On many occasions we've charted the correlation between the purchase/riding of a boat and extreme scrotal spitsackery.

Many a philosopher, from Thales and Anaximander through Gerardo and Color Me Badd, have waxed hypothetic if boatdouchery comes before the boat, or if the boat brings out the boatdouchery.

In Fast Times in Fresh Ink, pictured here, one need only count the plethora of silly tatts, hat tilt, hand gestures, douche-faces and implied viruses to realize the power of the boatdouche.

Then factor in two slutty hotts playing with each other and Ubiquitous Red Cup nervously monitoring the situation, and the picture becomes complete.

The boatdouche thinks, therefore it is.

Sultry Suzanne is even hotter.

Emo is still glaring.

A Waldouche shouts "hey!" and then "ho!" in the distance.

And Suzanne's friend Rachel likes pearls.

Here's the thing about Russian Mail Order Brides, Flabio.

They're not impressed by your chin pubes.

They realize your sunglasses are glorified "Blu Blockers" with a designer label.

They think greasy hair is just plain gross.

So put down the Mojito, wash off the forehead grease and, fer god's sake man, lose the tiny runaway chin-strap for good. By shaving it with a dull razor found on the Coney Island Pier. Which will give you the lip herp.

As to Nadja? Yes, please, with a side order of Borscht.

Puma Joe discovered that nothing quite charmed the ladies like coffee stains in the hair.

Oh Mr. Belding, you wacky sit-com principal.

Tell Screech the new hairdo ain't working.

On an unrelated note, The DB1 gets drunk with a writer from Metromix.

There's been a number of emails lately discussing the disturbing topic of Samantha Ronson.

Since I'm not quite sure who she is (I have one theory that she co-starred with Christian Slater in Pump Up the Volume but that may be incorrect), I'm not sure what to add.

I figured I'd turn it over to the forum.

Is Samantha Ronson a next-generation evolutionary step in the merging of the boobie hottie suckle thigh and the steaming uberscrote?

Is she a Brundlefly experiment gone horribly wrong? Like Jamie Lee Curtis before her, does she hold both peepee and hooha?

Emobags with anime hair are a definite stage-3 violation on the Douchal Hierarchy chart.

Emobags achieve a douche-face with neither kissy lips nor sneer. Their look says, "I don't bathe because I protest a cruel and inhumane world, and I want to touch your boobies."

Sultry Suzanne is that perfect mix of Quartasian with ripe, cherubic cheekbones and Mia-Sara-in-Ferris-Bueller hair.

I would sacrifice a confused Balisian rhesus monkey on a makeshift shrine meant to honor Thorax, God of the Inner Ear, just for the chance to summon rain clouds to water her garden petunias after she overslept after taking an extra xanax the previous night.

When Betsy Ross knitted a flag for the 'volution,
She had no clue it'd be a scrote sack solution,
For Disco Ball Peter,
To show off his ant eater,
Made complete our societal devolution.

It's 19th Century Herman Melville by way of late 20th Century techno D.J. recording artist Moby, by way of 'roidy man boobs.

Really nasty Man Boobs. Moobs.

And a cute hair-scrunch brunette fondling them.

I didn't think there was a way to follow up the Monthly victory for Droopy McScrote. Yet somehow this feels appropriate.

While A.D: Artificial Douchetelligence put up a valliant robotic fight, and by fight I mean Cheetos Orange Residue, Droop and Surfer Kelly were far too strong a commingling to overcome, dominating in their landslide victory.

The everpresent anonymous makes the case:

While the dual belted A.D. makes me wish a pandemic outbreak of necrotizing fasciitis upon Jersey, it's gotta be Droopy Droops for the month.

When Obama speaks of hope we can believe in, he's speaking of Kelly here. I would pleasure her ten ways from Tuesday and then read her Goodnight Moon.

Word to your blubber Droops, keep living the dream...

Word to his blubber, indeed, Anon. The douchezetta stone agrees:

Although A.D. makes me want to vomit my Froot Loops onto my keyboard, it has to be Droopy FTW. On a hot scale, Kelly is the surface of the sun..while the Droopmiester is 0 degrees Kelvin... absolute ZERO. I would consider extreme forms of violence to pull surfer Kelly away from the Manticore-like monstrosity that is Droopy. Put a shirt on, Droopy.

