Attention, Douches (that's all ya'll)

Follow the yellow brick road [][][][][][][][][][][]

Happy Birthday E ma lee!

Too Many Douche Chills

Your parents, your teachers, maybe even your local priest is on facebook these days. Good grief, I need to cut off this addiction soon. I don't know about the rest of the world, but I certainly cannot even scroll through my news feed with out stumbling into a huge douche chill.

"A moment ago" Blah-Blah-Blah posted: cant take this anymore.my heart is so broken.i cant go on like this anymore.im DONE! im sorry
OMG! Blah-Blah-Blah are you okay?? What happened, gurl?!
Is this the kind of reaction you were hoping for when you shared this information to the world? Save the sobs for your pillow, Blah-Blah-Blah. Do you really want the ENTIRE WORLD to know that you've either gone off the deep end or are about to commit suicide? I hate to be insensitive, but fuck! The douches of facebook need some plain old common sense. Be a little more selective when you're lonely and need to share something with your "friends." Heck, use the magic that is known as fiction. No one will know if you're lying about your happiness. Probably not even you, ya sad sack.


3 minutes ago Sally NoFace posted 27 new pictures in the album "New hair!" Oh fabulous! I was really wondering what the status was of your lovely mane. By the way, the new blond streaks look terrible. Were twenty seven pictures of you, with slight pose variances, in front of your webcam really necessary? Are you really the same age as me? I know that you need to show the world this great new 'do, but posting one might have been sufficient. Okay, who am I kidding? NONE would have been sufficient. Thanks again for the reminder, Sally NoFace, you're ugly!

There's not even an invitation to rescind, here.

Oh hey Winston! Um, who are you? It frankly looks like you're on the run from the law. Word of advice: don't expect strangers to let you in their apartment when you come randomly a knockin'. What is it about this apartment that 1. attracts randoms and 2. makes them think they're invited inside? Go away, douche. Go away, creeper. Who the hell are you and why did you decide to just walk in here? I'd like to rescind your non-existent invitation. I'm greatly confused by your presence. This presence I speak of is a creepy, over-looming fear that the feds are going to show up any minute to arrest you for god knows what. Did you not see me in the room next door when we asked you to leave #305? Why are you, five minutes later, knocking on #306 blatantly asking if you can come inside and "sit down"? Clearly, you're not welcome. It's kind of an engraved rule of thumb from childhood not to talk to strangers, let alone allow them to enter your humble abode. Please leave, Winston. And never come back.

Wolf Pack O' Douche

Let's talk animal shirts.
A cute little puppy screen-printed on your boring sweatshirt? A grandma at Christmas. (The puppy most likely has a red and green stocking cap on.)
A fierce lion face on your shirt? Props.

A wolf howling at the moon depicted on your tie-dyed gray t-shirt? You're a douche. Listen here D, wolf t-shirts cross a fine line: I'm just going to be completely honest on this one. The only people that can pull off a wolf t-shirt are, frankly, funny people...that look good. It distracts from the wolf tee. But let's get back to this fine line. When you walk into a party, 5 guys deep behind you, clad in this howling wolf, there are many red flags flying. Too many, in fact. And that's not even counting the other red flags flying due to the fact that no one here recognizes you! This wasn't a full blown house party, more like a small drink fest between friends. Thus, your presence is noticeable, very noticeable. And also  confusing---because no one really expects randoms to just walk into an apartment because "they saw people inside, and it looked like a party." Um? "Get the fuck out" perhaps would've been a good greeting. Luckily for the douche pack the men of the house were somewhat distracted and everyone else was too baffled to even politely ask the pack to leave upon first crossing the line. Needless to say, the wolf pack o' douche was eventually hunted down. (But not before trying to justify staying with an "oh it's cool, I've got a wolf tee!" No sir, that will not help your case.)

Downer Douche-chill

Wow. You are just killing my buzz, downer douche. As the night progressed, and drinks were consumed, you failed to be a happy drunk--the opposite actually. Please don't give me every detail of your sob story, I literally just met you. I'm very sorry your "finance" left you, your music degree didn't get you anywhere, and henceforth your band probably sucks. I apologize you don't know anyone in this city, and that your parents want you to move back home. Guess what buddy guy? Everyone's life sucks. You're damn right I got the blues. So when you're out drinking with society (what I'd like to think as trying to have a good time) please: save us the misery. Or maybe some better advice would be to not go out drinking alone. Douche, I'm starting to feel sorry for you. Move back home? Or at least away from me.

