It's a lazy Sunday during this three day weekend for your humble narrator of douchetrology, The DB1. I scratch myself. I look at Melon Butt. And I scratch myself some more.

I sip cheap alcohol, munch on an extra-large bowl of Corn Pops, and consider the Bleeth. Those women of good breeding and firm perkage who somehow attract towards the Douche Fly.

Like Melon Butt here, and her posse of insectified scrotesects.

I think about what it means to be a scrotesect. How the male seeks to use his body as an eroticized gender inversion. Douche as "Hot Chick," "prettified" by product, to confuse Hot Chick into wanting Douche. Eroticism imbedded in product. Armani/Exchange the golden calf of so many spiritual desert walkabouts. So many trips into the digital echo chamber of product enhanced validation. So many graspings at the elusive reaffirmation of the body using corporate brand as substitute for self.

And then Melon Butt speaks to me.

Melon Butt reorients the chaotic swirl of simulation, of pixelated echo, of digital performance as substitute for the authentic, into a singularity of focus. If Melon Butt could talk, it would say, "The real still exists. It exists in my curvy melon butt."

And I hold onto Melon Butt as the guiding sherpa amongst the douchal untether that informs the age of mass media.

Which is a grandiloquent way of saying I'd knead Melon Butt like sparkling neon play-doh in the bouncing moonwalks of blacklit rubber padded cells of eros. For it is tasty. And it is real.

The rest may be digitized white noise. But Melon Butt is real.

Mark #1: Tobey Maguire's less successful cousin, Rocky Magdumbass

Mark #2: The escaped convict from Pee Wee's Big Adventure with just a touch of Bruce Campbell chin

Mark #3: Head

Hott #1: A cross between Salma Hayek and the eyes of Jennifer Connolly, she makes arthritic frogs tap dance the love theme from Superman II

Mark #4: Has struggled with his music career since Cypress Hill broke up.

Dude on the left earns a borderline nottadouche pass, in spite of some hair spike and shirt loudness. He's okay.

Hott in the middle tickles my nethers with her pouty stare, even if she is flipping me off.

Douche on the right needs to be dipped in honey and tossed into a vat of bad computer graphics red ants in an Indiana Jones movie that never happened.

He is pure Ass Salami. Sliced and for sale at $4.99/lb in Bay Ridge.

Alas, HCwDB's 'bag hunters have become divided. Uneasy. Restless.

Perhaps it is my fault for ranting on a politicalbag. But I make no apologies. There are no corners of hottie/douchey spectrum that will not be explored on this site. Nor will there be false "balance." This is my site, and my ranting goes.

But I do not want regulars who disagree with me to feel frustrated.

So instead, let us rally. Together.

I have a platform I wish to introduce that will bring us back into one cohesive whole. Ready to mock the douche and lust after the boobie hottie suckle thigh.

And it is this guy. And this hott.

Come together. Mock. Lust. And mock some more.

Okay enough political stuff. Lets all sing some Dylan:

I lived with them on Montague street,
A basement down the stairs,
There were douches in the cafes at night,
And devolution in the air...

Not since the Bush/Quayle pairing of 1988 have a douche and a hot chick run for office together.

For crotchety oldbag whining, for telling me to get off his lawn, and for picking a former beauty queen as his #2, John McCain earns this month's honorary HCwDB of the Month.

Politicalbags aren't my favorite subject around here, mainly because so few of them actually snag attractive hotties.

Proving the adage that Washington really is Hollywood for ugly people, as well as for conceptually douching it up rather than featuring physical markers of douchebaggery, Politicalbags tend to bore me.

But for today's idiotic selection, lets give John McCain a hearty douche of the month award. You've earned it, old wrinkly guy. Not to mention dumping your first wife for a 24 year old beer heiress. Your history of wonky douchitude is a long and inglorious one, Keating #5.

And yes, Sarah Palin, you are the milfy librarian hott that revs my motorboat even at your advanced age. And while my lust for your sharp librarian looks may be a sexist invalidation of all that you've accomplished professionally, I really don't have to worry. Because you haven't really accomplished anything professionally.

Yeah I've been overdoing it with the Boatbags this week. But it's Labor Day Weekend. If not now, when? If not me, who?

In this lineup of tasty, curvy, slightly milfy hott milkshakes, I've dropped in a classic floating boat turd.

Note all the key signifiers:

Mandana + Spikey Hair Fro.

