And the Favorite Douche Bag is...

For the People’s Choice Awards this year, millions of people went online to cast votes for their favorite singers and actors. And like voting in Ohio, it didn’t do a damn bit of good.

Winners of the People's Choice Awards were supposed to be determined by online voting, with votes being tabulated until a few minutes before each award was handed out. But Mel Gibson, who made a movie about God, and Michael Moore, who thinks Mel Gibson made a movie about him, were told that they were receiving an award about 24 hours before the red carpet was rolled out. CBS maintains that it was still considered the people's People’s Choice Awards, but by people, they meant "the culture-savvy editors" at Entertainment Weekly (the same culture-savvy editors who tonight will discuss how the Brad & Jennifer breakup will effect tsunami relief efforts in India).

The new faux voting system wasn't the only change. Trying their best to pull off an Mtv style awards show, CBS’s PCAs featured a stage surrounded with lots of fans to help relieve Hollywood stodginess. That works well when Blink 182 wins Best Rock Video at the VMAs and there are lots of bouncing hotties in baby tees to give high fives on the way to the stage. It loses a lot of appeal when it’s Marg Helgenberger from CSI: Wisconsin pounding knuckles with old people in tuxes.

And if you Tivo’d the program, don’t skip the commercials or you’ll miss half the show, as Joey became a built in infomercial. Matt Le Blanc won for favorite male, favorite funny guy, favorite animated character, favorite female action star and favorite collaboration with Lil John and the Eastside Boyz. Then in a nailbitter, Le Blanc’s show Joey, currently being trounced in the ratings by According to Jim, edged out Father of the Pride (canceled) and Complete Savages (canceled) for best new comedy.

Apparently, the douche bags who put together the PCAs knew they had a loser when they decided to air it in the same time slot as Desperate Housewives, Lost, Extreme Makeover - Home Edition, a South Park re-run and a marathon of the The Surreal Life. Which begs the question...if you give Michael Moore an award and no one is there to see it, does it still count? I vote no.

King of All Douche Bags

Have it your way? Not with Omarosa Manigault Stallworth as Burger King’s new pitch bitch. Months of therapy down the drain after seeing the lying, race baiting former Apprentice villain herself in the fast food chain’s latest commercial.

A marketing leper, Omarosa was cast out by advertising departments from numerous companies. Clairol canceled plans to use Omarosa in their commercials after 43 million people threatened to stop washing their hair should they see her hawking shampoo. She had a twelve second appearance on Passions, a soap opera about witches and midgets. It appeared for awhile that prayers and holy water really work, as Omarosa was left with only a 1-900 number and a fill-in spot at the Soul Train Music Awards.

Then Burger King brought her back, again as a sneering bitch. First they ruined their fries. Now they’re paying an egotistical monster thousands to eat a two pound burger made of puppies and baby souls. Thanks Burger King. When it comes to douche bags, you’re a whopper.

Who's Your Sugar Daddy, Douche Bag

It wasn’t the first time TJ Myers has asked, "Are you my daddy," on camera. TJ and her boobies, wrapped in a cocktail dress fit for the Adult Video News Awards, confronted one man and kicked in the Cialis for six other horny old goats on Fox Television’s latest "reality" sham, Who’s Your Daddy. The show, viciously put down by adoption advocates and people with taste, paraded the drooling old farts past Myers so that the surgically enhanced long-lost daughter could question the fellas, run them through some silly challenges and ask, "Are you my daddy?"

But TJ is a little more accustomed to asking, "Are you my big daddy?" Her tearful performance in the Fox reality special falls on the heels of a more intimate performance in the late night classic Seduction of Innocence, where daddy’s little girl plays a stripper who likes to bump and grind, preferably with other strippers (did I not say it was a classic). Her earlier work includes a movie called Poop and several appearances on Walker, Texas Ranger, typically a catapult for numerous young women looking to make it in the competitive movie biz (the competitive late-night porn movie biz, I mean).

Can it really be called a reality show when it star of the show is an actress? The douche bags at Fox have a real hard on for taking professional pervs and shoving them off as reality stars. There was American Idol's BBW Frenchie Davis. Joe Millionaire almost ended up with a star from toe licking videos. And you can't forget Bill O'Reilly, the freakiest freak in all of freakville! Now we've got TJ, a douche bag actress who could care less about which old coot is her pops. She won $100k, found her daddy and six horny uncles and probably lined herself up an appearance on JAG. And maybe even a sequal to Poop.