But the lack of shirt is what renders Droopy's delusions of grandblub so profoundly scrotal. As robert muldouche explains:

The Droop. He's douching it up more than anyone else, his hott is hotter, and the contrast between his belly and hers is a marvel of the modern world.

But dr. engine disagrees, reminding us to consider alien warlords with tricked-out laser sighting:

Can't give it to Droop. Amidsts a sea of washboard abs and Lasik Eye Surgery, he has boldy belly-flopped from the dock and caused a massive splash that surely soaked the scrotes around him. For this, I tip my Astros cap. And by that I mean Yankees cap, and say 'good on ya.' You can see the pain behind his gangsta signs, knowing surfer Kelly is waiting for her real douchebag to pick her up after his bouncing shift at Neptunes lets out. I prefer to give it to an oppontent who has all the chance in the world to score...who looks in the mirror and sees nothing wrong. Predator FTW!

But what of A.D.? Will this robotic douche machine from the future return for a special award at the 2008 Douchies? It's possible. As aaronrear explains:

I'd say the Tangerine Twit, A.D., has nailed the essence of douche. He's orange, he's pouting, he's wearing the strangest collection of unnecessary straps and studs and layers, and he sports the douche trademark shirt lift.

All I want to know is what the owner of the hand on the right side of the frame is saying..."Look at that scrote!"

Yes, A.R. Were he only to corral a hot like Surfer Kelly, he would've taken Droopy easily. But methinks we will see A.D. again.

However this is Droopy and Kelly's moment of transcendent spitwater scrotosity. poop douchey douche makes the case:

Simply for the fact that Surfer Kelly makes my testes boil in a way no woman has since my third grade teacher let me lay under her desk for "reading time", (Foot sniffing time)I vote Droopy FTW.

And the religiously inspired anonymous 3:16:

For me, AD and Droops are clearly the breakaways that the peloton of run-of-the-mill DB's will never catch. But with 20 km to go, droop rides to a clear victory, leaving AD to only wallow in his pool of orange dye contemplating which Axe to spray and how to get hott's like Surfer Kelly - perhaps a steady diet of White Castles and Cheetos...

Droops and Kelly FTW!

And steve zodiac takes it home:

For Droopy McScrote is the essence of this website: the difference between him and Surfer Kelly is like Night and Day, Acid and Base, the Pillar of Judgment and the Pillar of Mercy, all that is good and scrumptuous, and all that is vile, bitter, and pathetic. Here - BEHOLD! The failure of civilisation itself in one photograph of an overweight douchebag and a taut tummied hott with Big Fake Boobs.

Go home and cry.

As we shall. Chalk up a spot for Droopy and Surfer Kelly in the Finals at the Douchie Awards in December. They've earned it.

And by earned it, I mean stretch.

Just landed on the East Coast for more book-stuff, and while I just missed the Los Angeles earthquake, I sadly did not miss avoiding having to look at Tumnus the Fawn in my in-box.

Yes, this woodland creature from the Scroticles of Chlamydia is actually making make two simultaneously annoying 'bag hand gestures (#22 and #84), while copping a feel at the Arizona State Cheerleader tryouts.

Let 'em go, Fawn, or I'll force you to read warmed over creepy Christian subtexted fairytales from the 1950s until you itch.

laughing her ass off in vegas sends in an ex:

----
DB #1-

when i stumbled upon your website today (amazing by the way)... a picture of an ex came to my mind.

my ex, although not the biggest douche I have ever seen (i live in Vegas, they are a dime a dozen baby!) he definitely meets the criteria... the "cool" ripped jeans... the strange hand gestures... (what is that? a BACKWARDS shocker?) the "i'm too cool to shave" 5 o'clock shadow... too much gel in the hair.. and lets not forget... the button down shirt at a local bar!

but not only does he have the complete DOUCHEBAG look in this pic... his happy little friend in the background has his thick chain, unbuttoned shirt and cheesy smile... and lets face it.. when you see this pic you think "look at these douchbags".

i mean.. i am no expert... this is my first time on your site.... but i thought i would give it a try.

love,
laughing her ass off in Vegas.
----

I dunno, LHAOIV, I'm inclined to give a nottadouche pass and compliment him on the choice quality of the brunette. But I am transfixed by the club. Is that a cross between a dance floor and The Museum of Natural History? Are those lilliputians building condos in the background?