Shoulder Tatt designed by an epileptic rhesus monkey.

It's Labor Day Weekend. What better way to celebrate the progressive development of standardized work weeks, citizen rights and productive national development, then by choadmocking and boob admiring?

Methinks we do our patriotic duty.

AE writes in:

----
Hey DB1,

I was flipping through the movie channels to other day with some friends and spotted the old Power Rangers movie. We were having a good time and laughing at quite possibly the worst dialogue since Spike Lee thought he could act. Then it hit me. The white ranger Tommy, the one who's clearly banging Kimberly, is a total douchebag. He's usually got some kind of bling that was awful even for the 90s, not to mention the slicked back shiny hair. When you look at the hard evidence, you might think he's a low level 'bag, but you just can't ignore that smug little face. He thinks he's the coolest sh!@t, but the worst thing is that when I was a kid I thought he was the coolest sh!@t too.

Maybe if I'm lucky Kimberly will help me repent my old admiration for a total bag. She can dress up for me any day and the screaming karate is always a plus.

- AE
----

Good call, AE. But if we're doing douches from 1990s children's TV, my money's still on that creepy Nordic Himmler baby in the sun from the Teletubbies. There's no doubt that kid'll be slicking up his hair and making gang signs for his senior high school photo in 17 years.

Russian Mob plots sting,
Sue Ellen Smith's an heiress,
Snag jewelry and boobs.

Classified advert:
Bono bag seeks kinky pair
For infiltration.

-- holbrooks douchestershire sauce

Shirley, where's Laverne?
Squiggy, you let yourself go
Son of Fonzie: douuuuuuche

-- i drink your doucheshake

that "70's Show" cast
out of make up & on drugs
sure look different

-- creature

He still hasn't found
No help from Benny and Joon
What he's looking for

-- jean claude van douche

X-Lax has a thought: Perhaps Steven Hawking was wrong that dark matter in the outer part of the galaxy is caused by neutrino energy. Perhaps it is instead caused by vodka boobies.

This reminds me of the time I... actually, no. This reminds me of no times. Or maybe the end times.

Or maybe setting my eyelids on fire.

Blondie writes in:

----
Hey there DB1!

I think I have a new 'bag qualification: guys who are serious when they hit on cashiers.

I've been working as a HyVee cashier for about 2 weeks now and I've had a total of 5 guys hit on me to the extent that my manager actually had to come over and tell them to leave.

I'm not dissing on the nonbags who want to flirt a little bit, it makes a mundane day a bit more exciting, but asking for my number, asking if I "have a man", or if we could hang out later put you in the doucheosphere.

The latest one tonight wasn't even at my register but at the one behind me, and apparently liked my ass enough to put his arm around my shoulders and ask if I had a boyfriend. I was already in a pissy mood from working an 8 hour shift and was glad when my manager threw him out.

The best part was when my manager came back to ask if I was okay, and I said, "I'm fine, I just wish I had a pocket camera so I could submit this guys pic to hotchickswithdouchebags.com," and my manager totally cracked up laughing - turns out he's a huge fan as well! He said next time he'll try and get the guy on harassment so he can do an "instore mugshot" so I can share the doucheness with you!

Keep on baggin!
xo,
Blondie
----

Well observed, Blondie. Stay safe while ringing up the HoHos.

But since you didn't send a pic with your email, here's a standard issue hybrid of Rockerbag and Beachbag cuddling a freckly girl next door hott while doing the "White Man's Overbite."

Ted isn't an uberdouche. More like your standard stage-2 Southern Fratscrote.

But between the diamond ear bling, the double necklace and the smug-ass expression that's a cross between smiling and sneer-mocking us for not being near to the blondie boobie suckle thigh, he's 'baggy enough to make the site.

Kristen makes holy spirit guides of the netherworld hump teddy bears like cracked up rhesus monkeys.

Remember about ten years ago when people still thought making "eight head" cracks was funny when referring to someone with an unusually large forehead?

It wasn't funny then. And it isn't funny now.

Which is why I must point out, in all seriousness, and not to make a joke, that that is a a three hundred and forty seven head.

Somewhere in this lineup of perky corn-fed Midwestern hotts, one Fratbag and one potential serial killer, I've carefully hidden an over-the-counter digestive tract aid.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Rare are the days where we've seen smackworthy kissy lips this smackworthy.