How not to be a Douche Bag in 2005

Trucker Hats
Time to toss in the hat. The askew trucker cap will not score everybody a hot piece like Demi Moore. Ashton got lucky. The other forty million part-time Abercrombie & Fitch employees with their bills to the side just look like they ran into a wall or something.




Kabala
Kabala is a religion based on red bracelets. Kabalers believe the bracelets represent faith and give them magical powers like flying and talking to animals. Bracelets must come from Madonna to have any real powers. I think there’s a diet involved as well, so it’s half Jesus and half Jenny Craig. You also have to take pilates. Only celebrities are into kabala as it is expensive and requires lots of time to work out. It's really only doable if you have assistants who can fit faith into your schedule. Pick a less weird religion like Scientology.




Killing your Wife
Even at her nagging worst, living with my wife is much better than being fondled by men in prison. I know it seems passe, but divorce is still an option. Sure, it’s just as expensive as a murder trial, but if you pay with your American Express, you get reward points. Freedom and an iPod!




Being Not Funny
Profanity is priceless and I’m always the first to crack up at a good dick joke. But when Jon Stewart rambled on Crossfire about how evil the media has become and called the not-unlikable Tucker Carlson a dick…well, it was the day the laughter died. When your job is to be funny and you’re really good at it, don’t screw it up for a John Kerry campaign button. Funny folks are a dying breed. George Carlin is in rehab for wine addiction. Michael Moore makes dramas. Janeane Garofalo went blond. And poor Al Franken went from making blockbusters like Stuart Saves His Family to doing a 3 a.m. show on satellite radio. Less blue states, more blue humor.

You're Named After A Girl, Douche Bag

He’s a boy named Jan. He’s with the UN. And he apparently didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

Responding to questions regarding the tsunami victims in Asia, bitchy little Jan Egeland, UN undersecretary general for humanitarian affairs and emergency relief coordinator, got a little critical of the US, calling Westerners “stingy.”

"We (bloody Americans) were more generous when we (bloody Americans) were less rich," Egeland said, utilizing the collective “we” but really meaning “bloody Americans.” "And it is beyond me, why are we (bloody Americans) so stingy, really. ... Even Christmas time should remind many Western countries (the one with the bloody Americans) at least how rich we (bloody Americans) have become."

Jan the man bases his theory of stinginess on the fact that countries like the US give a smaller percent of their gross national product than tiny, less stingy countries do. But while the US may only give .000001 percent of its GNP, that’s still a kajillion dollars. Norway, Jan's homeland and the most generous contributor, gives almost one percent of it’s GNP, which comes out to $11.24. Thanks Norway!

A billion dollars is on the way to India. Planes carrying tons of food and clothes have already landed. Lots of people are volunteering to help. Elton John is writing a song about tsunamis with all proceeds going to Sri Lanka. A tribute performance with Toby Keith and Nelly is planned for the Super Bowl halftime show. There’s a lot being done, and lots of money being contributed. With such a massive effort underway, now is not the time to get snooty, douchebag.

And did I mention that his name is Jan?

Bestselling Douche Bag

Judith Regan will sign anybody to write a book. The former National Enquirer "reporter" is responsible for coffee table classics penned by the likes of Paris Hilton and Jenna Jameson (and in both cases, the movie was much better than the book). Now, Regan has officially cornered the horny blond market, signing Amber Frey, momentary mistress to the king of bad breakups, Scott Peterson. Frey’s story is said to be "a story of courage in crisis that will inspire others who have been betrayed to fight back for truth and justice."

She fucked a guy. That’s it. She screwed a fertilizer salesman who turned out to be a murderer. Had she tossed Peterson’s salad knowing that he was a murderer, then we’d have a story. But she got nailed by a guy who peddles mixtures of dirt and crap, and on the first date. That warrants an STD, not a book.

