Oh Tiny Dancer Hott, with your dual Ubiquitous Red Cup action, your New Wave Tie and your hint of pokey red satin bra.

Be warned.

What lurks in the night is not a monster from your darkest childhood fears.

What lurks in the night is actually some goofy-ass white suburban fratchoad wearing the douchiest manifest of all -- the 2-Pac Shirt underneath the partially removed football jersey.

I repeat: White Guys in 2-Pac shirts with partially removed football jerseys. Douche 4 Eva.

And with tumbler in wristdanna'd hand, One-Pac will come for you. So beware his chin-pubes, Tiny Dancer. For they are very tickley.

Oh yeah, and his friend Frank came, too. But no one pays attention to Frank.

Does anyone have an eye-gouger and a retroactive memory erasure device on them? My corneas and psyche have both been irreparably singed.

And while you mull your vote in the Weekly, here's a small advance sample from HCwDB poet emeritus He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks' upcoming poetry book, "I Once Had a Thing For Brunettes":

(cue bongos)

----
Bad kissers turn me off.

I once had a thing for brunettes but over the years I lost it. You can find it at Bed, Bath & Beyond

I pretty much like to have girls eat out the palm of my hand cuz I'm god's gift to women. What can you offer me besides sex? .....Dam Gurl

Pretty much I'm the f@#king man and if you hear other wise it's cuz they jealous I'm doin my thang while they suckin that d@#k of envy.
----

There was much to choose from over the past two weeks while culling down the finalists. But this was also a breakthrough week for multimedia HCwDB.

There was both the brilliant I'm a Big Douche at the Scottsdale Bars YouTube, as well as the audio grease that is the Legendary Pickup Artist Scrotebag, Dimitri.

Methinks both are in line for 2008 Douchie Awards at the Douchies in December. It's Monday morning, and while the DB1 nurses a nasty hangover, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Gunter and Klaus

These two European chest shavers suggest all that is wrong in Bratwurst, while Sister Christian suggests all that is future Soccer Mom Hott in Scottsdale.

But for G&K, something in their smug expression just reeks of prune.

And the daring attempt by Gunter to affect the Patented Peaches Point deserves an additional serving of powdered scorn.

At fist I was worried that the Hott was a bit too nice girl to inspire lustful thoughts, but the more I stare, the more I'd gnaw some beef chaw just for the chance to spittoon some gak in the Old West near her great grandmother's former cattle ranch.

Or something like that.

Hey, it's Monday morning. My brain's still a bit foggy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Droopy McScrote

A classic in hott/douche wrongness.

Yes, I could elaborate further on those who sagg and cling to hip-hop wigga glory.

But do I need to?

You got the Droop.

You got the bling, tatts and hand gestures, complete with nerd-glasses and Houston Astros (?) hat tilt.

Then you've got Surfer Kelly, with the rock-hard abs and the strangest swatch of bikini bottom this side of Logan Five's Sanctuary.

But what pushes this pic into greatness is that tiny swatch of red underwear above the cargo pants.

Stay classy, Droopy.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Preppiebags

Something about being transported back to a 1980s teen comedy, in which Teddy Beckerstead is teaming up with Ken from Bachelor Party was enough to set off our collective psyche douche-alarms.

Then there's two lucious little cutes, and the wrongness is complete.

Irono-scrotery?

This issue comes up a lot.

But as many in the comments thread observed, even the ironic "Bar Golf" gag still requires the purchasing of aqua sweaters and tight pink pants that suggest the Alpha-Betas are planning another attack on the Tri-Lambda house.

But are the Golfbag Twins and their sweet suburban bar hotts enough to take the Weekly?

That, my friends, fellow 'bag hunters and choice hotts, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

And for indulging my DJ rant, lets play another round of Where's Waldouche: Butts Edition.

Somewhere in this picture of six cheeks of firm yet pouty goodness, I've carefully hidden a Miami Beachchoad Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Here's the problem.