I'd like to toss his Mendula Oblongada into a four dimensional blender so his throat could be shredded in multiple historical moments.

Something tells me Caroline will be a wonderful mother, who would cherish and guide each of her children with unyielding dedication until they became adults, and as such, I'd like to rub melted Twix bars on her femur bones until she purred like a kitten.

Yesterday's Doggie Trot 'Bag master, Huggy, is back.

This time to show off the powers of The Mark of the 'Bag on his forehead while Ubiquitous Red Cup monitors the situation warily.

Prita is all sorts of Sikh delight. I would share tales of late nights in Maharashtra, sipping Jal Jeera while reading overrated Rushdie, before respectfully walking her back to the dorm by 10pm. Because she has a midterm in the morning.

Choaden Pond proves the dictum that the douchier the boatbag's sneer, the higher the likelihood that perfect boobie boobs will be bouncing in the background like epileptic Jello.

2008 is shaping up as the year of the Everybag. The subtle douche. Unlike 2007 uberbags like Fish Slap and The Gator, this year the spectacle club scrotes are less rage inducing than the subtle sneering ubersquat. The everpresent anonymous explains:

boatbag simply wins this one far and away because he is on a boat. And he is sneering. And his hotts have inner thighs that need urgent suckling, even moreso than Gauntlet's hotts, which, while suckle-worthy, lack the pouty curves and ample bosoms of boatbag's team.

Well said A. Anthony Labaglia breaks it down further:

Although at first glance, I find The Gauntlet to be more repulsive, I feel that the Scrotey Mariner and his body of work will contribute more to the site in the long run. Additionally, every time I see his douchey face in a boat, I have the urge to run him up the mast like Lieutenant Dan in a lightning storm. Holding a nine-iron. SM ftw.

It is the Mariner's subtle sneer that is even more powerful than a thousand star tatts. Douche Aura has now become more enraging than Douche Spectacle. We are learning.

And Frederic Choadpin explains that August is Boobies Month:

Scrotey Mariner. To make it brief, those hotts are just too hot. Maybe if the Primordial Ooze's hotts were in bikinis, they'd have it... but they don't.

And while it was a lesser week overall in terms of choices (airing out the pre Labor Day pics), The Gauntlet's "Thirty" sag inspired more than a few bouts of rage. Cleopatra explains:

Gauntlet -- he's the kind of guy that make a girl's privates close up like a drawstring purse when she sees him coming at her across the barroom floor.

Interesting, not sure I've heard that analogy used before, but it's very visual, Cleo. But the weak hotts cost The Gauntlet what surely would've been his Weekly.

douchelexic casts in for the Ooze, who came in a distant third:

between the hat tilt and plastic frame sunglasses on ooze, and the yankees hat, sneer, and cut off cargo shorts of primordial, my vote goes to Primordial Ooze. Middle hott hasn't yet been infected with bleethness, and outside hott is so skanky that her dirtyness makes me want to shower her with love and dial body wash.

also, P.O. are still young. perhaps a strong collective mock can save them from ending up in a lake boat with midlife crisis tattoos...and sexy blue polka dots. Primordial Ooze FTW.

But, as we're in the dog days of summer, Boatbags are placing strongly. Captain Abag breaks it down:

The Mariner. Because he really does know better. We all wish we could be on that boat, kicking him off of it.

Yes. Yes we do.

It was a substandard crop of HCwDB finalists this week, but the votes were well played, and it's the Mariner and his double-hotts who came out on top. And by top, I mean cultural bottom. Poo bottom.

We'll see them again next week in the Monthly.

One thing's for sure, my stool is softened.

Stupid hat. 'Bag Hand Gestures #23 and #104. Wrist bling. Yes, he's scrote. But annoying? Or just goofy?

Gas 'Bags are stage 1-2 tweeners. Clearly douche. But unthreatening.

Somehow you kinda like the Gas 'Bag. He's a clown. He amuses you. As such, Gas 'Bags are lesser douche. Annoying, but minor.

They may not be standard hotts, but I would still take the spicy Paprika Twins and twirl them in my personalized human cotton candy machine before break-dancing down a chocolate rainbow and slip sliding into marshmallow pies of candy corn delight. Then I'd read them W.H. Auden by candlelight with Mazzy Star playing until dawn. And then we'd perform tri-coitus in sixteen languages.