I can’t blame Frey. Without girls like her, I’d would’ve remained a virgin throughout high school (alright, college). She couldn’t tell a fertilizer salesman no. How could she stand up to a manipulative sensationalist like Regan? Regan loves to peddle trash, but then again, these people love to read it. I personally think Regan’s own story about screwing the next Homeland Security czar over the ashes of the World Trade Center makes a much better book, but Regan prefers to stay out of the spotlight. If I was the douche bag that thought Paris Hilton was worthy of 300 pages on dating tips, so would I.

Paging Dr. Douche Bag

Lance Cpl. David Battle scored an infinite amount of nookie points when the injured soldier allowed doctors to remove his ring finger in order to save his wedding band.

A fierce firefight in Fallujah left Battle with a horribly mangled hand. Doctors at a field hospital suggested that they could cut the wedding band off and try to save what was left of Battle’s ring finger, or amputate the finger completely and save the ring.

I’ve had my own wedding band for seven years now. It’s special, but I take it off quite frequently, like when I shower, when I wash the car, during the summer when my fingers swell from the heat, and during the winter when it catches on my gloves. Oh, and at nudie bars. Though I pushed for matching wedding tattoos, I’m honored to wear the ring my wife gave me. But I also like to be able to count all the way to ten without taking my shoes off. While the ring finger lacks the communicative importance that the other digits carry, it’s nice to have even if it's just to makes my gloves fit better.

In a truly dedicated act, Battle waved goodbye to his finger to keep the wedding band intact, in appreciation for the love and support of his wife. His wife was honored, his friends amazed and the rest of us generally impressed with the guy.

It’s the field doctors that screwed up. The douche bags lost the ring. No one seems to know what happened once the ring was removed, though witnesses claim to have seen one of the doctors hobbling off with a ring, muttering "my preciousssss."

Listen Up, Douche Bag

Forget about John Ashcroft. My parents are the true originators of the Patriot Act. They were reading my mail, listening to my phone conversations, digging through my closet and swiping my porn right up until I turned thirty and said "Enough! Stay outta my room!"

Parents snoop, and when they pay the bills, they have every right to snoop. It’s their house, their car, their mailbox and their phone. Unless your American Express platinum card says Mary-Kate or Ashley Olsen on the front, you are likely a ward of the loving woman who carried you in her womb for nine months and the guy who knocked her up.

Though Washington Supreme Court Justice Tom Chambers wears a gown like a mom, he’s not as smart as one. Chambers and the Court recently handed down a ruling that prohibits parents from eavesdropping on their children’s phone conversations. The ruling stems from a case where a mother listened in on the conversation between her daughter and her daughter’s felonious boyfriend, who was bragging about his latest purse-snatching. Mom, listening in on the phone she pays for in the house she owns, took good notes, gave the info to the cops and the boyfriend was convicted.

But instead of carrying this woman around town on their shoulders and building houses of worship in her honor, Chambers and other old men who still live with their moms declared that the daughter and the purse-snatching beau were due a certain amount of privacy and overturned the conviction. "The Washington privacy statute puts a high value on the privacy of communications," said Chambers. It’s felonies that they don’t care so much about.

If the daughter was paying the phone bill and the boyfriend wasn’t mugging old ladies at night, then the ruling might have some merit. As it is, men in gowns continue to confuse us (and in so many ways). While campaigning for the Supreme Court, Chambers himself said, "My parents taught me that solutions to problems should be grounded in common sense--not technicalities. I believe the courts get too hung up on legal technicalities when common sense would serve us all better." You should’ve listened to your parents, douche bag.

Get to the Nipping, Douche Bag

Where the Hell are you? Two weeks till Christmas and the air conditioning is still blasting. In Minnesota, they’re snowmobiling on alfalfa. In Minneapolis, cross-country skiers have taken to actually grabbing poles and PRETENDING to cross country ski. They may be delirious from the heat. Or maybe they just don’t have cable. I moved to DC to see some snow and wear some very fashionable Abercrombie and Fitch skull caps. But it hasn’t snowed and my skull caps got all sweaty and shrank. They fit like yamakas now. Everybody’s sweating and my bus smells like a Chili-Cookoff. I held my breath so long, I got cramps. Just give me a flake. Or a slight frost. Or even blue balls. I don't care, douche bag. Just make it cold.