DJs can play a great role in the club experience. Being a DJ is not auto-douche, and many are extremely good at what they do. DJs are entertainers. DJs can create and facilitate a great club vibe.

What DJs are not, however, are musicians. They are a trade. And the problem lies when they try to confuse the two.

I'm talking to you, trust fund ecstasy taking DJ pseudo-artist. Learn what a seventh chord is. Learn what the "circle of fifths" is. Learn to play an actual instrument. Until then, you are no more a musician than a printing press is an author.

You are a facilitator. A middle man. A bureaucrat in creative drag. An intermediary disguised as producer.

Even the great postmodern artists learned how to produce traditional classically trained art. Warhol was a graphic designer. Picasso and Dali learned classical realism before experimenting with form. DJs desire to tap into the societal myth of "rock star" without having to bother with learning the chords or put in the creative energy in coming up with any music on their own.

And I understand that.

Who wouldn't want the benefits of being rock-star famous without having to have the musical talent or creativity to back it up? It's auto-fame without merit. Like characters out of Vonnegut's Harrison Bergeron, they give hope to the talentless by spreading the wealth equally, no matter one's innate abilities. They offer a gateway to fame through random egalitarian lottery.

Get the right haircut and hold a set of retro 80s headphone to one ear and you too can stand on a pedestal and play the star.

But therein lies the problem. They want to roll out of bed with perfectly tussled hair at 1pm, turn on their iPod turntable with the retro-analog speakers and call themselves an artist. But no amount of carefully placed tribal tatts and stubble will turn you into a genuine production point, sample-boy. You are an empty vessel set to other people's beats. A shell of human form emulating the authentic under the rubric of postmodern refraction and reinvention. Because you're not willing to put in the work that will lead to genuine inspiration.

I'm not saying you DJs don't have your place. You're like my aural waiter. You bring me the sonics, and I appreciate it. If I could tip, I'd definitely go over 15%. Provided you play some Fishbone and De La Soul.

Know your place, sonic proletariat, and all will be well in the witching hour.

Put on delusions of grandeur, claim the role of creator instead of what you really are, an ambulatory iPod with a stupid haircut and no health insurance, and God will keep you out of Israel forever.

It's Saturday evening.

Do you know where your shirt is?

File this one under "Captain Obvious."

Chef, TGI Friday's spokesman and TV personality Guy Fieri is a heaping serving of fried douche sandwich served in a greasy ashtray.

And since he keeps interrupting my TiVo'd Battlestar Gallactica episodes with his ridiculous first-person date advice ads for TGI Friday's, I'm giving him a well deserved Honorary Douche of the Month.

I know you already knew that Guy Fieri was a huge douche. But it needed to be said.

Now Rachel Ray is one extra plump but very tasty serving of steak tar-tar that I would dip in wasabe, soufflé her Napoleons, and then continue making food references that were really euphemisms for sexual deviancy. She is all sorts of Young Martha Stewart raunch.

Mullets.

Do they ever really go out of style?

Vegas says no.

EDIT: And if you missed the genius of pickup-artist voicemail leaving Dimitri, Here's the link again. Enjoy the audio scrotitude.

When the first pic of Sneery McBoat-tatt ran on the site as a Friday Haiku a few weeks ago, many of you thought to yourselves one of two thoughts:

1. bleeeeechhhhhhhh.

2. I wonder if this smug, flexing boat douche really does have spindly-ass legs to go with his trampy Long Island hott?

The answers to both questions have now been answered.

We also might need to consider a 2008 Douchie Nom for innovating a consistent 'bag hand gesture in multiple pics ala Peaches in 2007.

un·can·ny

un·can·ni·ly, adverb
un·can·ni·ness, noun

1. having or seeming to have a supernatural or inexplicable basis; beyond the ordinary or normal; extraordinary: uncanny accuracy; an uncanny knack of foreseeing trouble.

2.mysterious; arousing superstitious fear or dread; uncomfortably strange: Uncanny sounds filled the house.