For his Fringe Festival updating of the little known Persian play, "Scrotebullah and the Seven Boobies," Rahm shocked the critics with his bold use of Z-Axis Yankee hat tilt.

We haven't seen a true Mark of the 'Bag on the forehead shine of a douche in far too long.

The Mark of the 'Bag is when the forehead grease of a scrotal choadmunch resembles a schlong-n-balls. It is God's way of imprinting "douche" in the sweat encrused L.A. Looks hair gel residue of a wank. Like Huggy, here. Not that there was any doubt.

Huggy sports "The Mark" while attempting the ultra-rare "Doggie Trot 'Bag" -- a Doggie 'Bag while hott is in mid-motion.

The Brazilian judge gives it a 5.9.

I give it a Poo.

That last pic was a costume party, so I'm blowing it away. Even if I did get to make the rare Robotron reference.

Instead, lets all appreciate watching famous magician and noted douche Criss Angel magically inflate two melons.

Yeech. I feel itchy.

It's like some stigmatic Gloria Estefan Miami Douche Machine by way of a tanker truck of Axe Bodyspray overturning on South Beach during pledge week.

I'd like to think underneath all that Floridian douche plague, Miami Chiquita is a sweet innocent hott waiting to get out. But alas, alack, there is no return from stage-4 South Beach Douchebaguette. Only mocking.

The crown on the Yankee Cap may be a new low in douchal blight. The six inches of underwear and neckglasses only furthering the wrong.

I...

Heck, lets just move on.

PIC DELETED

When the Rare-Ass Yellow Cup shows up, you know you're in the presence of a hottie/douchey coupling that's "to the x-treme!" And Rastafied by 10%.

Something tells me Flo-boy's shirt was made by Armani-Exchange..

Blondie, you have the heavenly body that curves and bounces in all the right places. But your finger and 'tude display a deep Grieco Virus infection.

Any more time next to Flo-boy, and Hat Tilt will render you unredeemable.

And while we're on the subject of 1980s b-movies, a moment of reverence for the perfection that was actress Jill Whitlow.

Ass kicking action star of such classics as Night of the Creeps (as Cynthia Cronenberg) and the snarky perfume sales girl at the mall in Weird Science, Whitlow haunted my early pubescent dreams in the late 1980s and still does to this day.

When she dumps her standard issue 1980s douchey Aryan jock boyfriend (pictured here) to kick some zombie ass with the red head kid from European Vacation, you know whose zombie ass she really kicked? Mine. Only it was my heart. Not my zombie ass.

And by heart, I mean Lil' Head.

Here's her fan page.

Somebody needs to flip this guy off in 48 languages like Rag did in Hardbodies.

Yeah, I just made a Hardbodies reference. And I will defend that movie as the Hegel's Philosophy of the Spirit of 1980s teen beach sex comedies.

In the last Weekly before next week's Monthly we select the final hottie/douchey couple to go up against Mooby Dick, The Hourglass and the Beachbag and, in an executive decision I just made, a substitute HCwDB of the Week winner, Squidward.

Yeah, I know Crapser The Douchey Ghost officially won that Weekly. But the vote was so close, and Crapser is just so damn icky, and Janice's boobs are so Hello Kitty Perky, that I'm issuing a DB1 override. Hey, it's kinda like Ohio.

But that's next week. For now, here's your finalists:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The Rime of the Scrotey Mariner

The Scrotey Mariner is your typical middle aged boat-choad with hotts in tow. The sneer and hand gestures say it all.

It's interesting how the rage factor on the Boatbags always seem larger than should be, given their limited actual adouchrements on display.

Scrotey Mariner enrages far beyond his actual douchosity. Something about that Boatbag sneer. Makes me want to sucker punch a llama with goiter.

And the extensive lady pillow cleavite don't hurt the hott side of the equation, neither. I can only wonder if they feel more like down or cotton.

Most importantly, who likes short-shorts?

I like short-shorts.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Primordial Ooze

For demonstrating how millions of years of cellular and genetic evolution don't mean squat in the land of douchescrotia, The Ooze deserve recognition.

For dual matching, or at least similar, douche-faces, they deserve mock.

For two ambiguously quartasian hotts that I would dip in chocolate and fluffernutter and make oozy tasty sandwiches of curvy bouncy delight, they deserve to be shoved to the side whilst I sip mojitos with their grandmother in Sheboygan.

