Once, when I was meditating on the boobie hottie suckle thigh in a daisy field in Uttar Pradesh, a young 'Bag Hunter approached me.

DB1, he asked cautiously, How will I know when the douche-face becomes the punch-face?

Aha, young beetle bug. I responded, laughing lightly and crumbling some pinched snuff in my hands as I squinted in the harsh Punjabi light.

You will know the punch-worthy doucheface by involuntary primal muscle spasm. And only then. Not before. And not after.

He looked confused.

So I reached into my satchel I'd been given on a Maori walkabout in '02, and handed him this pic.

The young 'bag hunter glanced down at the picture. Upon registering this tool's muggy visage, the young one sprang to his feet, twitched forward about twenty paces, then sucker-punched a nearby goat-herder named Umbete in the nads.

He had learned his lesson.

Nothing says "masculine domination" like headlocking your girl and flipping off the camera over pancakes at the Waffle House.

Three Tool Tables and a Hottrophone.

You know how you know when you're a badass?

When you're so badass, you don't even need use to an actual gun to make you look tough in the presence of a hott.

You just imply the gun. Because you're that badass.

And by badass, I mean a clown.

And... boobies.

Just Say No to Douchecrack.

(EDIT: Fixed pics for those who can't handle direct douchecrack)

As some of you may have noticed, 2009 brings HCwDB it's long delayed Hall of Hott, which is now located directly below the Hall of Scrote in the left-hand column.

I inducted an initial class of lovely ladies who have left an impression on us these past few years, but the list surely is incomplete.

As such, I'm convening a random panel of regulars from the comments threads to fluff the roster, so to speak.

Each commenter will get one selection to gain entrance to the Hallowed Hall of Hott, to be submitted one week from today. Culled randomly and incoherently from last month's call for volunteers, and to spread the contributions around a bit, your Hall of Hott Hunters are:

Ashfish, Mr. White, Douche Vader, bcs, creature, Troy Tempest, Crucial Head, d. baggins v2.0, Don't wheeze the douche! and Buffy the Scrotebag Slayer.

Talk amongst yourselves. Bribe each other. Coordinate. But find me 10 additional candidates. 10 might be too many more to admit all at once, but the top 5 will definitely gain boobie hottie suckle thigh immortality.

Also, my future ex-wife, Purg Hottie, will always have her own section of loveliness.

When Rachel met Parking Attendant Fred,
Fred convinced her to come to his stead,
But Fred brought hair mousse,
Which he liked to abuse,
Now Rachel wishes she'd gone home instead.

Meh, not my best. I blame the Absynth.

Like Dumb and Dumberer, this was a sequel that just really wasn't necessary.

A worthy first Champion in the new year, Sir Sucks-a-Lot brings classic douche 'tude with a tasty blonde middriff cutie to counter-balance the taint. The voters spoke, and they spoke strongly against hawk+ tie:

Anonymous: As much as I truly want to lick every inch of sweet Anabelle and listen to her purr, the winner is Sir Sucks-a-Lot. It's such a disgusting combination of ridiculous hair, popped collar, stupid tie, obscene hand gesture, and a look that says, "I am poo."

Buffy the Scrotebag Slayer: I'm going with Sir Sucks-a-Lot. Anyone who willingly spends that much time grooming themselves, only to end up looking like a bloodied roadkill skunk, deserves the honorary title...........of poo.

Heather: Sir Sucks-a-lot. Hands down. That completely wasted look, sagging bottom lip, and tie that doesn't even go around the popped collar? Could you get more poo-nosity? Seriously, that tie is in every single '70s prom picture known to mankind. It isn't cool, Sucks, it is dook.

jonezy: Sir sucks-a-lot deserves a seat at the Round Table of Douche. He also deserves a dull 6th century Excalibur to the cranium.

Douche Tarlick: It's a no brainer, Sir Sucks wins. Jabba the Douche in #1 is nothing more then an obesebag which are now a dime a dozen. Heroin douche from #2 is another run of the mill bag which only leaves us #3. His uber-douche nature and upstanding fashion cannot be ignored.

Nicely done, people, and props for bringing the A-Game in hottie/douchey linguistic and semiotic deconstructions so soon after the New Year. Derrida would be proud. Coming in a strong second, Tiny Anabelle Gets Swamped:

grady bagmore: anabelle ftw. god save her

blair: I'd give Anabelle some swamp ass. Um, I don't know what that means. But I vote for Anabelle and the Swampies.

Archidouchies: I'm gonna go with Tiny Annabelle and He Just Eats Bitches Who Drink. One bag, two baglings, and one definite hott blows the other hotts away this week.

Anabelle was certainly delightful, but Pterodactyl 'Bag was just too bloated to truly threaten. Coming in a distant third was the PTP grease of Loop de Poop. But Sir Sucks dominated. As anonymous sums it up:

I defy you to look closely at Sir Sucks-a-Lot's face and then vote for someone else. Sucks FTW.

Sucks FTW indeed. A great debate and discussion in the comments threads, props to all. Give it up to Sir Sucks-a-Lot and Taylor Dayne Cute for the Weekly and the first slot in the first monthly of the first month of yo' momma.

Yikes. The coffee hasn't kicked in yet.

Check. Check. It's your 'bag, DJ Bello.  

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DB1,

I'm taking a renewed interest in guitars after several years off, and I kept seeing these cool signature model Fender Telecasters for some guy named "John 5." Since it was a Tele, I figured he was some kick ass Nashville session guy. So I searched him and this is what I found.

Gross.

It seems he is the current wearer of the "Oodles of Talent/Absence of Taste" guitar wank crown. Rita seems to be his girlfriend -- maybe she is famous in her own right? I don't know... Maybe he is a really, really, really, really nice douchebag.

Here's his website:

http://www.john-5.com/

- BK
----

Should we grant John5 the Rock Star Exemption?

Computer says no.

The latest Reality Show on Fox, When Douche Attacks!!

Licking this Fall.

Amazingly, Kenny succeeded in convincing Shelly and Layla that Tag Bodyshot chest infections could be fatal unless immediately licked off, winning the bar bet with Peter, Michael and Samir.

Thankfully Unseen Hand of The Collective Unconscious is responding to this situation appropriately.

And before you claim Kenny is not douche, I will note that cargo pants in the clubs are instant stage-2 auto-scrote.

PIC DELETED

You enter the living room, where you find a cracked out Glowbag arm-hooking a dark haired Indian Hott from Uttar Pradesh.

If you want to...

Spin around and run screaming from this suburban nightmare, turn to page 39.

Grab Glowbag's glowsticks and beat him about the head and neck until his collar is un-popped, turn to page 132.

Sucker punch Glowbag in the stomach and take Sanjna out for curry, turn to page 84.

Strips of Fried Dough at county fairs and San Genarro festivals the world over envy this cut of Fried Dough, the luckiest Fried Dough of all the Fried Doughs to ever escape Fried Dough status and hit the beach to mack on the Jenny Twins.

Ghoulbaggery, not to be confused with standard douchebaggery, is the product of Emobag and Gothbag cross-pollination by way of post-2005 "Affliction" name-brandification.

Ghoulbags haunt clubs with the "I'm above this place" 'tude and the ethos of 80s heroin chic by way of $60 distressed t-shirts, on sale at Macy's.

They are ultimate poseur fraud choadwanks.

And yet the hotts in sundresses giggle at their toughness and angry displays of "alternative" manhood.

As such, they are simply another form of thematic douche, warmed over and reheated under cover of night, and should be laughed at, and have their chain-wallets confiscated by a big burly black guy who isn't fooled.