To prove his hunting prowess, Ken showed two Pool Hotts where Ubiquitous Red Cup likes to nest, and Kimmy plucked two for the road.

Reader Shia Ladouche tags the biggest 'bag of them all:

----
DB1-

I was in Vegas recently, and boy, have I got a bag tag for you. You can't really tell how hot this chick was (trust that she was the hottie boobie suckle-thigh), but the fact remains that this is true douchebaggery in action.

The 'bag is the legendary Arch-Douche "Mystery", actually performing a "magic" trick in a ridiculous fluffy hat in hopes of wooing the lovely blonde hott. This bag tag takes place at the center bar in the Hard Rock cafe.

The funny thing is, when I took this pic, I didn't even know who Mystery was. I showed the pic to a friend when I got back home and she revealed his identity. I just thought it was the biggest douche I'd ever met! Little did I know it was none other than the Grandmaster 'Bag himself, leader of the army of pathetic oompa-loompas following his 4 scrotal truths. Imagine my surprise.

Keep on mocking the douche and lusting the hott,
- Shia Ladouche
----

Mystery's fundamental philosophical flaw is in assuming capturing the boobie hottie suckle thigh validates all. The hott does not validate the self. One can achieve a hott without douchal plummet. That is the the triumph over The 'Bag Within.

Excellent work, S.L. This is one of the highest 'bag tags possible. It's like knocking out Mike Tyson in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.

This may be the first time 'Bag Hand Gesture and Nerd Hand Gesture have merged.

Here we see Braden's "off-the-hook" pool party at his house while his parents were off recuperating at The Betty Ford Center's Dry Wasp House for broken down Brahmins.

Braden greased up, busted the bling, and talked two exchange students into stripping down.

But the "Double Vulcan," Braden? Really?

How do we rectify the Douchal and Nerdal in one singular event? Could Braden be a secret Comicon Attendee?

Brian writes in:

13th Century Zoroastrians living in the Rhineland believed that inducing hallucinations of hottie/douchey couplings by drinking fermented mead and licking a tree frog would lead towards enlightenment.

That is, until Priest Vinny set the congregation straight. Legend has it, he screamed, "Facial Pubes are Douchey!" before collapsing from a seizure, shouting incoprehensibly in tongues, and eventually dying from consumption in a nearby sanitarium in Brottenberg.

Yup, I'm making no sense.

That's what happens when you travel and stare at a hott mugging at the same time.

I get that Farmboy Mike is excited to be away at college for the first time and thinks a bandana around the neck will make him look more "gangsta" for the ladies.

I even get that Farmboy Mike wants to display a giant Cross like Emperor Constantine right before massacring a bunch of Franks in Gaul in 306 A.D.

But what's with the giant ball of suspended hay?

Stare at it long enough and the metal begins to form a face. An evil cat face. Now I'm scared.

Hold me, Kimmy and Shelly. Put down the Red Bulls and hold me tight.

And by hold me, I mean let me lick your Freshman Econ 101 textbooks for fingerprint residue.

The San Francisco reading/signing was great, thanks to all who showed up, mocked some 'bags, and enjoyed a tasty HoHo.

The "On the Choad" pic featured here wasn't taken at the signing, but felt apropos anyway.

I love this city, in spite of the occasional hippiebag, beatnikbag and, of course, the residue of the dot-com trustafarians from 2000.

Your humble narrator is off to NYC in a few days, as the book continues to spread our gospel through the lands of Grieco and Bleeth.

Speaking of HoHos and Night Train, reader Joey Buttadoucheo snapped this pic of the signing table. And proving that great minds think alike, here's a pic from the L.A. Signing that a reader named "Boz" snapped. Love it, nice work Boz. Now shave that mullet and get back on the football field.

Here it is, fellow 'bag hunters. Live from San Francisco. The moment when the four couplings of grease and boobie come together to Bodyspray off for title of HCwDB of the Month and a slot in the Yearly at the 2008 Douchies in December.

Which of these four couplings most personifies all that is wrong in a culture of spectacle gone scrote?

That, fellow 'bag hunters, is up to your vote. Here are your four finalists:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: Predatorbag


Because I never get tired of shouting Get to the choppa!! and because the 1985 macho classic remains indelibly linked to my childhood, Predatorbag deserves respek.

