Courtesy of a few strains of virulent pop culture, we see the douchebag in proper form ALL the time.
Whether it's the frat daddy who shamelessly says 'sup bra', the narcissist 'tard without charm ... the political pundit minus the brains, and anyone with hidden agendas -- it is evident that there are a lot of unsavory characters who beg comparison to vaginal irrigators.
The term is overused.
I feel we've come to throw the word douchebag around to loosely when the term 'tool' will suffice. I still feel a tool is more biting than douchebag. And we don't truly employ accurate adjectives anymore because assholes are collecting the term of ill-willed folly moreso than the actual dick knobs are. There's a difference people.
Next time you encounter a real douchey guy, instead of just slapping him with the term douchebag, consider something new ... like 'wet fart' ...just sayin
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The American Apparel Reality Check
I did it people.
I went to American Apparel to see what life is like in skinny pants.
Before I continue I just want to preface this entry in saying there's nothing wrong with skinny pants, but I'm just not that comfortable being that well-defined.
Let me explain. I rolled up into American Apparel and was immediately greeted by the most dainty man I've ever seen. In fact, he looked anemic, pasty, light enough to hover.
Me: "Yo, I'm looking for a pair of pants."
Guy: "These are super sweet [points me to bright red pants].
They looked as if I would have trouble even fitting my arms through each leg. FUCK yes! This was going to be ridiculous.
Guy: "They're a little small but once you wear tight-pants you don't ever wanna go back."
Hell to the fuck yes!
I take the pants to the dressing room and literally could not get the size 31 waist pants all the way up my legs. But after much hard work I got them on.
The first thought that came to mind? Take them off.
But I was able to button them up, flex my soccer-legs that can also be mistaken for tree trunks and only wished I was wearing one white glove, because I had this incredible desire to do a Michael Jackson snap kick, spin and moonwalk across the floor to see people's reaction.
Instead I ripped them off and concluded they're not for me.
I went to American Apparel to see what life is like in skinny pants.
Before I continue I just want to preface this entry in saying there's nothing wrong with skinny pants, but I'm just not that comfortable being that well-defined.
Let me explain. I rolled up into American Apparel and was immediately greeted by the most dainty man I've ever seen. In fact, he looked anemic, pasty, light enough to hover.
Me: "Yo, I'm looking for a pair of pants."
Guy: "These are super sweet [points me to bright red pants].
They looked as if I would have trouble even fitting my arms through each leg. FUCK yes! This was going to be ridiculous.
Guy: "They're a little small but once you wear tight-pants you don't ever wanna go back."
Hell to the fuck yes!
I take the pants to the dressing room and literally could not get the size 31 waist pants all the way up my legs. But after much hard work I got them on.
The first thought that came to mind? Take them off.
But I was able to button them up, flex my soccer-legs that can also be mistaken for tree trunks and only wished I was wearing one white glove, because I had this incredible desire to do a Michael Jackson snap kick, spin and moonwalk across the floor to see people's reaction.
Instead I ripped them off and concluded they're not for me.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Professional Identity
Being the sharply observed repository of random musings that I am, there's an obligation I have to write a short explanation about career identity while supplementing evidence that I am really really dope.
Dolla'Dolla bills y'all!
That said, I might make $25,000 per year or I might make $831,600 per year as a journalist (not including my side gig as a back up joke teller for another publication).
What?! Was that some sort of gay joke dude? No, but good luck getting a straight answer about my salary. ZING mother fucker.
I hit up a young urban professional happy hour yesterday because someone informed me that it's what the deliciously wealthy, devastatingly successful and outright pompous socially elite twenty-somethings are doing these days.
Naturally I belonged there.
There was an urge spawning from the bowels of my soul to wash people over in waves of douchebaggery at the Belmont on 6th street. I had plans to douse myself in expensive cologne (imported from Africa and contains lion saliva), put enough product in my hair to last through the following calendar year, and pounce every opportunity to impress a girl with my large wallet and topical conversations that only discuss me and my incredibly superior station I have attained through my career.
But that urge died once I made it to the bar and asked the bartender for a Lone Star.
The request for our state's lower quality, cheaper beer revealed me as the lowly paid journalist that I might actually be. But I was fine with that, because I really have never tried to impress people ... unless you're a prospective employer or if you are of the attractive, smart and sexy ilk of the opposite sex. But even that's arguable how far I go to try to impress people.
So we schmooze it up all night with young twenty-somethings who all want to avoid lateral movement in the work place as much as they want to avoid impending debt. Skyrocketing to the top is the common ground we all stood on.