Dreads

There are several things to be dreaded in life.
We're talkin' utility bills, waking up with your face between the ass cheeks of dawn, working in the Mexican fast food industry... and yes, the tip jar.
Oh man how I dread the tip jar.

Look, sir. Or rather, scrawny teen with skin problem... I know where you're at. You get paid the absolute minimum when it comes to wages, and it hurts. It hurts bad. I know this because I am a fellow absolute minimum wagie. Yet you still have the one up on me. How you ask? That freaking tip jar you so nonchalantly placed under my nose. Unfortuneately, I hold no sympathy towards you and your empty tip jar. It deserves to be empty, y'asshole! You handed me food that was in a display case in front of the counter. Such service.
You're running a fine scam there and I tip my bonnet to you. But either we all get one, or no one does! Otherwise please spare me your wicked glare as I carefully avoid the tip section on my receipt*. I don't care if a generous citizen gives up their change but for real I don't get no damn tip jar at my place of business. Maybe if tip jars were enough to go around, we'd all be a lot more generous.

A special shout out to FroYo. Self-serve. Yet, somehow, a materialized tip jar. In short, up yours FroYo.



*I know you fucked up my order because I didn't sign the lousy tip portion of my receipt!!

douche dad

The 45-year-old fellow with flair... i.e. bedazzled white man's tee. Awww yeahh!! I see you've raided the closet of your 18 year old son. He doesn't look pleased. Probably he was hoping to catch the eyes of the ladies today. Unfortunately Dad's got 'im beat! Cz's reflecting the hell out of this unseasonably blazin' October sun and a metallic sheen-ed out shirt to boot. I don't know why you're trying to disorient the folks around you. As I like to say around here, better luck next time! D's never win. Not in the end they don't. Think about some white mid-calf socks, some khaki Dockers and maybe throw a Bill Cosby-inspired sweater in the mix. Could do you a lot of good.

You just sealed the deal: part deux

Yup, we got another one. Call 'im in.

I'll make this short and sweet. In your mind, I think you think you're being subtle. I'm here to tell you you're dead wrong.

For some inexplicable reason, you and your pals were outside shirtless chattin it up like schoolgirls. I hate to say that the one guy who doesn't have his shirt off is the one with the obviously less striking physique. Yet he has the right idea.

Believe it or not, I don't care that you spend the most of your off-time pumpin' those guns. It's the classic I'll Build Muscles to Make Up for My HumDrum Personality method. And I have to say this method usually fails. And to be less discreet, I think the male equivalent of "butterface" applies here. Again, not discreet, but still the truth.

It sucks how quickly I had to take your name down in my mental book of Douche. Indeed, the simplest act will do. That includes the one move you pulled where you had to walk inside before you could coyly put your shirt back on. I'm amazed you actually did. But still. Not subtle.

You just sealed the deal

Well aren't you an adonis to behold.

I literally spotted you a mile away. Saw you jogging from beyond the hazy heat waves and thought, I know this guy. Ya know how sometimes you might think "I bet that's...." when you see a person approaching. The thing is it was your douchiness that alerted me to your true identity. I sensed it before I even saw your face. That's saying something. Showin off those pecs like nobody's business. The ones that you seem to be cultivating into "male boobage" status.

With the risk of compromising anominity, I'm afraid your name bothers me too. I won't say what it is since word could get out that you've been written about because, well, everyone reads this blog. Let's just say it rhymes with "omen." Fitting. And it could describe a citizen of a certain city in a boot-shaped country. Like a cowboy boot.

Not that I wasn't sure of it before, but bad news is I now have an airtight case against you, D. Better luck next time. I mean, this whole "see ya, shirt!" craze is getting out of hand.

Excuse me, there's a sticker on your hat

Funny running into you. While I have ya here, I should probably be a good Samaritan and let you in on a secret: you left the sticker on your hat. Oh really? You meant to leave it on there? Well that's just douche. 

You see, stickers are awesome. I by no means want to point the douchenozzle to the stickers. I'd be so much happier if that hat of yours had on it a bear that is dressed like a pimp and has rainbows shooting out of it's ass. That'd be something to wear around on ya hat. Who doesn't love Lisa Frank?

What I'm confused about is why you guys need to leave the shiny price tag stickers on your hat. It doesn't make me believe your hat is "authentic." I could go in any hat store, peel off that same sticker and put it on Biggie Small's top hat and call it the real deal. Frankly your hat looks ridiculous with a bubbly sticker on the worn out rim. The only thing the sticker's doing is showing me how old it is. You don't buy a shirt and leave the tag on, so you don't leave the goddamn stickers on!