Yup. Making no sense. It's Monday morning.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Gauntlet

A couple of things are holding back this pic from HCwDB greatness.

One, the uberdouche, while clearly ubersquat, is acting underscrote.

Smiling? Happy?

These things a douchebag does not crave.

Secondly, the lack of impressive hottness. The girls are milfy and certainly pass the 2am bar test, but do not elevate the way the Scrotey Mariner's love cushions do.

Still, if you met this guy in real life, what would be the kick-in-the-balls factor?

Exactly. And that's why he's a finalist. A long shot, perhaps. But in the HCwDB of the Week, you just never know.

So them's your three. Only one may emerge triumphant. By which I mean choady. Which of these three couplings has enough hott and douche to merit your vote?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Rabbi Schlomo Baghunter writes in:

----
Hey DB1,

I believe I have discovered a new species of douche. Without further ado, I present the Dewish-bag. The Dewish-bag is a bag that has all the qualities of a regular bag yet instead of the iron cross/WWII Nazi tats/chains/symbols, the Dewish-bag proudly displays his deep roots in Judaism.

Known mostly to the Long Island/New Jersey areas, as well as a few frontier Dewish-Bags in the California area, the Dewish-Bag is a rare creature indeed. Part skeezy douchechoad/part circumcised club prince, the Dewish-Bag preys on tiny brunettes with a penchant for money and distributing fellatio to all the douche-menchs out there.

This class act pictured here, one of the few Dewish-bags caught on camera brings me back to the original Dewish-Bag/Hott combo. That's right I am talking about the one and only pairing of Jesus (ridiculous clubby hair, chin pubes) and Mary Magdalena (the original bleeth/seder skank). So here for your infallible review is the Dewish-Bag, hopefully worthy enough to obtain a new classification in the scientific world of Douche/Hottness. And thanks again, keep up the great work.

- Rabbi Schlomo Baghunter
----

Funny. He doesn't look Dewish.

As to my deep love of Semitic Librarian Hotts, slap a pair of specs on this sultry Rebecca Hottowitz, and I'd add her to my Mila Kunis / Natalie Portman / Rachel Weisz shuffling of Hebraic Hott fantasy.

It's a lazy Saturday here in Los Angeles for your humble narrator. I sit on my rug, hung over and stubbly. I scratch myself in inappropriate places and think, "Whither the Jerzscrote?"

But, as much as I'd like to Lysol my eyeballs then scrub them with bleach and cayenne pepper, I can't.

Because little Kimberly just turned 18. And she needs rescuing.

Before Green Glasses makes "da move."

Ah yes, the combo head-chew + ab suck move, with just the hint of hand gesture to acknowledge your conquest for the camera. You suck, Buffalo.

Sweet tennis playing Gail Stanwyk of Boyd Aviation, I would buy you beluga caviar, two bottles of Dom Perignon, a steak sandwich and a steak sandwich.

And charge it to the Underhills.

It was another productive and important week here at HCwDB as we journey down our collective path of self discovery and societal mock.

Yesterday's double Fish Slap and White Chocolate serving may have been harsh, but necessary. Some days we have to ratchet it up around here.

In response to the Michael Phelps discussion, one reader argues the true douche of the 2008 Olympics is Ryan Lochte. Hard to argue with that call. And the true hott is Lolo Jones. Tasty.

A Shirt for a Stud. Speaks for itself.

Only on eHarmony can Anne Marie find love with a giant festering ass pimple.

And while we're airing out the links, check out this dead guy, who apparently requested that his corpse be placed standing up at his own funeral wake. Bonus: His Last Will and Testament apparently also requested his corpse be dressed up like a douche.

I mean I'm not making fun of the dead guy. Just pointing out that his corpse is dressed like a douche.

We've made fun of dead people on the site before. Like Jesus. And Corey Haim.

SD writes in:

----
Just thought you might be interested to know that my boss just crept up to my desk as I was taking my daily hcwdb break and totally busted me as I was choad-mocking/ hott-lusting.

His words: “What are you doing? That’s what your home computer is for. I’m just giving career advice”.

My response: “(pause) It’s like reading the news.”

SD
----

I consider time spent at HCwDB during the work day to be informative, enlightening, bowel movement accelerating and generally a step towards a higher spiritual consciousness. To render visible the real in the truest Kantian sense.

In other words, your boss is a douche.