He is the bastard love child of Ahnold and the Predator. Half human, half four jawed alien Rastah hunter.

Pitch it in 50 words or less, Mr. Silver? He is "World's Most Dangerous Game" meets "Platoon" meets "Saturday Night Fever"!

If it greases, we can mock it.

She may not rise to a state of pure feminine ivory snow, but she is still soapy. She can offer rays of hope in a dark, thunderous storm.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: A.D. Artificial Douchetelligence

What is a spectacular sample of otherworldly robotic uberscrote is hampered only by a high Bleeth factor on the girls.

While many pics have risen purely on the power of the douchal blight or the sexy hott, it is in the combination, the dialectic, between both that we find enlightement.

That being said, A.D. is so fantastically wrong, is such a perfect embodiment of all that is American Douche, it is hard to deny his uniqueness.

The girls may be 18 and already dropouts from the Long Island Institute for Follicular Studies, but they do have a certain bouncy charm.

But enough to help A.D. take the Monthly?

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Lawnmower Man

Our third titular reference to a classic sci-fi movie (and I really need to find other genres to crib from), The Lawnmower Man may be the only scrotal contestant on the site to purchase the Weed Wacker instead of the Flowbee.

I would ask Jamba Juice to make me a shot of wheatgrass from that fungus on his head. But it would probably taste like shoe.

However we must deduct points for the potential costumeyness of St. Patrick's Day. But then we add those points back when we realize Lawnmower Man has a second, even douchier, pic, complete with hott licking.

But enough to take the prize? He has to be ranked as a longshot. But Reese is delightful. Can Lawnmower Man pull a Buster Douglas and take down the favorites? It's happened before.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Droopy McScrote

The odds-on favorite to take the prize, Droopy and Surfer Kelly were immediate hits when they first appeared on HCwDB.

She, for the toned, taught body and walnut crushing thighs that promised hints of a summer breeze by the shore while lying languidly on a beach towel, followed by nights of spanking your bottom with a extra-long piece of licorice while calling you "Thor the Ass Hunter!"

He, for the stretch marks and aging gangsta choadishness.

This is a mighty couple indeed. But the winner isn't announced until the votes are counted.

Will the Monthly go to the alien shirtless Predatorbag? Or the robotic A.D. and his double serving of trampy hotts? Will it be the Lawnmower Bag? Or do Droopy McScrote and Surfer Kelly overpower all?

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

Vote, as ever, in the comments thread.

Jon writes in:

----
Hey DB1-
After reading your website for somewhere near 6 months now, I finally got a perfect chance to complete break apart a Douche/Hott abomination.

I work at Little Caesars, running one of the registers, and I get a large variety of different customers, some with crazy eyes, one shoe, etc. About a week ago though, I was cleaning when two cars pulled up. The people walked in together, and were obviously together. The girl was beyond hot, like on a scale of 1-10...15. The guy who walked in with her was a total douche, I could almost smell it. To start of describing, he pulled up in a Hummer. He had assorted tattoo designs all down her arms, but the one that really got to me was a girls name right below his neck.

The girl ordered a Cheese Pizza and Breadsticks, which takes like 30 seconds to grab out of the Hot-N-Ready ovens. The Douche ordered the most complex pizza, and got pissy when I told him he was going to have to wait for it to be made.

When the girl paid, I asked to see ID for her card, just to check the name on it against the tattoo, and the name on her DL was Heather.

The guys tattoo said April.

Not wanting to let a douche get away with what is equivalent to that as murder, I took his pizza out of the oven as one of our cooks put it in. After about 15 minutes of waiting, Heather got upset at the douche, told him she was going home, and that she would talk to him later (in a very upset tone).

Not wanting the douche to complain, I put his pizza in the oven after she left. But to get him back for his douchetrosities, I pulled his pizza out too fast, which causes the toppings to shift, and didn't cut it.

He hasn't been back since, she has 3 times.

-Jon
----

Pizza Pizza.

Ever wonder what it would look like if that dude from the old Disney animated film, 101 Dalmations, decided to douche it up with an innocent Swedish Hott somewhere in Eastern Europe?

Well wonder no more.

Brandon found his witty pickup line using the "Pay to Park" sign worked on the ladies every time.