Thanks for Nothing, Douche Bags

It’s not easy getting my wife in the mood. She’s built up quite a tolerance to the roofies. Typically, seduction consists of a Grey Goose martini and a two-hour spree in DSW. That she considers tracking down a size eight in practical one-inch heels foreplay is fine by me, as long I later reap the benefits of a steamy buy one, get one free sale. Sadly though, we’re only shoe shopping about twice a month now.

So I was excited – very excited – when I heard there was this new patch for women that functions as Viagra for horniless chicks. You simply smack it on her (or carefully smooth it on if she’s still sleeping), wait for the high powered testosterone to makes it way into the bloodstream, and then go at it like you wanted to on Spring Break (but couldn’t because you had irritable bowel syndrome).

It’s the invention mankind has been waiting for, and by that I mean that regardless of the outcome, when man sat down to invent something, he was thinking sex. Fire, telephones, space shuttles – all by-products of guys trying to create something that would mean more sex. The wheel was created so that we can pick girls up and go somewhere to have sex. The microscope was created so we could watch tiny things have sex. Blenders were created to make margaritas, which guarantees sex, even for ugly people. And the beauty of the patch is it cuts out all the work. Peel, stick, screw, sleep.

But the Food and Drug Administration, obviously made up and hateful old ladies and gay men, refused to clear the patch until more studies could be done to prove its safety and effectiveness. Past studies showed that the patch can cause a little acne, some body hair and a deeper voice. But I can deal with that. I’d sleep with Barry White if it meant not going shoe shopping again.

The FDA needs to be more considerate here. The Spring fashion lines won’t be here till March and I can’t wait that long. Aside from thank-you sex after shopping, the only other opportunity will be sympathy-sex after hanging out with her parents. For God’s sake, release the patch, douche bags!

D.W.A.: Douche Bags With Attitude

Who would ever screw with 50 Cent? 50 was shot nine times while battle rapping in the mean streets of LA and still finished the song. I was shot in the knee with a B.B. gun and missed half of the seventh grade while in a coma. 50 is tough. When 50 says "holla," I say "how loud."

So I have to wonder what Nigeria's version of the Fresh Prince, Idris Abdulkareem, was thinking when he refused to budge from 50's first class seat on a chartered plan carrying a bunch of rappers on tour. 50 has bullet scars and prison tattoos all over his body. Idris Abdulkareem has a bronze medal in table tennis from the African Olympics. 50 lists songs with titles like P.I.M.P and I Will Shoot You Until You Be Dead Fool. Idris, deeply upset by sexual discrimination and government outsourcing, penned the not so street Mr. Lecturer and Retirement Benefits Are Dope.

Like the original gansta Kenny Rogers once said, you gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. You can take a man's wife, but his first class seat? Hell no. After "hurting Idris real bad," 50 cancelled the rest of the tour, denying thousands of Nigerian homies the opportunity to party like it's their birthday. So if you're planning to make a name for yourself in the Nigerian rap game by taking a man's first class seat, you may want to make sure that man's not from South Central and already been shot nine times, enka tacka doodoo *click* *clock* kaka meme (that's Nigerian for douche bag).

Nominate a Douche Bag

Send in your favorite douche bag to douchebagoftheday@yahoo.com. Pics of girls flashing at Mardi Gras will also be accepted.

And you can check out past douche bags by looking to your left a little and clicking on the archives link.

Douche Bag...And A Little Bit More

After catching Sharon Reed on Late Night with David Letterman, I knew there was something I didn't like about her. As it turns out, there's tons not to like about this skank.

On the petty side, she did the entire interview in one of those corny, irritating TV news reporter voices, and seemed to be auditioning for a porno, stroking herself and going all LL Cool J-like with the lip licking and the F-me eyes.

During her audition/interview, Reed claimed that stripping on TV was "about art." The story, about flabby naked people who like to pose en masse with similarly flabby naked people, was shot this summer, but aired just a few weeks ago during sweeps, which I guess is the only time they could show a report "about art."

Before the clock started on her 15 minutes of shame, Reed had already demonstrated her Diana Ross-like people skills at numerous other news stations. As an anchor in Philadelphia, she was called in to a Philly Police Station after posting nasty little comments about a fellow reporter online. She was fired.