3. Two creepy-ass douchescrotes macking on Ally and Kristen.

Surrender Dorothy,
Wizard of Scrozz is lime green,
And Toto's on his chin.

mandana fruit fly
hott pink boobie tattoo bleeth
watermelon poo

-- the 'baggernaut

Crystal Meth hottness
Douchebaggery is alive
The male purse strap screams

-- el doucherino

paris on crack is
caught with green Brundle fly
screw hiaku i'm scared

-- douchetoevsky

Douche, jump off a cliff
Smokin’ hott makes, how you say,
Trousal arousal?

-- crucial head

How's about some classic Lawn Giland hott/douche to go with a Thursday evening?

Here's a pic of 2007 HCwDB of the Year Douchie Winner Joey Porsche kickin' it by the pool, old-school style.

And while I'm clearing out the virtual attic, take a listen to Dimitri, the scrotiest pickup artist assbag this side of Mystery.

Rare is it that we can smell uberwank through phone voicemails. This is one of those times.

Dimitri, you are a psychotic ass.

Just Another Bleeth writes in with a 'bag tag from Vegas:

----
DB1,

My girlfriends and I were in Vegas a couple of weeks ago for my birthday and ran into these awesomely douchetastic individuals. We were so impressed that we had to take pictures for you. I was amazed at how many douches there are in that town!!

~Just Another Bleeth (hah - yes I rip on myself too)
----

Nicely done, JAB. Vegas is the Heart of Doucheness, and you and your friends should watch out. And by watch out, I mean pillow fight.

But I can save you.

And by save you, I mean rub Hersheys syrup on your pinkie toes while dressed in a giant Wally Moose costume and humming the theme song to The Young Ones.

Until you tell me that my riff grows tiresome. Which it does. But only when I haven't had enough Vitamin A.

Authentobaggery? Or Fakedouchery?

I honestly can't tell if these clowns are mugging it up as a joke, or are authentic Jerz poo.

What say you? Real scrote? Or imitation crab?

However I do subscribe to the belief that even ironic-douchery is still authento-scrotewankery. Thus, they still suck.

And Brunette would munch on my clavicle with deep spiritual repose.

I quote the great Picasso, who sat at his easel one morning and asked himself this simple question: Orange?

He chose blue.

It's like 2008 collided with 1970 to form some bizarro time-travel mix of a hippie commune, an Israeli kibbutz, a nudist colony and a giant vat of Axe body grease.

I half expect Ken Kesey and Tom Wolfe to drive up on a day-glo school bus with Richard Grieco, Brian Bosworth and the Axe Bodyspray girls doing shots of Grey Goose.

It's socialist collectivism by way of Miami Beach chest shave. Vintage 1920s Lenin manifestos by way of vintage 1980s Donnie Wahlberg free verse.

I don't know whether to read some Ayn Rand, bomb the Bay of Pigs, or slurp some jello shots while staring at boobies.

Bob-O writes in with a concert head shave 'bag tag:

----
DB1-

I was at a concert this past Friday night and saw this smoking hottie in front of me.

A few minutes later her boyfriend comes down to the seats and I don't think much of him, but it's pretty dark in Radio City and the lights are flashing so you can't really get a good look. That's when I noticed, the pattern shaved into the back of his head!

Is that paisley? What the f@#k is going on on his head? So I had to take a picture.

I realize it is from behind and that lessens the hottness of the chick, but trust me, I think you see enough to see she was pretty hot. Plus, if I didn't snap a picture from behind, you wouldn't be able to see just how much of a douche bag he actually is. Hope you and your readers enjoy!

-Bob-O
---

If by "enjoy," you mean bust out the clippers and shave ancient curses in Gaelic on a nearby flock of sheep, you'd be correct.

But this brings up a good point. An experienced Hott Hunter needs only a 10-15 degree rotation from the back of the head to determine hottness in a young female boobie hottie. So yes, I can tell she's hott.

Granmama always said to make sure you wear clean underwear, as you never know when you'll get in a douchecident.

Kelly, your only hope is to jump overboard. Maybe a dolphin will save you.