Then don't deliver pizza, ya turkey!

Oh, Pavel. You crazy guy you. Notha day, notha dolla, am I right?

Damn dude. Wasn't expecting to find a hysterical middle aged Iranian on my hands when I stepped out to grab meh tasty Domino's. Apparently I provided you with some false information. Yes, the address is incorrect. Because I don't live here. Quite simply, I had some hankerings for a delicious pizza whilst feeding my sister's cat. In all fairness, Pav, you're standing half a street's length from where you expected to drop off the 'no's. So please refrain from insisting I'm intoxicated or downright accusing me of being crazy. I'm not the one hollering in an utter stranger's face for losing 15 minutes off a shift. Seriously, 15 minutes? No need to declare jihad for that one, Pav. You're just lucky this Domino's is no lie, or else I probably would have enjoyed chucking it at your be-speckled head.

We All Know One

One glance, you know where he's been. You know why he's rockin some 'tude. Very disagreeable. He's on loan from the Army! Now I gotta listen to this guy talk (Kentucky accent most likely present) about what's wrong with the world. Let's start with what's wrong with you. Bahh must you use motherfucker in your every phrase? A Word of Curse must be used sparingly, or else you risk reviving the bubonic plague. (Please reference "It Hits the Fan" for more information on this subject.) Now I'm no stranger to cursing mindlessly, a trait I can only attribute to being raised in a household where cursing was appropriate when one dropped one's pencil. Or some other similar, typically non-rage inducing scenario, such as a light bulb burning out. However, Sporcle.com seems to agree that your cuss words are not in the top 50 most common English words! No ands, ors, or buts about sir! (which are included in top 50) Now then. Assuming you understood my South Park reference, if only because it says shit a hundred times and not because you understand the genius that is South Park, I hope you will do better in the future.

And with that haircut, you're just too cool for school! I don't like you.

I Beg Your Pardon? Part II: The Douchening

Ho, hum. Here I am... merely strolling on the side of the street (no sidewalk to behold) enjoying a snow cone with a close pal. Hmm, what a nice evening to meander down the-

BLAAANNGGGHHHHHH!!!

Someone just lost their shit.

I bet you can guess who it is. Yep. Asshole Douche. So we meet again!

"Are you really that stupid?!"

Cool those jets, friend. I was probably "in your way" all of two seconds. No need to honk that horn and launch your head out the window to casually abuse me. And from the looks of you, gotta be pushing what, 50? 60? Curmudgeon. Lemme just run this by you... before you waste your wheezy air bellowing insults at two teenaged ladies, pick up one of those handy Rules of the Road pamphlets they've got down at the DMV. It should mention something about "pedestrians" and "right of way" but I'll leave that up to you to discover. Though I should point out that most pedestrians are in fact assholes, I must argue that I'm on a road that more resembles a parking lot than an actual street that cars barrel down on.

Besides, in a few short years you will know how it feels to be honked at on the road, in or out of the car. Because let's face it. Old people (you) are slow, partially deaf (fully deaf?) and partially blind (fully blind?). I'm looking forward to the day when your license is taken away for running down hippies at a farmer's market. Then we shall see who has the upper hand!

Best wishes.

I Beg Your Pardon?

Listen buddy, it's not my fault that it's my fault. You were in my blind spot... My car should probably be in the water, the length of it. So I wanted to switch lanes: my sincere apologies that you also decided to fly into this newly-formed lane a few cars behind me ( I can't see you there!) at the exact same time. My insincere apologies that I almost hit you.  Right away I said sorry and waved across both of our open windows.  What else can I do for you? A "fuck you" or "asshole" yelled back at me would have been preferable to the five-minute bitch fit you just screamed across lanes. Really now? I apologized, so you should probably move on with your life. Holding up the rest of the traffic to scream at me for quite a while is a bit of a stretch. If you're gonna try and yell at me about "how to drive" and to "look where I'm going", maybe you should try not going 50 in a 30 (especially when you're maneuvering around cars because a separate lane was just formed.) I always look over my shoulder when I switch lanes: that's the same moment you came flying out of nowhere, and I stopped because I almost ran into you. I'm only sorry to the universe about the doucheness boiling over the whole situation.

Upon further review, It would have been more satisfying to have just plowed into your car, because the freely acquired boat I'm driving wouldn't be missed.