And Reed has the gold-digging ho market covered, nailing Philly Eagle Donovan McNabb and Philly Sixer Aaron McKie, which explains how she got these. She was also the 435th black girl nailed by Robert Deniro.

Obviously, being the Channel 19 investigative hootchie is beneath Reed. The Omerosa of eyewitness news, she's bound to piss off enough people and screw enough celebs to land her dream job: fondling her plastic chest on the pages of Playboy or landing the role as Hooker #2 on a Cinemax late movie. Wanting to be a porn star is ambitious and generous. Like DeNiro, any Nubian princess who wants to flash her boobies is ok by me. But it ain't "about art," douche bag.

Sweeps Week Douche Bag

I love watching the news. I love watching naked girls. But watching naked girls report the news is weird and makes me feel all creepy inside. For a sweeps week special, WOIO reporter Sharon Reed stripped away clothes and professional integrity to report butt-naked in the streets of Cleveland. It was a sad and pathetic stunt because a) it lacked any sense of journalistic credibility, and b) she has the skinny ass of a white girl. Reporting naked for WOIO, this is douche bag Sharon Reed. Stay tuned for traffic and weather.

I'll Take Douche Bags for $2 Million, Alec

After bagging more than $2.5 million for being an unbeatable geek on Jeopardy, trivia-lord Ken Jennings is out. Ken was bounced by real estate agent/actress Nancy Zerg on yesterday's show.

Until Ken came along, I really didn’t know game shows still aired. Solving crossword puzzles for a three day cruise to Cancun or guessing the price of Sue Bee Honey ($4.49) for a Ford Fiesta seems droll when you can easily snag a million bucks for eating a cat uterus, trading in a spouse or pimpin’ your moms. But Ken’s nerdy reign single-handidly brought back old school game shows and pumped up Jeopardy viewership by 22 percent.

Ken writes trivia questions for a living (at least he did, before he won all that money and started getting laid). Technically, that makes him big, fat cheater. Still, he's head and shoulders above the usual pompous asses that answer the $200 questions with smirking condescension. Throughout his 73 game winning-streak, he remained pretty entertaining and even made me care about Norse mythology again. Ken would have made a good drinking buddy, with all the qualities I usually look for in friends – rich and less attractive than me.

And just when we were all wrapped up in a Ken lovefest, Nancy Zerg came along and ruined it all. If the producers were smart, they would give her a car and a year’s supply of JiffyPop Pop Corn and send her on her way, keeping Ken in place as a Hulk Hogan of trivia. Doesn't really matter though. Ms. Zerg turned out to be the Buster Douglas of Jeopardy contestants. Just 24 hours after dethroning the king of all answers, Nancy lost, taking home a total $14k.

So, for Final Jeopardy, the question is: Name of one who ends the longest winning streak in Jeopardy history as well as the only reason to watch the show.

Answer: What is a Douche Bag, Alec?

Alexander the Douche Bag

Thank God I got this movie from a street entrepreneur vending bootlegs at my bus stop, rather than paying full price. Still, I ended up with two turkeys this year for Thanksgiving. At least I can make sandwiches with the Butterball.

Opening in sixth place, this Unisom pill of a film offers little to support Alexander's lofty nickname. There's ten minutes of the battles that supposedly made Alexander the head cheese, and 170 minutes of man-ogling that made him a fancy boy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But the gayness that was supposed to be the controversial tootsie roll at the center of this sucker was so ungay. Alexander hugs some guy named Isosceles twice. I think Isosceles strokes Alexander’s Leif Garrett hair as Alex compliments Isosceles eyes. Later, Alexander kisses Macedonia’s version of RuPaul. There's a bit more man-love at the end, but I think I saw twice as much same-sex intimacy between Shrek and Donkey than with Alexander and his toga buddies.

The rest of the movie is babble. Everybody babbles. Anthony Hopkins plays a babbling narrator. Colin Farrell babbles as both a young and slighty older Alexander, the only real difference being a sweet mullet. Angelina Jolie plays Alexander’s mother, who accessorizes with snakes and for some odd reason babbles alone in a Transylvanian accent.

There are some good points to the film. The battle scenes are pretty gory and Rosario Dawson's boobs are so much bigger than I imagined. And there are no songs by Elton John, not even in the credits.