When hott and scrote come together, it is worse than when Zuul and Vinz Clortho unlocked the hellfires of Gozer the Destroyer. When perfectly formed boobie suckle thigh and rank smelling Axe Body Spray chest shaving tool conjoin, it is a rip in the collective fabric of universal hope and transcendence.

We have sold out our sexuality to name-brand deification. Our bodies, the imprinteur of a post-ethnicity class system determined by Madison Avenue codes and signifiers. A/X. D&G. Ed Hardy. The new subculture, name brand ethnicity, image tribes sold as product.

We eroticize the brand because the brand validates our sexual worth in the simulacrum. And the simulacrum perpetually shifts the goalposts to keep us spending.

Or, as Donkey Douche responds, "Tribal tatt? I'll show you a tribal tatt!"

I leave you tonight with Donkey Douche's tribal tatt, the only coherent response to an incoherent culture. No matter how douchey the clubs get tonight, there is always tomorrow. And there is always hope we will transcend.

The DB1's Friday Errands List:

1. Do laundry (check)

2. Write check and mail gas/electric bill (check)

3. Clean up empty bottles of Night Train and HoHo packages from living room area (check)

4. Scrub eyes with bleach, scream with existential angst for the god that never was, stare at boobies, mock 'roided up musclebags, stare at boobies (check)

When HCwDB site favorite (and Weekly winner) The Small Package told his friends he was gonna "pick up a hott tonight," they didn't think he meant it literally.

Your humble narrator, The DB1, is in the midst of getting ready to head to San Francisco for my book signing on Sunday at 4pm at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square.

Represent, San Franciscians. Or I will run like Donald Sutherland through the streets chasing pod people. And we can't have that.

At first, the Tai Chia Pet just seems standard issue douche. Other than hilarious language butchering and a sweet little Staten Island cutie, he's sort of generiscrote.

But then you see it.

There it is. 'Bag Hand Gesture #84. A teeny middle finger curving around Stacy's shoulder.

Because true uberscrotes can't just embrace the hott. True uberscrotes gotta work in the "gangsta" somehow.

But I would love a tasty bowl of Quaker Oats, Chia, thanks for asking.

Smoke from douche hole blows,
Bleethed Hott on the right. On left?
Deflated balloon.

Two Neanderthals
Porn star hott shows off her ink
Inverse mohawk too?

-- anonymous

Crabs on bleeth are smart.
They've formed a society,
Just launched a space ship.

-- mr. white

Robert Downey Bag
Blows smoke angrily at hott
He's no "Iron Man"

-- anonymous

Motel 6, poolside.
Couldn't afford Rehab pool.
Second rate douchebags.

-- anonymous

Old enough to smoke.
A balloon suddenly pops..
Strawberry drinks all round.

-- teh abominable snowdouche

Nip rings pop man-boobs.
"Flock of Seagulls" fauxhawk sucks.
Where are the red cups?

-- boatbutter

He... wants to rock and roll all night. And hydrate properly every day.

But aw, isn't that sweet. Slayer volunteered his chin as a foster home for two Wrath of Khan earwigs.

Yeah, I made a Wrath of Khan earwig reference. And I will again. Try to stop me.

Earwig.

We haven't had a good Brothabag pic in awhile, and Antoine fits the bill for greasing up the shaved chest and busting the Celtic Bling.

With no kissy lips or smug pout, Antoine almost got a nottadouche pass. But presenting the grease-chest? Sorry 'Toine. That's a stage-2 violation.

Euro Heiress on the right may be pushing late 30s but she can sip Abysnthe by her winter chalet in Oslo while I massage her footsies with Italian lotions and a dash of Bazooka chewing gum.

Ambiguous Quartasian on the left is tiny chinned Chaos Theory goodness. As Jeff Goldblum explained in Jurassic Park, every time a butterfly flaps its wings in China, I stare at her boobers.

The Doggie 'Bag douche maneuver will be credited by future historians to HCwDB legend and Monthly winner The Trainwreck in 2007.

Watch the Doggie 'Baggin move spread here, here, here, here, here, here, and even to Gramps. You go, Gramps.

In this example, we see a classic Long Island homage to The Trainwreck (complete with kitchen and "oops!" expression). You can look coy all you want, Tonya. But that dude's wearing a wristdanna. And his face is the color of a twizzler.

Is there anything worse than a scrote who thinks he dominates the clubs where the hotts are paid to stand next to him?