Shirts Encouraged

Oh hey guys, catchin' some rays? Right outside my window? Your friend in the yellow may be thinking the same thing as me: I say this only because I think he's giving you the same look I am. What the blazin is going on? You've been sitting out on this bench, shirtless, doing what exactly? Ahh...being a doucher. It'd be one thing if you came out yesterday, with the girls who had towels, tanning oil, and music--laying out in the middle of a muddy lawn getting trampled over by frisbee fanatics. I  could then see your true purpose: getting your bronzer on in the douchiest way possible. But here right now, just chillin on this bench with your homeboy in cargos, I think you need everyone's eyes just to be seen, and you'll pawn it off as just trying to "get tan. " This behavior is not helping your case, and in my opinion unacceptable. Go find a pool. 

The Lag-Behind

1. Do you find yourself, on more than one occasion, in the presence of shifting feet and close-ended conversations in another person's home? Perhaps one-ended conversations?

2. Do you ignore human signals suggesting that said person is "gonna go get some sleep now"?

3. Are you barely acquainted with said person?

5. Do others perceive you, as far as you are aware, as tiresome, creepy, or pesky?

If you've answered a sheepish "maybe" to any of these questions, you are a Stage 3 Douche. Worst of all, ya don't even know it! Stage 3 Douche (I shall refer to you as The Lag-Behind), you have easily surpassed Lingering Asshole and have dared to tread dangerous, incredibly clueless waters. And you're gonna make me come right out and say it, too. Because that's just the kind of person you are. A suggestion: Familiarize yourself with certain social devices, particularly one called "exit strategy." I don't care who what where (you'll notice "when" is conspicuously absent) why or how you leave, but ya can't stay here.

Think Again: So You've Decided to Steal Beer.

So ya think you're gonna steal my beers. Know what I say? Think again.

You aren't suave. You don't think much of me, do ya Beer-Swindling D? I would have to be a paraplegic to not feel you unzipping my heavy backpack! I have nerves throughout my whole body, you know. And for good reason. To not be bamboozled out of my hard-earned booze by a douche who thinks himself some kind of cat-burglar. Believe it or not, I don't have this backpack hanging off me as an open invitation to just take what you will. I bike-pedaled my way 6 city blocks (in a downpour no less) with the promise of an ice cold, cheap-ass brew. Not to give free hand outs to bums who won't carry their own! I mean, yeah, I'll be honest- we've all been guilty of a little theft here and there. But right now I just won't have it. Here you are, caught in the act of thievery, expecting me to be generous. No you may not have my beer. Thanks for asking though. Ya know, after i found you directly behind me probing the contents of my ale-laden bookbag. Better luck next time, pal!

Lola Revealed

Are you for serious? I wish I were lying right now, despite the humor of the situation. You see folks, Lola, a class-A douche, just whizzed by me only to reveal an even bigger douche as an owner. Oh jeeze: a walking Barbie. However, these days Barbie has got you beat on style, I'm afraid. Riding a baby pink moped around in head to toe shades of pink is not okay. Bright pink sneaks and socks, hot pink gym shorts, a light pink tank top and jacket, and a sparkly PINK tote bag. You might as well be Midge Monochromatic. What are you doing even going anywhere dressed like this, let alone riding around on your pink moped. You know what? Barbie seems like she'd be really annoying to be around. She's constantly got a "fuck you" grin. Her hair looks exactly the same, all the time, until it turns into a rat's nest. She's always stiff and standing on her tippy toes, and she wears Velcro clothes. Her voice is probably about as annoying as the one in the Barbie dream house commercial: overly excited and singly. Lola, I don't think you want to be whizzing by or walking around like this or even giving off this vibe. My first advice is to lose the moped. (Don't worry, even I won't care if you ride a pink bike around.) Secondly, never buy anything pink again. Perhaps I just caught you on a bad day--when you happened to be decked out in literally everything pink--but I suspect the majority of your belongings are 90% pink. I forgot to mention she was wearing a pink helmet, too.

What a Catch!

You, my good sir, must have quite a way with the ladies. Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Why, yes, I do! After all, I have learned how to jitterbug. And bonus- I'm wearing a vest!"

All right, so ya know how to move those feet. Good for you. Though to be fair, Douche, your overall competish is a sea of middle-aged, classical music-loving museum patrons sporting ill-fitting Dockers.) Your shit ain't that hot! When you were reviewing your outfit in the mirror before a "night on the town" (impromptu swing dancing in the front of a history museum) I bet you thought that vest would be the deal-breaker for potential dance partners. You just knew they wouldn't be able to resist. Seriously, though, you're decked out like you gotta hit up your wait-table job at the clubhouse after this. Sir, may I have another apple martini?

