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All ye glorious ‘bag hunters and hott lusters of yesteryear, it’s been an entire ten sun circles since we first discovered the legendary Hottie/Douchey suburban Jerz High School melted orange Julius that was the Oompa Prompas. We cried like canaries in the fist pumping club mines, screaming our warnings of the toxic man-children of privilege raging, raging, against the dying of their birthright. Tuesday, August 8, 2017 Going through the ole’ HCw DB archives one day and I stumbled into an assortment of unholy steaming ferret load of a toad pimple from way back in the dark days of Hottie/Douchey defenestration in 2010. We saw the signs of imminent decay all around us, fraying, shredding at all that we had built up in the latter decades of the twentieth century. There were stench art legends like Douche or Dali, The Leprechaun, Captain Jack Spackle, The Armpit of America, The Ass Pimples and Aqua Brunette, Tony with the Car Dealership, Night of the Living Bed-Head, Vince Vaughnbag, Queen Bee and the Power Chord, Willy Wanker, The Velvet Helmet, Cuisinart Carl, The Olive Loaf and Yellow Dress Hott, and the brilliantly named Thornton Mellon Stewie Head. HCw DB may be finished, but the mock will never die. And I still plan to see all of you when my genius is finally acknowledged at the HCw DB Art Show at the Guggenheim in 2023. Do not dispair, fellow hotts, ‘bag hunters, and those that traverse the socially constructed gender binaries therein. But your humbs narrator is still kicking his ubiquitous red cup o’ Night Train, munching on tasty Hostess products whenever possible, raising two little HCs, and staring at the world cockeyed and bemused, or maybe more bleary eyed and vaguely nauseous. I don’t just mean this pic of Zach and his Bro, K-Whizz greasing up on Marissa as if her derriere is hosting a bake sale featuring a trenbolone sandwich. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads. Those legendary crust warriors of Jersey Prom infamy live on today on internet search engines and in the hearts and stomachs of millions. Just as this humble website was reaching its ascendant heights in those halcyon days of the mid aughts, along came the crystalline distillation of all that had gone poo-licious in a rotting, fetid societal dump on the face of good taste and decorum. This simmering simpering simian shreds any sense of societal dignity and post-Nietzschean respek by pretending he doesn’t care about the very optic gaze for whom he seeks refractive corporeal validation. The Starblazer seeks sustenance The Starblazer orange-u-tans Kelly-Lynne’s tonsils And, going solo, the Starblazer wears zebra pants and poses like a crispy mirrored twigwaffle. It’s like an X-Games Windex gargle in the clogged arteries of life. I’ve been spending so much time practicing nerd chants in school cafeterias I haven’t been able to summon much strength to keep posts up these days. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society. Faced with scrambling of traditional gender roles and a growing multicultural world, I watched in horror as young, suburban white men of privilege were rendered apathetic and clueless by self-indulgent crap parenting, too much disposable income, and an ethos of amoral narcissism. As Foucault taught us, only humiliation can break through the constructed prism of false consciousness and really stupid doucheface. Their con was absurdist theater and brand name spectacle. And like some toilet-paper creature brought to life from 1970s-era hippie dance troupe Mummenshantz, they unspooled into nothingness. HCw DB’s goal was to never underestimate the toxic dangers of raging white, masculine privilege when threatened or wounded. Turns out it was but one small step from fist pumping Vegas Red Bull choadwanks to a festering global implosion led by an orange rhesus monkey. You won’t be hopping off your Red Cup, exploring open clubs, or standing on a weird piece of body grease. I hoped to highlight the absurdities of performing “maleness” by showing what it had really become: a toxic spectacle brought about by the increasing emphasis on visual stimulation in the internet age. Here at HCw DB we mocked thousands of ‘bags, choads, scrotes and Bleeths that transformed themselves into cartoon paper tiger road warriors and spectacles. Developer Asswanks Of Florida started with a good idea: paring Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater back down to the basics of inappropriate thigh fondle of Kelly-Anne in presence of a professional photographer. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek. But the legacy of their wretched narcissism lives on. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy. All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick. I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. Then codified with a Douchebag of the Month in 2011. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.
We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. ‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy.
There’s a complicated scandal embroiling the man who is presently the governor of Missouri.