So as a Thanksgiving after-dinner treat, everything about this movie qualifies it as a holiday douche bag. Everything, that is, except that sweet mullet.

Oven Roasted Douche Bag

Too...much...turkey...sleepy...now...douche...burp...bag.

Pass Me A Tissue, Douche Bag

.

I only cry during Rudy. Period. I can sit through weddings, funerals and painful S&M sessions with nary a thought about tearing up. But pop my well-watched copy of Rudy into the ol’ VCR and you’ve just blown open the dam, mister.

Only Rudy could do that to me. Rudy was special. Until now.

Ty Pennington and ABC’s Extreme Makeover: Home Edition have created a one-hour crybaby-fest. The show finds families with the hardest luck and juices up their lives Mtv Cribs style.


These folks have had the worst things in the world happen – one girl was allergic to light and next week’s show features a boy without bones. To an uplifting soundtrack of pan flutes and violins, the Makeover crew rebuilds the families homes from the ground up and fills the rooms full of plasma TVs, sub-zeros, whirlpools, cars and planes. At the end of the show, a country singer comes out to sing about families and angels and growing corn. The show takes your manhood away before the first commercial and doesn’t give it back until Law & Order comes on.

It is very commercialized, with Ford and Sears stamped on everything that goes inside. But I’m crying to hard to complain. Just like porn, it follows a simple formula and ends in lots of wet tissues.

So damn you Ty and your perfect hair. And damn your perfect show. And damn my wife for calling out your name during sex. How can I hunker down to watch Sunday Night Football all puffy eyed and runny nosed. You’ve turned me into a Sunday night wuss, you big…sniff…douche bag.

A Couple of Plano Douche Bags

Hiram Sasser is a lawyer, but that’s not what makes him a douche bag. Hiram represents Delana Davies, mother of a 9-year-old son and a 4-year-old daughter who attend Spurger Elementary School near Plano, TX. Each year, the little students of Spurger participate in a school spirit day called TWIRP – The Woman Is Required To Pay. The day resembles a Sadie Hawkins affair where boys and girls exchange roles for the day. And clothes.

Boys dress like girls. Girls dress like boys. Nothing new in metrosexual cliques found in larger cities around the nation (those with populations over 12). But in Delana’s neck of the woods, that’s a precursor to Boy Scout circle jerks and hot girl-on-girl slumber party action.

"It might be fun today to dress up like a little girl -- kids think it's cute and things like that. And you start playing around with it and, like drugs, you do a little here and there (and) eventually it gets you," Davies said. "You just keep playing with it and it becomes customary.”

So she called Hiram, head of the Liberty Legal Institute, a couple of lawyers prosecuting on behalf of Jesus. Loyal to God and the American dollar, Hiram jumped on the case, chastising the school and labeling TWIRP Day as a promotion for homosexuality. He claimed the that the event was a terrible experiment to grow little homosexuals. Hiram coupled years and years of legal know-how with a spritz of holy water and a little talking in tongues to bring Delana a major victory – an excused absence for her kids.

But even with an excused absence slip in hand, Hiram wasn’t finished. He continued his fight against cross-dressing four-year-olds until he persuaded the Spurger Elementary to change TWIRP Day to Camouflage Day. Homosexuality…out. Dressing like a tree to sneak up on animals and shoot them dead…in!

Hiram and Delana worried that dressing 4-year-olds like the opposite sex would confuse them. If I were a 4-year-old, the confusing part would be the story where wearing lipstick makes you hot for boys and condemns you to Hellfire for all eternity. The school had never received a complaint about the long-standing tradition until Delana and her lawyer (God’s lawyer) came forward. Hiram and Delana prove that everything really is bigger in Texas. Especially the douche bags.

Beer Wastin' Douche Bag

I’m tired of this story. You’re tired of this story. But if there’s one thing I cannot tolerate, that’s wasting beer. Detroit bumpkin John Green tosses a $15 Coors Light and now I’ve got Matt Lauer telling me that the world will never be the same. Honestly, why all the fuss? White guys in Detroit get their asses kicked by black guys everyday.

The worst part is that this guy throws the beer and then lets some skinny kid take the ass-kicking. John Green, you're a redneck, a pussy, a beer-waster and, of course, a douche bag.