It was an aggregate of shiturgy, which loosely translates to a shitload of lameness, but not to discredit it too much, there's something intriguingly hilarious about handing out business cards.
I have an entire box of cards that never see the light of day. In fact, I use them when my joke material gets really bland while at work. It's an easy button for laughter.
"Having a bad day? ... Here, take this, it will do the trick." [hands business card to person]
"HAHAHAAHA ... it's a card. And look, there's your name. And even a job title! haha. Thanks JJ, you're the best!"
But people ask me for my business card and are mysteriously enthralled with my job title for some ungodly reason I will never understand. I delicately decline when I say I don't carry business cards with me.
Professional? No. But the cards literally won't fit in my wallet.
And I know people who strategically and creatively use their business cards to their advantage. For instance, one of my friends who will remain nameless, offers his business card to girls and even includes a fake British accent and gives the impression that he's a charming blue blood with a vernacular for otherworldly.
Another friend uses his business card to scrape bird poo-poo from his car windshield.
Me, I think my business card would find a happy home in a urinal at GSD&M. Someone would have the wherewithal to actually contact me, only to say, 'dude, your reputation is literally in the toilet" ... but I like you shameless attempt at viral marketing yourself.
I handed one business card out last night. I hope she maximizes its utility and studies my contact information with the proficient dexterity of a double-fisting alcoholic staggering in and out of consciousness. And emails me to say, "is that a real job."
So after the drinking barrage with the 30k millionaires and real estate agent girls looking for lawyers, we headed over to another bar that was more my scene on Red River. Cheap, grimey and real.
And it was there where we encountered a real life homeless man who approached me with an industrial size roll of aluminum foil. He asked me what my favorite animal was. I told him a zebra for some reason.
He wadded up the foil and created a fuckin badass zebra, even had stripes too! And he had his own assistant, who held his foil for him. I should have asked him to make a duckbill platypus or some shit instead.
"That's my executive assistant," he said. All I could think about was how cool it was to have an aluminum foil zebra. I was enamored and told the guy he was really talented and I envy him for his craft.
If I could make animals out of tin foil I'd take those skills to the Bellmont. I'd instantly become a class C celebrity. But I would only make doucheman, not to be confused with horse feces. But is almost interchangeable.
Speaking of class C elebrity and/or being freakin dope ... I was at a West 6th Street bar last night and ran into three girls who I know, who confessed that they actually read this.
I've never felt more stupid in my life. haha
Dolla'Dolla bills y'all!
That said, I might make $25,000 per year or I might make $831,600 per year as a journalist (not including my side gig as a back up joke teller for another publication).
What?! Was that some sort of gay joke dude? No, but good luck getting a straight answer about my salary. ZING mother fucker.
I hit up a young urban professional happy hour yesterday because someone informed me that it's what the deliciously wealthy, devastatingly successful and outright pompous socially elite twenty-somethings are doing these days.
Naturally I belonged there.
There was an urge spawning from the bowels of my soul to wash people over in waves of douchebaggery at the Belmont on 6th street. I had plans to douse myself in expensive cologne (imported from Africa and contains lion saliva), put enough product in my hair to last through the following calendar year, and pounce every opportunity to impress a girl with my large wallet and topical conversations that only discuss me and my incredibly superior station I have attained through my career.
But that urge died once I made it to the bar and asked the bartender for a Lone Star.
The request for our state's lower quality, cheaper beer revealed me as the lowly paid journalist that I might actually be. But I was fine with that, because I really have never tried to impress people ... unless you're a prospective employer or if you are of the attractive, smart and sexy ilk of the opposite sex. But even that's arguable how far I go to try to impress people.
So we schmooze it up all night with young twenty-somethings who all want to avoid lateral movement in the work place as much as they want to avoid impending debt. Skyrocketing to the top is the common ground we all stood on.
It was an aggregate of shiturgy, which loosely translates to a shitload of lameness, but not to discredit it too much, there's something intriguingly hilarious about handing out business cards.
I have an entire box of cards that never see the light of day. In fact, I use them when my joke material gets really bland while at work. It's an easy button for laughter.
"Having a bad day? ... Here, take this, it will do the trick." [hands business card to person]
"HAHAHAAHA ... it's a card. And look, there's your name. And even a job title! haha. Thanks JJ, you're the best!"
But people ask me for my business card and are mysteriously enthralled with my job title for some ungodly reason I will never understand. I delicately decline when I say I don't carry business cards with me.