The great Chinese philosopher and father of Taoism, Lao Tzu once asked us the following:

What is man's life for? What pleasure is there in it? Is it for beauty and riches? Is it for sound and colour? But there comes a time when beauty and riches no longer answer the needs of the heart, and when a surfeit of sound and colour becomes a weariness to the eyes and a ringing in the ears.

The men of old knew that life comes without warning, and as suddenly goes. They denied none of their natural inclinations, and repressed none of their bodily desires. They never felt the spur of fame. They sauntered through life gathering its pleasures as the impulse moved them. Since they cared nothing for fame after death, they were beyond the law. For name and praise, sooner or later, a long life or short one, they cared not at all.

As I contemplate those words, two thoughts come to me.

One, I want to party with Lao. That dude must be off the hook.

And two, did Lao Tzu anticipate the emergence of douche-scrote in a media saturated global simulacrum? And would Lao approve of the Yin-Yang polarity of authentic meaning found in the illogic of douche-hott dialectic that forces deconstruction by the very nature of its wrongness?

I'd argue that he would.

Somewhere in this pic of Sophomore Year "Just Experimenting" Sorority Hotts, I've carefully hidden the worst form of Waldouche, the Hoverbag.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

From this moment this coupling first appeared on the site, there could be only one response to this heaping uberdouche and sweet Italian hott:

Collective mocking, sarcasm and witty repartee from a safe distance. So I turn it over to the 'bag hunting collective to make the case:

hairy prodder:

Metaphysical Hooligan FTW. He is all that is scrote, and his hott pulled through in the clutch during the Thugmani Exchange.

II e-dog:

Metaphysical Hooligan, most definitely. I'm waiting for him to quickly jerk his head and catch his nipple ring with his fake dog tags so I can console Carly Hott in her distress.

jonezy:

MetaHouliDouche is repugnant. He is HoS. Will he take home the 2008 Douchie???

ac/dc bag:

The Metaphysical Hooligan. I've never seen a face so clearly deserving of a large helping of Fist. Not to mention the hot's smile melts me like midday sun on new fallen snow. Oh and skullboobies. how can you not love skullboobies?

The everpresent anonymous:

Hooligan, star-childe of douchebaggery, scrot of the cosmos, ftw. You can tell from his other pic that he practices his Derek Zoolander 'look' in the mirror for his next photo-op.

grumpy llama:

The Metaphysical Hooligan simply has to win. The case I made for the weekly still holds true. Yes, Truman or Smearkat might have a chance if it weren't for the Hooligan. But Zippy, while infuriating, isn't fit to carry the Hooligan's (douche)bags. Not only does Hooligan win the monthly, but I feel compelled to invoke Kant's notion of the "moral imperative" and insist the Hooligan be fast-tracked for the Hall of Scrote.

Anyone who invokes Kant to explain douchery is on the right track. Hos may very well be in MH's future, GL. But bananaphone bucks the tide, reminding people to consider all that is poo about Truman Coyote and Reese Hotterspoon:

I have to go with Truman Coyote hands down. The gangsta tats combined with the upturned hat that makes him look like he's 12 years old and wearing daddy's baseball cap is just too much for the hooligan to overturn.

He reminds me too much of the WB cartoon of the two dogs. the bulldog and the terrier. Truman would be the little dog bouncing around saying, "Whaddayawannadoo, Spike? You wanna chase cars? You wanna get the cat? Huh, Spike? Huh? Hey Spike, you wanna bone?"

Excellent classic WB reference, BP. And champagne douchernova reminds us of the understated douchery of Zippy and Lacy Underalls:

In closing...Zippy FTW. His pale, muscle free body is an attempt to circumvent the obvious bag avoidance routines. He is the Stealth bag that ends up turning your sister into the Oompa Lady.

Again, I say Zippy FTW. And he, more than any other of the monthly hopefuls, needs to be monkey stomped so I can console sultry next door Lacy Underalls.

