tone Jenny, as horrifying as the black fingernail douche innovation is, the two-tone hair thing has that perfect balance between slutty and sexy to power a thousand Priuses.

I was almost inclined to give her screaming snapping alien mouth boyfriend a "temporary douchesanity" pass, but then I noticed the wristband, finger bling and, yup, black fingernail. No Pass For You.

TINY PACKAGE DELETED

Kimmy and Kelly knew that Todd's man-crush on The Gator went far, but not that far.

All dressed up and nowhere to go but some creepy-ass dorm room with a giant blue sheet over the window.

Ladies, short skirts over long legs will always earn my undying respect for who you are on the inside.

I just want to know the real you. What's in here.

And if, in the meantime, I get to gnaw on your thigh like a hungry Burmese toddler digging for clams in the mudbanks, then so be it.

Yeee harrr!!!

Nothing beats the Cowpoke + Dog Tags look. Because when not taking out the cattle for a run over the plains of Utah, Cowboy Joe likes to serve in the Marines.

Yet he's roped a fine filly there. Get 'er dun!

Keywords: "douchey bling," "stupid-ass trucker hat," "sexy blonde Patsy Kensit" and "zebra couch sucks."

After every Monthly vote, the Weekly has to account for two weeks of pics instead of one. Mainly because I'm too lazy to run a Weekly and a Monthly in the same week. That usually means an extra special serving of hott/scrote for your perusal and judgment, and this week's finalists don't disappoint. Each offer their own pungent smell of wrong.

So, without further apoo, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Prince of Pud

This is a classic anger-inducing combo. Sure, the Prince of Pud isn't as cartoonishly spectacle as some of the more extreme 'bags. But he's got all the factors of wrong in one greased up package of what I term "reality douche." He's real. And that's what hurts.

And then there's blonde Susan Winterbottom, descendant of the Mayflower, daughter of the revolution, getting back at her waspy parents and aristocratic life by partying with Tony Florencio here.

The brunette kissing Pud looks to be delectable. And there's a red cup and Prince Caspian in the background. All taking place in what appears to be a neo-Nazi bunker. Yikes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dog

Dog is one of those unbalanced hottie/douchey pics where the douchery is so intense but the hott isn't up to snuff, so that the question becomes if it's enough to carry the pic through to victory based on imbalance.

As we know, a truly superior HCwDB pic has a zen totality to it. A wrongness and a rightness that cancel each other out and offer the contradiction of life that brings us truth.

But can the imbalance that is Dog carry a Weekly?

All I know is that Dog is a scholar and a man of peace.

He is polite and of classy breed.

He really shouldn't hunt me down and beat me like a goiter infested 13th century mule in Scotland.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Turd Flush

Turd Flush also ranks high on the rage factor.

Rare is the douche who actually features his sunglasses on top of his mandana.

Toss in the beads and the two bar slut hotts, and the fact it's all taking place on the deck of the Titanic means a sinking ship of wrong.

Alls I know is I need to scrub my eyes out with bleach.

So them's your three. Three pics enter. Only one can reign douchepreme. Which one? That, my friends, is up to you.

Cast your vote, as ever, in the comments thread.

Quentin Tarantino is a douche.

I can't deny it any longer.

I looked the other way for years. I made excuses when he launched his Broadway "acting" career. I chalked up his self-reflexive babbling and guest directing gigs on E.R. to the indulgence of creative eccentricity.

But then he showed up as a guest judge on American Idol.

Verdict: Douche.

When you choose to be that close to The Seacrest, your essence is transformed into mass culture backwash.

Yes, Dogs was a seminal movement. A rupture event of self referencing filmic pastiche, Hong Kong coolness writ large. But that was long ago. Today, douchedom surrounds the Q.T. like a glowing ball of rectal itch.

So we need to face facts. Q.T., ass kicking filmic revolutionary of the 1990s, is now tool. Lets not get a taco.

It's like trying to convince yourself that that girl you had a crush on in high school didn't gain sixty pounds, pop out some kids, and is sitting in a trailer somewhere, reading In-Style while watching TMZ and living off disability checks. Sometimes all you're clinging to is the faded memory of former glory. The perfect ripe cleavage of long ago. Boobies that exist only in recollection. In nostalgic hues long past.

But the past is the past. It has to be said. Quentin Tarantino is an inglorious douchetard.

And Fergie, I know the masses mock you as not that hott, but to me, you're still a juicy little boob eyed pea.

I can't even begin to comprehend this one.

T.A.'s morphed into Jed from the Beverly Hillbillies, his mandana has somehow migrated down to his thigh, and Brunette J-Lo Hott on the right is saying "peekaboo!" with the most fantastic bumper this side of pre-bloat Kardashian.

So Tighty A, put down them barbells and get to work on those spindly-ass legs. I'll take J-Kard out for unlimited Miller Lites at Flanagan's, just across from the Freshman dorm.

Not much overt douchery on Pimp Daddy, but he is still the Pimp Daddy.

No seriously.

I think he's one of their dads.

This is way too greasy a lineup for a Saturday morning.

I can't tell whether this is a group of Jerseyboys trying to look "arty" for their night out in lower Manhattan, or if a giant blender attacked the sale rack down at The Limited.

Poor, sweet Nicole in the middle. Catholic Girls start much too late.

And I see you too, sweet little overbite Winona Ryder Veronica hott. Come to papa.

It's almost Friday evening, and you know what that means.

Somewhere, in a moldy smelling suburban Long Island basement, Tighty Armani's ready to throw some doucheballs at "the ladiezzz".

He might even snap their necks through the sheer scrotal pull of his hat tilt.

What are you gonna do about it? Just sit there?

Well, yeah. Probably.

But there's lots else you can do. Get out there. If you're a guy, offer to buy blondie a neck-brace and a beer. If you're a girl, trip up T.A. by sticking out your foot when he heads to the bathroom to make sure his hairspike is still perky.

And so I ruminate on cute girls with neck problems. I contemplate another smoggy afternoon in smoggy-ass Los Angeles. I sip my cheap bum wine and I ponder our collective presentational displays of name-brand merit. Armani's social construction embedded within our notions of "self." Cultural capital in our market-based competitive mating pools of urban wanderlust.

And I realize the douchescrotes still haven't learned. Collars still pop. And hotts are still confused.

But then there's the flip. The reassurance whispered in my ear, tinged by alcohol and sugar rush. This too shall pass.

Or, at least, the power of cheap wine and boobie staring to soothe another week's sand grains slipping past.

I like sexy, big cheekboned, firm boobied Leelee Sobieski brunette. She's got the arching back posture of a 19th Century aristocratic British housewife by way of trampy Jazz Age 1920s bootlegger parties.

And then there's Ken. Currently performing nightly as "Dancer #2" and "The Tiki Love God" in the Don Ho Dinner Theater Tribute Extravaganza at the Ribs n' Dibs Buffet off Kokoa Avenue.