Yeah, and props to random guy trying to show you up with his dance partner. By that look on your face, you're not havin' it at all. "Why, this is my dancefloor, dammit! And boy howdy, look at me go!"

Well Swing D, you're certainly making Couple-to-Your-Left look bad. Now while they look like they're begging for death while they perfect the "creepy sway," you are swirling and dipping like nobody's business. Right on!

Here's You

"Line up, girls!"

You are not a model, correct?

Because I don't know what advertisement has Creepy Jock's Basement as their primary shooting backdrop. You're givin me the ol' "hand on hip" classic like nobody's business (see above). In what is essentially every picture I'm skimming through. Now I'm not pointing any fingers, but I'm betting you guiltlessly pursue the text of cheesy "How To Look Good in Photographs" Yahoo articles. And this is what they told you to do, is it? Fixed gaze, rigid legs (one out in front of the other) and angled chin? Caught you red-handed.

Douche Like Its Your Job

There's nothing worse than waking up to someone mowing their lawn. Should I curse the douche merely cutting his grass or myself for leaving the window open? Well in the case of today it was the douche trying to MOW THE SIDEWALK! What the pancakes are you doing?!? That piercing, screeching noise is the blades scraping the concrete, dumb-ass douche. My whole day might be ruined. I could have let it slide if perhaps it was just a few seconds, a whoops-e-daisy, and you got the mower back on track--in the grass. However, you must have thought a jungle was growing on the sidewalk because you proceeded to mow around the entire walkway, five minutes of nails on a chalkboard. What's going on? Really, I don't know why you're doing this, and how you're even putting up with the noise being right next to (and producing, goddamnit!) the source. I'm definitely not still drunk & delusional because my head is swimmin' this morning--okay afternoon--and this chronic, painful noise may make me come out there and do something rash. Pardon me, but I'm lazy, so I'll just call you a douche.

The Hallway Again?

So hey, the gym is two blocks away and free for you, man. I know this because we're in a goddamn dormitory, so you must to be going to the same college I am. Why in the blazin' am I seeing you EXERCISING in the hallway? Tense times have been looming, so perhaps I'm being harsh on you. Save my soul if I can't walk down the hall and round the corner in peace, but instead have my whole field of vision surprise-attack taken (attacken' if you will) over by the sight of you at the end of the hallway,in a shocking & shirtless gorilla-like stance, doing god knows what "exercise," that is preceding one gross protein shake. I like run-on sentences, not running into you. You couldn't even have managed to do this bullshit inside your room? The footballers above mine certainly don't hold back with the racket I hear these days. Yeah, I have a sneaking suspicion you wanted, and are blatantly trying to be seen in this state. Pathetic, man. Thank god I didn't have to pass by you. I'm actually too furiously confused to think about how I would have handled that. Is it too much to ask to hold the hallway true to its mere passing through function? The madness of the world is right in front of my eyes. I could use less of this, honestly.

Idiot At First Sight

The minute I saw you, and the minute you opened your mouth I knew I was in for it. Why did I get a new job?? I'm going to have to stand next to you for the next three hours and endure this chatter. Can you not tell by my bored reactions or at least see through my half ass attempts at pretending to listen that I'm not really interested in conversing with you? Within ten minutes you've all ready brought up two morbidly sad subjects: a personal death and 9-11. I just met you. Sorry to hear this, but I apologize to wonder as to why you didn't just keep this to yourself. Oh well, you've quickly moved on to some helpful "tips" for the new employee that's unfortunately me.
"Oh--next time, I'll show you the best way to roll that burrito." I'd rather just throw the beans and rice in your face to get rid of my first problem.
"My sister's name is Maggie" Good for her?
"Wait till you get to know Paula. Don't get on Paula's bad side-"
"Yeah I try not to do that when I meet people,"
He didn't even give a questioning look, "Yeah for some reason I just can't do anything right according to her. I mean I feel like I'm a likeable person and all, but she just hates me." I couldn't imagine why?!
I really can't remember what I responded to this although I'm sure it was the lamest attempt at caring. Thanks for sharing, you idiot. You're just about clueless. Paula and I were getting along fine exchanging looks on behalf of your behavior, and I smiled every time she yelled at your ass. Always trust the sassy black woman!