Is this the douche equivalent of winning the Guitar Hero competition at the local frat-house and therefore assuming you have actual musical talent?

Seriously, Arthur. She is Paid to Pose. Look into those eyes.

They do not say Ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of a man with poor tatts, rings and bad hygene to save me.

They say: I hope this tool tips me 20 bucks before Tony calls me back to the stage for GnR's 'Welcome to the Jungle.'

Read the signs, Boa Arthur. When they're playing you for cash, you are not the Boa King.

You can always tag the douche from the Accounts Payable department by the minimum yet expressive facial hair. This is due to their minimal prep time on Fridays transforming from office worker accountant drone into club-going wankpoo.

Flynn works his quiet desk job, 9-5 every week at Dunden Miffler. Then on weekends, he spikes up the fading Fauxhawk and tries his best to get something, anything, out of that facial hair.

In fact, if you stare long enough at Flynn's chin scruff, it will gradually reveal itself.

Red is featuring inflated implants, one of the clearest manifestations of 'bag infection in a hott, and she probably needs to eat a sandwich, but that's still a very sweet smile. And by sweet smile, I mean boobies.

----
DB1,

I'm submitting to you a picture of a girl I used to date on a regular basis until she started to take trips to Sarasota where she met up with “friends” and took their daddy’s boat into the Gulf of Mexico.

This is how she met this vinegar scented creature pictured before you.

Do I go out and ink a tribal tattoo across my chest? Do I buy 3-D goggle douche-specs? Will I attract her then? Maybe I should have built her a boat made of Ubiquitous Red Cups?

The questions overwhelm me. Guide me to the path of righteousness. Please be quick for I have this irresistible need to buy self-tanner.

Stranded,
Tom
----

I dunno, Tom, that tool is only a stage-1 or a stage-2 scrote. A partially inked tatt and 1960s That Girl glasses aren't really the brand-name culture spectacle of the higher douchal vortex.

Although boatbags do have a certain annoyance factor that goes beyond the bling. As we all remember in last year's legendary pic, The 'Bag Islander. Man, that pic still makes me want to thigh punch a cactus.

But back to your question. As Ubiquitous Red Cup knows, sometimes we gotta cut bait and let the boobies go. No matter how bouncy they remain in our memory. Turning into a Boatbag will solve nothing, Tom. And then I will have to mock you in digital form on this site.

Don't do it. Conquer the 'Bag Within and let the boobies go, and only then will the hiney return.

Many readers have emailed to ask why I don't focus more on the Douchebaguette, aka "The Bleeth."

The interesting thing about female douchedom is that when you do stumble across a pic of a female uberscrote (like here), she's usually posing with a guy who takes the douche to a level far beyond the gum snapping stage-4 Bleethdom that Carmen Douchelectra has ascended.

Apparently Douchebaguettes can't even mate on their own level. They require next-generation douche. Perhaps something to aspire to.

Which makes sense if you think about it. Grieco-to-Bleeth virus transmission would naturally result in lag-time between choad and subsequent hott descent into toxicity.

But, on the plus side, at least she took a nip out of his nose.

Some 'Bag Hunters who have only recently entered training ask me, "DB1, how will I be able to differentiate the Oldbag in pursuit of the Hott from Grandpas with their Granddaughters?"

And I respond simply:

"Grasshopper. You will know the Oldbag by the scent of Mothballs and Old Spice.

You will know the Oldbag by the uncomfortable wrongness evoked as he slides the arm down the back of the Hott for picture posing purposes. A wrongness that emerges from the depths of daddy issue traumas and middle aged crises.

And you will know the Oldbag by silly-ass bling.

Tai-Chia responds in the comments thread:

----
this is him speaking its clearly ur a loser who put me ont his site but im proud bc use are all haters and cannot get as many grls as meim honored that u wanna be like me thanks so much for goign out of your way to do thi thanks alot no wu realize i get hot girls and you dont
----

And here I used to think those spam emails with the randomly generated text accompanying them were written by computer.

Your unshaven narrator on all things hott/douche, The DB1, had to get up at 5:30 and do a three minute interview with a radio program based out of Chicago called Mancow, so I'm a little groggy. I think the quasi-interview (was I even asked a question?) was taped during a commercial break, so I'm not sure it even aired, and I didn't get to say much.