I've been there, CD. She is delectable. The cleverly monikered abbroham lincoln agrees:

It's got to be Zippy. He meets all the qualifications for douchedom, and his hott easily blows all the others out of the water. Sure he wins on the power of the hott, but I just don't give a damn.

And grady bagmore honors the legendary George Carlin, by voting for the Smearkat and saying one word: "Boobies."

since this month is dedicated to George Carlin, i must vote for smearkat, because Carlin loved the boobies.

I think I'm still stunned about the passing of Carlin. It's impossible to overstate just how vital, important and hilarious he was. One of the great Americans of our lifetime.

But enough memorializing, back to the douche. The shaved star-head was too much to overcome. The Hooligan is like the Ace Frehly of Kissbaggery. As jed the avenger explains it:

Metaphysical Hooligan is so douche-tastic that I stopped eating processed food, strongly considered becoming an atheist, and began a life-long vow to be celibate.

Indeed, J the A. And so we honor the legend of George Carlin in the only way we can. By telling douchebags to kiss our ass and lusting after their hotts along the way.

Book The Metaphyiscal Hooligan and Carly Hott in the Yearly, where we'll see them take on Bra!!, Tighty Armani, and the other Monthly winners for HCwDB of the Year in the Douchie Awards.

And props to everyone who voted in yet another brilliant and hilarious comments thread.

You people are part of the collective push-back to change this world for the better. And stare at boobs along the way.

I'm normally not a fan of the homemade video remix thing, but this is some hilarious stuff. Excellent use of a hose image, as well as the Big movie poster. Well done, Anonymous YouTube Editor Guy.

The story we broke here at HCwDB last month about the Oompa Tribe discovered in the Amazon may be a fake:

----
Group denies misleading media over Amazon tribe
Tue Jun 24, 2008 2:16pm EDT

RIO DE JANEIRO (Reuters) - A group that campaigns for tribal peoples' rights denied on Tuesday that it and the Brazilian government had misled the media over photographs of an uncontacted Indian tribe in the Amazon last month.

Britain's Observer newspaper reported on Sunday that the tribe, rather than being "undiscovered", had been known by the Brazilian government for nearly 100 years and the photos were an attempt to publicize the risk it faced from logging.

Its story prompted some other media to call the photographs a hoax.
----

However, if you click on the photo above, you'll realize there is no fakery involved. It's just another day off the Jerz Turnpike.

Ah yes, the Preppiebag. How we've missed you.

Rare do we capture such a classic category of schlorterscrote in action.

Lest you think this is ironic douchery, think again. These two are very sincere in their prepster assedness, and blondie wants to bake me a cake.

And yes, "schloterscrote" is a word. I just wrote it down and read it, so that makes it a word. And if Websters has a problem, I'll send Willis and Arnold over to kick his ass.

I get a lot of email from readers about a deep scrotal problem occuring in Colorado. One wouldn't picture the skeeze plague reaching that far, but this pic comes to us from Boulder as evidence.

I can't tell if this is a costume party or not (costume parties are generally exempt from douche/hott mocking), but since I loves me some healthy teethed volleyball playing Jennifers, I had to run it.

And seriously, Brad.

Gold bowtie? Is that a slice of Fruit Stripe gum on your wrist, or are you just glad to see me?

Mia writes in:

----
DB1-

How many wristbands do YOU see???

This idiot at a pool party was nasty, and my and friend and I had to take a picture for you.

Love,
Mia
----

I love it when my female readers tag a 'bag, send it in, and don't write too much.

Now alls I need is for Mia to bring me a microwaved Hungry Man Chicken Dinner, a PBR, and a first edition copy of Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition so I can contemplate the negative ramifications of modernity while staring at Mia's curvy legs, and I'd be in hog heaven.

When Jackie went to the local fish store to grab the "Catch of the Day," little did she know it would be the Guidofish.

Yes, it's true. Whenever in doubt for a HCwDB pic, party couples from the Hard Rock in Vegas provide the perfect dose of hottie/douchey joltertainment.