Don't You Love It When

...you're simply strolling along and out of nowhere comes Someone Serious D. I happened to see your leg out from behind the corner, and sir you sound pretty upset; it's now rather inevitable I'll be droppin' some eaves: "I just feel like, you don't depend on me like you should depend..."at this point I'm focusing on holding my laughs, because you'd hear me. Dude you're in the middle of the hallway? About to cry?
Um, sorry. Maybe you should have actually made the effort to go to this independent person's house.
Needless to say, I decided to take the same route back from the laundry... and five minutes later, still about to cry: "well if you can't understand that then its never gonna be you and me." Talk about this timing. I pictured a door slamming into your confused face. I don't know what you're doing with your life, out in the open, loudly upset for everyone walking around to hear. What's going on? Caught in the rain I guess, Someone Serious D.

Bitch, Please

Everyone takes a tumble every here and there...and it's hilarious. So funny, I can't even recover from the fall because I'm laughing too hard. I'll admit it---I'm the asshole trying to hide a flourishing smile when everyone else is in a shock of a situation. Hey, why get all hot & bothered when you can laugh? Welcome to the theme of my life. So you bet I'm annoyed when I hear you were giving me snarky looks for falling up the stairs, this time rather nonchalant: I was on the move towards the dwindling keg. When you got one thing on your mind, you got one thing on your mind. Good thing too, if I'd actually taken notice to you after everyone else had a quality laugh on account of a healthy fall, I would have thrown my philosophies in your face. Get off your high horse, because it's shitting beans everywhere. The flies don't even want to see you rolling your eyes and passing dirty glances.

Hey, thanks!

The only good thing about not having a say on your own room's freezing arctic temperature is that your water bottle stays a nice cool.

Douches of the World Wide Web: Happy Easter!

Mr. Photographer

Put it away. Away, I said. Waving your camera all over the place and what not, at all hours of the night? If I may, I believe the term is "cease and desist." Generally, I prefer direct light to remain out of retinas, yet here you are blasting up the place like National Geographic just discovered a new species. Snapshotting for a documentary, eh? No? Just an asshole? Got it. If you want to know the truth, I don't enjoy flashes in my face, especially when it hits that point of the night when my eyes have proceeded to glaze over and, having crossed into "hot mess" territory, the infamous red flush appears. It is simply inevitable and I would appreciate your discretion. And don't think I don't know what you're doing. You want to race home so you can prove to the good people of the interweb that you had a, er, night on the town. Jesus H Christ! I'm pretty sure when Kodak was inventing their slogan they didn't have your ridiculous behavior in mind. In my opinion, cameras were invented to capture, I dunno, say, nature's goodness. Maybe to remember Nana and Pep Pep after they've passed into the great beyond. Not you and your lifeless friends who, if I may say, look like they no doubt share my conviction.

Good god, lady

So this being my first post on JD, I wanted to make it count. I wanted to come in with a bang. That being said I expected to have to wait a hot minute for the perfect D to come around. Little did I know, said D would fall into my lap in a matter of days.

I had nothing but bad feelings when your sketchy ass started walking over. But honestly I wasn’t that upset when you asked to use my phone, after all I was awaiting our sober ride in the MOJO’s parking lot. So yeah, sure thing, go ahead, but it may be a little querky, it’s led a rough life. So I understood once who ever the fuck you called didn’t pick up, you discarded my phone for my buddies for try number two. I was even mildy acceptable when, while taking your sweet time dialing, you asked a fellow acquaintance for a cigarette and were rewarded. Of course, you need a lighter too. All of this is actually ok, but you sealed your fate with you next move, D. At this point in time our sober ride had shown, and we are waiting on the D to finish her phone call so we can roll the fuck out. Clearly you realize this, as we all move towards the vehicle. Still taking your time, once you’re done you have the nerve to ask for.. wait… what? A ride!? Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you see the back seats in that coupe? They’re about as small as your brain lady, and we already have to use them both. Had you been asking me, you would have been hoofing it to the gas station to meet buster brown. But alas, my highly intoxicated friend has graciously granted your request. That’s my seat bitch! You’re lucky the girl that kindly gave you a cigarette also kindly offered to give me a ride home. Otherwise I would have protested outright, there’s no way I’m waiting here while you get taxied around. And on top of all this, to change destinations mid-trip because “he’s not there”, while still smoking talked about cigarette in a usually smoke-free vehicle? You’ve got some nerve D, some nerve.

He's not gay! He's European.

Hey all, this is JustDouche coming at ya from Europe! Thought douchebags were an American thing? Think again!