But it did come, in a Heathers moment of cleansing synchronicity, just after Mr. Mancow interviewed the actor who played "Billy" from Predator, who apparently is running for office in Kentucky on the "racist loon" ticket. Billy was going on about how we need to "kill all Arabs," and other such classiness. Because if there's anything talk radio needs, it's more hatred.

But since Predatorbag won the Weekly, and Billy was interviewed before me, it's all preordained.

City of Brotherly Scrote makes the case:

My vote goes to Predatorbag. His abs reek of Preparation H, he's got the look of smug arrogance on his face, there's really no reason for his shirt to be off, and lets face it, the hott is eye-humping the camera like it's nobody's business and we can all enjoy that. You suck Predatorbag. I hate you.

Predatorbag FTW.

CoBS, you have hit the nail on the shirtless head. doucheous nero expands on the theory:

Predator FTW. The hallmark of scrotal achievement is when the douche, being human, makes himself look not-human. When the faux that is douche manifests itself physically and beyond mere adornment. The marquee example of this would be the millennium bag. The Predator has achieved such a manifestation, setting himself apart from his competitors.

"The Post-Human in the Age of the Spectacle" in the title of my next Cultural Studies book. I plan to use Critical Race Theory and Post-Feminist Gender Theory in my thesis. Or maybe not. And Sir Douchey reminds us not to forget the core douche factors:

I vote for Predatorbag. Out of context shirtlessness is a big factor in my decision making

Well said, S.D. And ufo destroyers:

I vote Predatorbag due to the fact that he is one of the malformed Jerz Guidos dancing in the middle of the street in the video. Or at least he had withing 15 minutes of taking this pic. And she has tresses like Athena and mounds like Vesuvius coming out of the clamshell with Venus. Also both of them don't rate to a bag of mulch on the IQ scale -- combined.

Heh, he said Vesuvius. But ned's atomic douchebin reminds us that hott/choad dialectic is where true enlightenment is found:

Predatorbag is the biggest douche. Ice Man's hott is the hottest. Did anybody mention them hindquarters? But these two are not coupled together resulting in a cancel out. So, I'll go with Pimpit for the win.

And Jean Claude Van Douche agrees on casting in with Pimpit and his Stage-4 Bleeth:

I have to vote for Pimpit and Paris. Their combined douche/bleethness has me wanting to take a cold shower using said skin-wrapped flatulence, whilst cursing the gods for allowing the existence of such undeniably moronic "hey look at us" scrotal ovulatory filth to inhabit space in this dimension. Pimpit FTW!

That was a glorious sentence, JCvD. While the perfectly formed assedness of the hott pictured in Ice Man came in third, it did so with a core group of hiney worship, as The Cantaloupe Pharalope explains:

I would train hippopotamae to play the banjo, the fiddle, the jug bass, the jug itself, a tin triangle and other redneck instruments and then throw cantaloupes at them as they drove by on the Clampett's truck playing Ride of the Valkyries if someone told me that her mean big sister didn't like melons or self-conscious travelling bovine musicians.

Genius, C.P.

Both Scare-A-Douche and blondiedouche provide eloquent treatises in the comments thread too long to cut-n-paste here, but I highly recommend reading the full thread. It is top quality 'bag discourse, as always.

But this was Predatorbag's week to fill the fourth and final slot in Monday's Monthly. douche diggler brings it home:

the Predator Bag has an evil face, like Chucky, but it is made that more terrifying due to its primordial shininess ... then there is the weirdly shaped torso that I am pretty sure he crafted by attempting to mirror my shirtless Sgt. Slaughter figurine from 1986 ... he is Douchemary's Baby.

It must be him.

Chalk up the Predatorbag and Gum Snapping Hott for the win, and we'll see them on Monday in the Monthly.

Freud was wrong.

It isn't primal traumas from our childhood that haunt our unconscious and inform our anxieties.

It isn't issues with our mother and father during those first years we form our sense of self that inform our adult personas and haunt our dreams.

It's Chia Pets.

Chia Pets in the Unconscious.

Giant Chia Pets.

Like Emerson, Thoreau and Andrew "Dice" Clay before him, the eloquent and poetic lyricism of He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks has moved the human soul with the longing and pathos of our collective existential journey. While macking on the honeys at the same time.

HJBB&D does so once again, with this short, poetic verse:

----
Status: HJBB&D has to make a few more fone calls and within 12-14 months my net worth will be $4.2 Million.