Yes, Mariner. You've hooked another one.

And she is a delightful fruit of sweet, sensuous pleasures that drip down the chin in bursts of sweet flavor. Inspiration that cries out for angels to tread upon the high Amazonian winds of delight, inspires birds to sing melodies through the forest in complimentary harmonic convergence, and, uhm, has nice boobies.

Rocker Choad Salt Lick,
"Mmm, tatts taste just like chicken!"
Boob stars not amused.

Rocker hott gets licked,
By cheeseball "Billy Joe" douche
Good Charlotte sucks balls

-- Maximus Douchemus Meridius

strap the douchebag down
Play checkers on head with hotts
King me star boobies

-- the douche is alright

Chad's new Ninja skill:
Guide a BB through tatt maze
On a stripper's flank.

-- darksock

two hotts in background
discuss third world poverty,
and waxing techniques

-- johnny scrotten

Are you my mummy?
Hotts in background not eager
For their turn is next.

-- holbrooks douchestershire sauce

That's right. More Slap.

Slap with his posse.

Take it.

It is your penance for passivity in a world gone wrist-tatt.

Hall of Scrote legend White Chocolate scoffs at Fish Slap's claim to douchal supremacy.

White Chocolate easily proves his own ability to snag sexy Quartasian hottness while maintaining chin-strap facial pubes and an ass-chin shaped like a soggy bagel.

Like two primordial swamp amphibians, they crawl awkwardly up from the festering swamplands of early recombinant cellular waters, to climb ashore and seek sustenance in the harsh, unforgiving sun.

Millions of years of evolution later, and they can finally make matching douche-faces.

Quartasian Hotts find themselves drawn to the Ooze like moths to a flame.

A flame of douchepoo.

There are only a handful of uberdouche in the presence of high quality hott that have risen to iconic status here at HCwDB. Maybe five or six total.

Fish Slap is one of them.

An HCwDB of the Month winner and a finalist for the 2007 Douchie Award for HCwDB of the Year, Fish Slap is a true legend in scrotal fungitude. A kick in the groin to 7,000 years of social, intellectual and spiritual development.

Now we see the latest Slap developments. The head bandage triage. The chin strap drawn thinner than a female character in a Judd Apatow film. The angry Dalek laser beam trying to take him out.

For continued excellence in the field of douchal blight, we treat him as only we can.

We laugh at his scrotiness and lust after his girl's boobs.

anonymous posts in yesterday's Phelps thread:

----
Db1,

The quality of d'bag pics has been low lately. I think the book tour distracted you. I think a lot of the non posted pics I have sent you in the past month have been better than posted ones. Keep the edge sharp and cleen my friend. Take another hit off of the wall and forget about the $$$$....
----

I accept your challenge today, sir.

I start you with this. It will get worse.

The honorable folks over at Best Week Ever have decided to pay uncredited, uhm, "homage," to the site with this post wondering if Michael Phelps is douche. "Best Rip Ever" is more like it. Because I'm clever like that.

But the question they ask is valid. Is Phelps douche?

Although the pic here suggests scrote, the larger body of evidence is muddled. Phelps has yet to make the "scene" with hott in tow, like various other celebs (::cough cough:: Mayerbag :: cough::).

But, still. Hat tilts. Hand gestures. Douche hair (when grown).

I gotta rule 'bag. A minor stage-2 'bag. But 'bag. The golds don't excuse the douche. Hence Bruce Jenner. And Spitz was definitely a 70s retro 'stachebag.

Sorry Phelps. Congrats on all the records and stuff, but you're still going up on the HCwDB wall.

It is a scrotey Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

The boat hott's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The boobs are met, the cleavite is set :
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his douchey hand (gesture),
'There was a ship,' quoth he.
'Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !'
Eftsoons his hand dropt The Shocker (and made the 'Rocker Horns').

He holds him with his douche-face eye (and kissy lips)--
The HCwDB-Guest stood true,
And listens like a three years' child :
The Mariner smelled like douche-poo.

(with apologies to Coleridge)

Molly tags the "But We're Still Friends" 'Bag:

----
So last year I worked as a TA at my school. One day coming back from class I ran into my boy (on the right) and his best friend (on the left). They were on their way to the gym and well I think this is a classic douchebaggery picture.

He told me never to show anyone this but I've recently broke up with him so who cares(but we're still friends).