And by dose, I mean cultural infection. Schlorty turds with beads licking on perfectly formed tomato paste pizza in a can.

Porcelain Hott writes in with a roommate 'bag tag:

----
DB1,

First I'd like to start off by saying my boyfriend and I are big fans of your site. If I'm in need of a good laugh quick I know right where to go.

But on to the meat of this email, I was browsing my soon-to-be-roommate's Facebook and came upon a rather douchetastic photo that would perhaps be to your liking. The douche not only sports a douchey hand gesture, but uses it to lift his shirt and expose his man nip and wannabe six pack. The little hott is my future roommate, and I find her to be rather adorable. If you choose to show it on the site I would be very honored, but if not I completely understand your overwhelming supply of choad images. Either way, enjoy!

Your admirer,

Porcelain Hott
----

I had something articulate to say, P.H., but I lost it right around the time you wrote The little hott is my future roommate, and I find her to be rather adorable.

Pillow fights and oil massages are a wonderful way to relax after a long day, P.H. Trust me, I know. I'm pretty sure that's how every female roommate situation ends up.

Here's another pic of Lonely 'Bag Hunter's asian hott from Saturday's Ask DB1.

Here, she looks remarkably less Bleethed out than in Saturday's pic. She's pure like snowflakes, no douche could ever stain. Yet her choice of choad remains stenchy.

I'm going to revise my judgment and say that she can still be redeemed from a life of douchebaguette.

And by redeemed, I mean my giving her collection of Barbies a steam cleaning just for the chance to pass within fifty yards of her fifth grade teacher's proctologist.

While you're mulling your vote in the Monthly, I thought I've give you one of the hardest Waldouche hunts we've had.

Somewhere, in this pic of four drunk sorority girls, I've carefully hidden a douched up Aqua DJ Waldouche with dorky stripey cap.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Last month's winner was the mighty Bra!!, who rode a bevy of hotts and tasty cola beverages to victory. Who will win this month's Monthly and take their slot in the Yearly during the 2008 Douchies in December?

That, fellow 'bags, hotts, 'bag hunters and albino midgets, is up to you.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Smearkcat

Now you might say a vote for the Smearkat is a vote for large succulent tatas that could feed a small army of hungry babies.

And you'd be right.

But lets not discount the power of grease-scrote at work in the simultaneous kissy face, exploding grease hair and stupid-ass tie.

The douche is high in this one.

As with every Monthly winner, the hott and choad must commingle in a noxious stench of wrong. A steaming poo-pile of all that rots our collective soul from within.

The Smearkat accomplishes this on all fronts.

And by fronts, I mean "look between the two giant melons."

Hug me.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: Zippy The Scrotehead

Zippy clearly won the HCwDB of the Week on the power of sultry aristocratic upper west side Lacy Underalls Hottness.

But, as with the Smearkat, Zippy's scroteyness can't be understated.

While he first appeared to be a hippie Bennington ultimate frisbee playing tool, the signs of a deeper douchosity are unmistakable.

The star tatts.

The hair fro.

The wristdanna.

And Jr. Ubiquitous Red Cup.

Note her hand on his stomach. This is real deal hottie/douchey wrongness, no PTP (Paid to Pose) artificiality. Thus, it is stomach punch wrong.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Truman Coyote

This pic grows on my soul like a fetid pollen.

It hurts.

At first the pic kind of appeared on the site, but didn't make a huge ripple. But this dude with a weaker chin than Ed Norton has grown with every subsequent viewing.

And while I'm not a fan of the Reese Witherspoon uber-wasp hotts, blonde is delightful.

Her curves are fantastic.

His tatt + underwear is pollutant.

The EPA just called. They're declaring this a something something... you get where I'm going with that one.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: The Metaphysical Hooligan

The strongest candidate, and the odds on favorite to win the Monthly.

But is the hott enough? Yesterday's pic argues absolutely. I find spitfire Italians who would scream at me and embarrass me in restaurants to be all sorts of exciting.

But can Carly compete with Lacy Underalls, Reese Hotterspoon or Boobsy McBoobs?