I dropped outta college...big waste of time

hmm what should I get first a porsche? jaguar? lamborghini? how about all 3 within a year? Exactly.
----

Exactly, HJBB&D.

Exactly.

Morgan writes in with a stage-2 Fratbag 'tag:

----
DB1-

I was at the Wavehouse yesterday in Mission Beach and saw this tool dancing with a super hotty.

This place is known for its bleached out coked out chicks running around half naked so I feel it is my duty as an American to go... where of course many douches will follow.

-- Morgan
----

He's standard issue scrote, Morgan, nothing too exceptional, but still a legitimate 'bag tag. Although the vintage 2004 Kutcher-hat and gino-shades are itchy. Speaking of, 2003-2004 Ashton Kutcher is an often overlooked nexus point for celebubag infection.

As to Party Hott, she clearly has a healthy spleen and chewable clavicles. I would partake like a greedy blowfish after a Brazilian monsoon.

Your humble narrator on all things boobie/poopie,The DB1, will be doing a book reading and signing this Sunday, July 27th, at the Virgin Megastore in San Francisco (2 Stockton St) at 4pm.

Come by, share a Ho-Ho and a red plastic cup of the 'Train and listen to me pontificate on the unholy dialectic of hott/douche commingling.

In trying to imagine what would be uniquely Franciscan Douchescrotery, this couple was all I could come up with. Am I off-base in pinning down the S.F. hott/scrote in pic form?

Come say hi on Sunday, San Franciscan HCwDB Fans. Represent.

In addition, I will be interviewed on tomorrow's (Wednesday's) Mancow radio show. And if you'd like to hear my July 10th appearance on KROQ's Kevin & Bean check it out (starts almost halfway in).

Somewhere in this swirling mix of multicultural douchery, I've carefully hidden a doe eyed hott. Can you survive the choverwhelm enough to find her?

And while you're cozying up to the bar to recover, Who ordered the 'Orange Russian'? (warning, no hott chaser with that poison)

Maybe Joey Lawrence can help sort this out... WHOA!!

Kendra began to wonder if Tony and Pierre really were casting directors for "Harry Potter and the Curse of Repressed British Alcoholism Later in Life," or if they just wanted to get in her pants.

So I'm sitting on my carpet, only minimally hung over, when it occurs to me. She is rural Boston gum snapping sexy/trashy cute. And this guy sucks.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "DB1, why is that an epiphany? That should've been obvious from the moment their pixelated visages first reached and registered on your synapses." And yes, that's true.

But there's another point that emerges from his suckage.

We've covered many of the douchier scrotewankeries locked in perpetual yin-yang dialectic with the hottie boobie. But sometimes we catch douche aura in action. The emergence of a spectral scrotosity. Ethereal, like a ghost. Yet quantifiable, like a titmouse.

Because if anything is quantifiable, it's titmeese.

This is a perfect example of douche aura. Yes he sucks for the unworthiness of the Plissken t-shirt and the mug of punchable muguousness. But the primal gut reaction of this coupling is greater than the physical factors at play.

It is douche aura rendered corporeal. And as such, he, uhm, sucks alpaca balls.

Two happy soccer mom blondes.

Two orange clowns competing with the dancing chicken for coin at the traveling fair in Tallahassee.

One "that guy" dude in the background whom no one ever notices and lives in the periphery of the collective unconscious.

I'd add 'em up but I'm so damaged by that aqua blue collar pop that I'm about to head into room 101 and loudly proclaim that 2+2=5.

I love you, blonde, perfectly formed Alba carbon copy genetic reproduction.

I would learn to chant rhythmically in Spanish just so I could charm the housekeeper into letting me come in and hump your teddy bear while you're out buying groceries at Mayfair Market.

I would spend years slavishly painting great works of art using only acrylic paint, small lumps of coal and pieces of broken glass, just so you would ignore my paintings as you strolled through a museum whilst texting on your iphone.

You inspire me to take showers thrice daily in the hopes that one particle of the shower water might someday reach the ocean while you're bodysurfing with your personal trainer, Karl, and find its way under your taught, yet oh so firm, spandex bikini. At which point my particle of shower water would shout "Booya!!"

Which is very odd. Because shower water doesn't usually talk.

Oh, and 1994 is a douche. Because... uhm... because he just is.