Look at that guy over there, the one in the tight jeans and the hair that took longer to style than that of every girl in this room. I can't wait to run my fingers through your rock-hard gooped up hair. That tight shirt ripping across your biceps and that choker from the 1990's go great with the faux hawk. But the best are those patent leather atrocities on your feet (do they have heels?). Do you employ a shoe shiner?

But don't worry ladies, he's not gay, he's just Eurofabulous.

My Apologies

Listen. I don't pretend to be a thoughtful, compassionate person. I'm about as self-serving as they come, wallowing away in a pool of my own hedonism. So when you offered to "get me in backstage" for free, well, that was the only reason I accepted. And let's face it, this is a no-face jazz group with virtually no hand. So it's not like I'm getting a free platter of crab rangoon and fried rice here. No, it's just a perk, getting to save the $15 I had almost no intention of spending to see your "needs work" band anyway. Simply put, the Rum n' Cokes jotted down your number with the intent to get in free, whilst you misinterpreted the "get in free" part. Sorry, nope, I won't be calling you back. So when I run into you the next day (ya got me again, universe) I don't want to hear about how you're all hot and bothered that I, uh, blanked out on the whole calling you business. Not to mention the fact that you're a good decade older than me.

Lemme Get That

Alright, Mr. Nachos. I'm callin' in a favor. What better way to end a night of heavy drinking than with some cheapo mexican cuisine? Some cheese-flavored nachos? I'll bite.

(Though scrumptious beyond measure, they will be paid for in more ways than one.)

I mean no offense, but I will admit it wasn't your winning good-looks that grabbed my attention. I saw you wolfing down that jalapeno-covered mess and thought, hey, i'd like some of that. Why wait in line like an idiot when I can surreptitiously steal one of your own nachos? I am hungry, after all. Like a classy lady, I heft up what little cleavage there is to bear and seductively (ouch) ask for one of those tasty-lookin' nachos. Close (?) but no cigar. Literally, since apparently I "reek of cigarettes." Oh yeah? Well you reek of bromance and self-disdain, heh heh. I see you there with your only two friends, eating your emotions like Tamara who just got rejected to the Sadie-Hawkins dance. Boo hoo. Lemme get that nacho!

Generosity shining through, you admit that you don't give nachos to smokers. Well, la di dah, aren't you the pick of the litter. That's discrimination, if you ask me. You didn't? Well I suggest you and Rob Reiner settle the task by visiting your vacation home in Hawaii. Or Mexico, whichever it is, ya snooty bastard.

Great

I've signed and sealed an envelope to Windows Live-Bullshit-Email of high priority compliant.*
Unfortunately the student email that I have to use sans choice uses this email. You might originally think this type of email address would be classified as "this means business." Apparently not. Curse who ever decided it'd be helpful to include the address of every single other classmate you have, in a class-by-class list. You've provided the douches of the world to create their own kind of spam email. And you bet it's fucking annoying.
Right around the same time the bad news that all of my teachers decided to send around emails about upcoming tests and other bullshit, now I'm aware that a big game is coming up. Some lazy ass scalper you are, douche. Not every 200 or so person in this class is interested in buying your ticket. If you want to make some money on your season tickets find another way to do it, cause this isn't cutting it.
Just when I thought trying to sell tickets was crossing the line, another douche created their own version of "online shopping." Everyone should now be realizing that the Uggs are getting out of hand. But what's even more out of hand is that you're sending out a mass email asking if any one is interesting in buying your embarrassing pair. Gross, man. I'm also not even going to begin to think about giving you $90 for an old coach or chanel purse that you probably think is the real deal. To top it all off, absolutely no one is going to give you a quick buck for some GODDAMN old tennis shoes! Seriously just throw them away or donate them somewhere. Get a handle on life. 




*not really-I'm a member of the lazy community

Riddle Me This One

Facebook is starting to become common language now, whether we like it or not. Our mothers are on it, even Pep Pep is commenting on your status. This leads me to "Riddle Me This One," when a status is just too good to pass up. What were these D's thinking when Facebook asked them what the hell was on their mind? D's: You have to realize these are permanently up for grabs on the internet, associated with your inner-douche.
"oil change and taxes today....hpoe i get a million bagillion dollars back...if i do ill take everyone out to eat :) " 
- Mr. Moneybags
If you read this wonderfully insightful status, the smiley face probably threw you off. A younger,  uhh, gentlemen posted this one. I sincerely hope you get a million "bagillion" dollars back too on your tax return, but I don't even know how much money that'd be. A bagillion? Really? 
"i just wanna fucking know why im not good enough for him." 
-Ouch
When I saw this one I did a double take. Um? Well for starters, now we all are aware that you fell below standards, and the rest of the entire ">">fucking"< world knows now too. But you consciously chose to initiate this rapid process, way to go! I start to think how in the blazin' would you even begin to think of putting this up as your status, but then you see the comments. They're just what you hoped for--some sympathy from your "friends." All I can say is that I hope whoever Him is sees this and gives you an honest reply, it'll be another shocker.