Or does the stench of shirtless nipple-pierce more than compensate?

That, my friends, is up to you.

This is the HCwDB of the Month.

Choose wisely. And lets dedicate this Monthly to the late, brilliant and irreplaceable George Carlin, who died yesterday at the age of 71. You will be missed.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Nothing says "Thug" like lime green matching shirt/mandana and carefully sculpted facial hair.

If only Kubrick had known that the real droogs of the future would be designer name-brand douchewanks. A Clockwork Orange would've been a whole different experience.

She is mint oreo love. In fact I'm almost sure these two have appeared on the site before. But either way, I would dip her in chocolate and make egg cremes.

I can't tell which is more upsetting, this pic, or the The Oompa Lady someone sent me.

Yikes.

EDIT: Yup, it's The Metaphysical Hooligan and Carly Hott, looking mighty fine. I almost missed it, that's what I get for a weekend of Night Train cocktails. Props to Don't Wheeze the Douche! for catching it so quickly.

Could it be?...

Is this?...

The Ab Lobster himself???

Pointing. At. A. Hott??...

My whole paradigm has been disrupted. The finger has moved towards another. It's one small step for douche, one giant leap for douche-kind.

Oh William Katt, how I loved you in The Greatest American Hero. How low you've fallen.

What?

I can't make William Katt references? Would you prefer Spencer Pratt?

And on an unrelated note, here's the takedown email for The Mourning Fathers:

can you please take down the morning of fathers pic my girlfriend and i dont want us up there

Lonely 'Bag Hunter writes in:

----
Dear DB1,

Help!! I went to high school with a sweet sweet Asian girl who rocked my world when it came to trigonometry and could balance a complex chemical equation like a Ukrainian acrobat balancing a high wire.

We had lost touch over the past 6 years though, until she added me to facebook. I was excited to see what had become of my sweet friend so I checked out her pictures and was shocked to find this girl at the edge of bleethdom, surrounded by all sorts of douche! How do I save her and in the process reclaim what's rightfully mine?!?! Help!

- Lonely 'Bag Hunter
----

The process of saving The Bleethed Out Hott is a complex one that requires patience and dedication to process. It is covered extensively in my book, being released on July 8th, but available for pre-order on Amazon.

The first step is to mock her choice of douchewankery with ironic sarcasm delivered from a safe distance. The second is to help reveal what is already in front of her -- to make visible the douchery. What Heidegger describes as the philosophical effort towards the phenomenological.

In other words, render the structure of name-brand validation visible, and it will be like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard. She will see that what she desires is cultural capital rather than authentic, and the douche-poo will become seen.

However, with any late-stage Bleeth, we must also know when to walk away. When the douchebaguette can no longer be saved, and should instead be scourned. Judging by the pic you sent of her, she may sadly be lost.

No 'bags in this pic.

Just Hott Bubble Soup. And more URC's than you can count.

It's Friday, and after the unloading of saggy shirtless greasechoads on this site over the past few days, I thought we all needed a break.

So for the guys, jump on in and do a shot of Jager with Vanessa in the Bubble Bath. For the lady readers, hop on in, there's plenty of room in there.

It's Friday Night. And this pic is 'bag free.

Except that dolphin looks suspicious. Is he making a douche-face? And is that Flipper Gesture #23?

The hott side of the equation in this pic can and should be debated. Her expression is scary. But I'm going to be generous and go with its a very unflattering pose on an otherwise decent Scandinavian au pair.

The douche side of this equation?

Uhm,...

Yes.

Somewhere, buried deep in this performative circus of Moulin Rouge upper stomach areas, I've carefully hidden a douched up hat tilt Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

PIC DELETED

Somewhere, in the distance, there is a mournful wail. And then another. They join in mutual pain.

The plaintive cries echoes over the dark streets of Mobile, Alabama. It sounds like two wounded dogs, howling together.

But it is not the noise of dogs.

It is the wail of both girl's fathers. Joined in the mutual pain of having their daughers fondled by a greased up ur-scrote.