Freshmen with money = classic douchebags

<3>
- Molly
----

Ah, the Froshbag. The Freshturd. The dude with the pulled up socks and pink short shorts.

But Molly, you can play guitar in my Robert Palmer tribute band any day of the week.

Statler: He's a player.

Waldorf: How do you know?

Stalter: It says so on his shirt!

Waldorf: It says something else on the inside of his shirt.

Statler: What's that?

Waldorf: That he's a smelly hunk of testicular douche-poo!!

Statler and Waldorf: Ahahahahaha!!

Lil' Head: Can I pipe in here?

Statler and Waldorf: Of course, Lil' Head.

Lil' Head: I would parasail through the Northern Lights at dawn over the snow capped Fjords just for the chance to have chill arctic winds from frosty icicles across my Lil' Head made from 1/100th a percent exhumed sweat cast off from her underarms by her hairdryer in a hotel in Palm Springs.

Statler and Waldorf: Well said, Lil' Head. Well said.

For one of the most evenly matched Weeklies in awhile, the votes were tight. Hourglass tight.

But the sheer power of uberhottness carried a pedestrian run-of-the-mill douchescrote to a win in the Weekly.

Chac Monster at Ace Hardware explains:

Hourglass wins. Shes the smokingest Hott girl Ive seen on this site in a while, and because of that I hate the oily fungus-goober next to her all the more.

That is the key nexus of hottie/douchey enlightenment. Sometimes it's the uberscrote. Sometimes it's boobies you'd slap your grandmother for. crocodile douchedee agrees:

Hourglass & the Beachbag FTW her carmelized body of perfection carries his deflated pec pouch and hair plugs to victory

Well said, C.D. And robert waxes poetic on the sheer force of nature that is the Hourglass's body:

Hourglass, without a doubt.

Most hotts that are seen making forays into the world of the douche seem like, somehow, they belong. But this girl...

She should be under a waterfall somewhere tropical. Her hips have magic in them. She revels in her curvy lust, a body that is pure sex. Watching her walk away would be like poetry.

For a douche like that to even be near a creature so pure of purpose is a crime. He is such a slave to everything around him. The spiky hair, the trunks, it's all fashion. To see that effort rewarded with such a mystical, exotic beauty is just a shame.

Maybe they're just friends.

Maybe they are. But maybe they're not. And therein lies the pain. Heather continues:

I gotta give it to the hourglass and her be-spiked tumor.

She is everything that pure in the world of masturbatory delights and he is everything I wish to run over with my car.

And Lyndon Ladouche explains the power found between Hourglass and Beachscrote:

The other guys are far douchier, but those curves are an earthly shadow of the Islamic paradise. The fact that this average nothing is with her infuriates me more than the real douchebags who at least put on a show to hypnotze the hotts. Beachbag's got nothing, and yet he's still banging hourglass.

Its cosmically unfair and that's ultimately what this site is about.

Indeed it is, L.D.

But the O-Prune came this close on the sheer power of douchal wrongness. Dunkterdouche zeroes in:

O-Prune takes the douche ball and run for a touchdown. Jesus tapdancing Christ.

I submit: White Belt, Not the ab point, but close enough with the Ab Encore (curtains open), bling, douche lips and sunglasses inside at night. And i kinda like pre-heroin Countney Love hot on the right who looks like she would do very dirty things to you. Not to mention quiet dominatrix Ukrainian spy hot on the left This guys might have to be in the monthly.

And Coco brings the female perspective and spins for DJ Scroteboy:

I really think you just have to add up the points here. The tilted hat, mandana, chin-up douche pose and that ridiculous tatt put scroteboy slim way over the top.

Scroteboy Slim definitely deserves a 2008 Douchie nomination for that tattoo, and the O-Prune for Orange. But, in this Weekly, the perfect form of Hourglass femininity at the beach was enough, next to an average choad, to create a douchal vortex. Champagne Douchernova explains why:

The others are truly more douchiferous than he, but his HOTT is a supernova of spooge extracting perfection. I would amputate my prostate, just to sniff the spot the truck that delivered her bikini parked in.

And wonkydonkydotnet fully loses his mind trying to comprehend this pic's wrongness:

I have it on good authority from Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson & the forensic auto metallurgists, that Hourglass's Groin has in-fact caused Quasar Mrk421 to go Supernova, vaporizing everything within 4 light years of it, and her hips simultaneously have rent asunder Steve McQueen's Bullitt Mustang at the molecular level from 3,000 miles away, like some Class 5 mutant having an orgasm.