Makes Ya Think

Surprise! This is a new "segment" we'll be working with 'round these parts. Called "Worst Part of My Day." Ready?

Today: Discovering that dead fish do not always float to the top of a fish bowl. This is a myth.

Awoken from a midday's nap from a tap to the shoulder.

A fellow friend asked of the whereabouts of a certain pet fish.

Had to break it to said fellow friend: Nigel passed away today.

Was originally thought to be resting on favorite rock, but was discovered dead at 3 PM this afternoon. He was a good fish, he was a kind fish.

Relinquish Your Duties, Please

What's a party without music, right? Well with what you're playing, I'd call it a complete drag. I'm getting tired of hearing the top 5 radio pop songs literally being over-played by you. Didn't I hear that guy rapping from DeGrassi like fifteen minutes ago when I was thinking I should leave this party?

Alas, you've got a scheme here: show up strategically near the end of the current song just in time to scroll to another bad choice and hit play. Unless of course you're original enough to try and get some excitement from a song that no joke just ended 10 whole minutes ago. Bravo, you're simply just lowering your chances of receiving any faith that you'll fix this situation. 

Downright Douche

There is not only one, but two cigarettes lying directly under a very conveniently placed cigarette-trashcan-stand, and I've seen worse at others. You are just a "capital-D" Douche, or can I say Asshole? I by no means care if you want to enjoy your choice cig, in fact I might encourage some of you. However throwing your trash directly in front of a trash can, is like littering on purpose, or spitting in the face of your mother earth. I mean, seriously, it's not even the lazier way out, something I personally excuse. So figure it out you oblivious douche, we're killing our planet. Dare I bring up the recent earthquake? Earth obviously hasn't been taking to business of this nature kindly.

You're Given Too Little Credit

You are one of the few unique people I've ever met. That butterfly tattoo says it all. Oh, I see. You LIKE them. Well, gee, you sure put me in my place. Want to know something though? Everyone likes butterflies. They're delicate creatures. I bet you like spaghetti too, right? Do you wanna get a plate of spaghetti with a big ol' meatball on top tattooed on your chest? Most likely your answer is no, because that wouldn't be as "artsy" or "symbolic" of some bullshit i think you just made up on the spot. Well, I've got news for you: at least the spaghetti is original.

Should've Popped the Shirt

Not even a chance I noticed your abs, or the lame tattoo...that are right in my face.
It's sad enough that I have to see you around from time to time. But it's really sad that just about every time, at some point, your shirt (although there's a good chance it was just a "wife beater") seems to misplace itself. What makes you think you can live above, I should probably say below, this norm of society? You're at a social gathering walking around, flailing your stuff about. Frankly, I don't see why we aren't all responding to you as if you were a caveman, you certainly are speaking like one. Ah, now I see it! It's because cavemen didn't wear metal jewelry...that ridiculous over sized cross necklace you have on is not making since. You don't peg me as the religious type: you're wasted on a Saturday night, trying to boast about the 'hot chick' you banged last night. This is all too ironic. Wait---I'm thinking there's probably a 100% chance you were blatantly lying about the girl.

Please Have Some Courtesy, Douche

This is no geometry problem folks, it's a map. Normally I'd say go ahead and doodle on my desk if necessary, because all it takes is a rub of your finger to smudge away the lead...but I wouldn't want to smudge that thing away either, prick! You're "map" is pretty huge to be a desktop doodle. Write out a few equations or sums to the side, go ahead. Instead, every one else is stuck with this lead pile getting all over their shit, directly because of your lack of balls to get your hand dirty (or for Christ's sakes find something else to use.) Probably even more annoying, you're "map" makes no sense. You deserve to get lost walking to class sense you clearly have no sense of north or south...or courtesy. I am also just deducing from the fact that you have a location on the map labeled TAG that this is some sort of plot for a lame zombie game you're merely trying to participate in.