Each father thinks back and wonders to himself. "Where did I go wrong?"

It's not your fault, fathers. The douche virus is too strong, even for the best of us.

However I will rescue your daughters. And treat them with the respect they deserve. While fondling their ankles and juggling hamsters.

"What went wrong?" she asked.
And I pointed her to this.
"Douche poo." I replied.

bag light, allsack bright
first 'bag that I've seen tonight
fun-bags, boobies...Sproing!

-- 'ol bagnanimous

Summer Solstice come
Baio-Dome contemplates tribe
Join, get tatt', bag hott.

-- baio-dome

Poppin Fresh Dough Girl
A Rebel Without A Clue
Please Oh Please Don't Breed

-- douchenozzle

Douche smell all around,
Yet stripper girlfriend smiles on.
The Bleething: complete.

-- blair

tron glasses hottie
poses with travis barker
blink 180 poo

-- bcs

Douche Super Heroes
Devastating POO Powers
Summons his Power AXE

-- vacuum cleaner bagg

Np amount of tatts, hand gestures, rings, low slung army pants, earrings or hipster glasses will hide the saggy fact of aging poorly as you hit 40, Droopy.

The kids don't think you're like that "cool uncle" they always wanted. They just think you're gross.

And no, Surfer Kelly is not into you.

She's just being polite.

A great philosopher, I think it may have been Archibald Leech, once observed that even in a barren concrete wasteland, a flower can grow.

In this case, that flower has a great tan, fantastic legs, a beautiful peroxide smile and a less attractive best friend. I want to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her while greased up with chicken-fat.

Conversely, the wasteland is trashy, smells like pledge, and has a creepy guy in the background who may or may not spend lots of money buying products from late night infomercials.

Ever thought to yourself, Gee, I wonder what would it look like if a cheesy metrosexual club scrote with giant gelled up hair who looks like Alan Cumming pawed a Germanic Fraulein in a psychedelic wind tunnel?

Well now you have an answer.

Congrats to my hometown Boston Celtics on their 17th Championship, and I'm pleased to see Ubiquitous Red Cup and Cavedouche merged into one singularity at the post-game celebration.

And while I'm doing an off-topic post, I want to take a moment to honor the late, great creature and effects artist Stan Winston, who died a few days ago at the age of 62. There was probably no one who greater impacted my childhood than the designer of the creatures in The Terminator, Predator and Aliens.

I had the pleasure of meeting Stan Winston at Comicon last year and he was a class act. Rest in Peace, Stan.

I woke up feeling refreshed this morning.

Maybe it was the bizarre cocktail of Patron and Mr. Pibb I came up with at 2am last night that destroyed all bacteria in my lower intestine, but I felt strangely cleansed.

I got out of bed and stretched.

I fed last night's leftovers to the British street urchins I keep locked up in the basement to amuse people at parties, and put out some granola on the porch for the Lemurs.

I watered down the petunias in my garden and gargled some windex to cleanse the palette. Then I went inside to the study.

Lighting up a stogie and pouring a shot of rum for Jobu, I contemplated the famous words of 16th Century astronomer Tyco Brahe, who stared up at the Prague skyline one night and casually remarked, "I have to pee."

So I peed.

Then I contemplated Pierre Bourdieu's concept of "Social capital." How it informs the erotics of the douche/hott through the markers of name-brand validation (Armani/Exchange, etc.). How we flatter ourselves into thinking our sexuality is innate, when it's actually guided by complex social forces that profit from ennabling cultural anxieties in the social sphere.

Then I stared at pictures of boobies. Boobies make lil' head very happy.

I reached no grand conclusions, neither from Bourdieu, nor from boobies. But it's Thursday morning and the sun is shining, and I'm still in New York. The book comes out in a few weeks. There's a whole new crop of scrotes and hotts in my in-box this morning to go through and mock.

So there is still hope to save the boobie hotties from the wrongness of douchescrotery. And if we can drink along the journey, then all the better.