Well said, WDDN.

Make room for the Hourglass and the Beachbag. Those hips and curves might just carry this Standard Issue Jerzbag to a win in the Monthly. They're that tasty.

Jo writes in with a question about female douchitude:

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DB1,

Firstly, it was a pleasure to meet you at your NY book signing (my sister and I were the 2 Australians, i was the brown haired one, and we are both making learned & life saving text-book style notes in our well worn copy of HCWDB). Thanks for taking a moment to say hello to us.

Secondly, I'm compelled to write to you after a horrible weekend experience of our own left me questioning the douche paradigm.

I'm a musician and, as you know, my industry is awash with 'bags. But on Friday night in Atlantic City, New Jersey (yes, it gets worse), I was performing at the House of Blues (within some giant casino) w. a band from NYC. Also performing in the club that night- The Backstreet Boys. From what I can tell, these guys are the ultimate bag-hunter's catch- a combination of the old-bag & feder-bag, and also the original prototype bag.

But it was not their greasy stench, tired moves and creaky ways which was even the most appalling thing about the evening. Their supporting band, a teen girl equivalent of the Backstreet Boys, assembled by the same woman who created the Pussycat Dolls, made me want to marry Peter Keating whilst simultaneously consume peanut butter cups laced with something that smells like almonds but is not.

I give you Girlicious:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0Lr1UPvkF0

I accidentally met them backstage as we were loading in our equipment- they mistakenly thought we had won a competition to meet them and acted accordingly. This chance happening gave birth to an important query.

Of course I understand the appeal of a maiden in distress (or just jumping around on a bed with her friends after she's taken her school uniform off), but my question to you is: at what point must the Baguette take responsibility for her own actions?

I think it is demeaning to assume all Bleeth's are fair maidens lost- I believe some go willingly and must therefore pay the price (that is, be mocked... right?). And somehow, at the bottom of it all, I believe Robin Antin is in cahoots with Prince Grieco, if not the Grieco in disguise.

I would love to know your thoughts on this. My sister and I send our best and wish you a speedy recovery after your own sickly weekend.

Oh, and to top it off, to get to our hotel we had to walk through a 'White Party' for single over 40's- believe me that you can't even scratch some images out of your retinas.

thanks and take care,

-- Jo
PS. here's another description of the evening
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The question of the Douchadox is a profound one, and I'm often queried about the responsibility of the hott to quell the spread of douche virus.

The truth is I do not forgive the hott in all cases, nor do I see her as purely "innocent." I just want to lick her kneecaps like a cracked up ferret. This dual contradictory impulse -- to both ridicule the douchebaguette and to lick her kneecaps -- is called the douchadox (The "douchadox" is explained in greater detail in the book).

The Douchadox limits and challenges the objectivity of even the most experienced 'bag hunter. As such, as a female 'bag hunter, you are vitally important to continue to raise this objection to my biased 'bag hunting ways.

The responsibility of the hott not to become douchebaguette is actually the key to unraveling douchal hierarchy. Once the hott rejects the male attempts to douche it up in skeezal style, the entire viral replication pattern breaks down, and both douche and hott gradually become free.

Therefore bands like Girliscious are even more responsible for the spread of Douche Virus than tools like The Bagstreet Boys.

Because of my own struggles with the Douchadox, I rely on the female 'bag hunters in our community to tag stage-4 Bleeths like Girlicious. Because, as with any type of kryptonite, I can only journey so close as 'bag hunter before I break down and build sand castles out of used goiter medicine in the Australian outback just for the chance to gnaw on their grandmother's sister's best friend's used stockings.

When King Triton sent Princess Ariel on a mission to find crabs, this wasn't what King Triton had in mind.

We've explored many disparate branches of the hottie/douchey tree.

But there's nothing quite like Hall of Scrote legend The Gator embracing a cutie to personify this site's mission statement.

The Gator is not simply uberchoad. The Gator is not simply uberwank.

The Gator is uberchoadwank.

Meanwhile, The Gator needs to get his hands on one of these babies, the latest in douchal accessory.

And, on an unrelated note, a reader at the University of Wisconsin-Superior observes that the HCwDB Philosophy can be located somewhere between Steve Jobs and black comedians. Which has a distinct sort of logic.