Professional? No. But the cards literally won't fit in my wallet.
And I know people who strategically and creatively use their business cards to their advantage. For instance, one of my friends who will remain nameless, offers his business card to girls and even includes a fake British accent and gives the impression that he's a charming blue blood with a vernacular for otherworldly.
Another friend uses his business card to scrape bird poo-poo from his car windshield.
Me, I think my business card would find a happy home in a urinal at GSD&M. Someone would have the wherewithal to actually contact me, only to say, 'dude, your reputation is literally in the toilet" ... but I like you shameless attempt at viral marketing yourself.
I handed one business card out last night. I hope she maximizes its utility and studies my contact information with the proficient dexterity of a double-fisting alcoholic staggering in and out of consciousness. And emails me to say, "is that a real job."
So after the drinking barrage with the 30k millionaires and real estate agent girls looking for lawyers, we headed over to another bar that was more my scene on Red River. Cheap, grimey and real.
And it was there where we encountered a real life homeless man who approached me with an industrial size roll of aluminum foil. He asked me what my favorite animal was. I told him a zebra for some reason.
He wadded up the foil and created a fuckin badass zebra, even had stripes too! And he had his own assistant, who held his foil for him. I should have asked him to make a duckbill platypus or some shit instead.
"That's my executive assistant," he said. All I could think about was how cool it was to have an aluminum foil zebra. I was enamored and told the guy he was really talented and I envy him for his craft.
If I could make animals out of tin foil I'd take those skills to the Bellmont. I'd instantly become a class C celebrity. But I would only make doucheman, not to be confused with horse feces. But is almost interchangeable.
Speaking of class C elebrity and/or being freakin dope ... I was at a West 6th Street bar last night and ran into three girls who I know, who confessed that they actually read this.
I've never felt more stupid in my life. haha
Monday, June 9, 2008
Tetris Thinking
It's like playing Tetris and you think you have your shit together on level 9 when all of a sudden that mother fucking dissimilar oblong looking pariah of a geometrical mess drops more unexpectedly and faster than an ill-advised bowel movement after an Exlax milkshake.
It doesn't correspond in nature or structure and it's quick descent forces you to think quickly. Your reaction is a standard detour from the distinguished tongue: 'Fuckin' bitch!'
And then before you can even finish spouting out the word 'bitch' an upright elongated column drops from the unforgiving Tetris heavens and parks itself on your haphazard tower of Jenga atrocity, full of holes and impending doom.
And at that point it's too little and too late. The game signifies your suckyness by making that sound effect that sounds eerily similar to a duck getting a prostate exam or something, and the screen is full of blocks.
And you're so determined to set it right in the next game. Clean slate. But the effects and remnants from the initial game carry over into the next and in a haste panic to get back to where you were at level 9, you screw up early on.
At this point, your confidence is shot after bowing at at level 2. Your level of annoyance is only rivaled by a retarded clown who out smarts you and twists your nipples repeatedly.
That's what the hell happened people. Things started slow, sped up and I just couldn't manage how fast it was shaping up for me.
Sometimes I say to myself, 'shit, I wanna rock that brown paper bag over my head' because I suck so bad at Tetris... but then I remind myself that it would be a huge disservice to girls who are seeking pleasant looking faces. SNAP! But I might do it anyways.
This Tetris thing is obviously a metaphor for something else ...
I wish I could situate all of it and make it fit nicely like it once did. Perhaps I should stick to colors instead of shapes, Dr. Mario.
It doesn't correspond in nature or structure and it's quick descent forces you to think quickly. Your reaction is a standard detour from the distinguished tongue: 'Fuckin' bitch!'
And then before you can even finish spouting out the word 'bitch' an upright elongated column drops from the unforgiving Tetris heavens and parks itself on your haphazard tower of Jenga atrocity, full of holes and impending doom.
And at that point it's too little and too late. The game signifies your suckyness by making that sound effect that sounds eerily similar to a duck getting a prostate exam or something, and the screen is full of blocks.
And you're so determined to set it right in the next game. Clean slate. But the effects and remnants from the initial game carry over into the next and in a haste panic to get back to where you were at level 9, you screw up early on.
At this point, your confidence is shot after bowing at at level 2. Your level of annoyance is only rivaled by a retarded clown who out smarts you and twists your nipples repeatedly.
That's what the hell happened people. Things started slow, sped up and I just couldn't manage how fast it was shaping up for me.
Sometimes I say to myself, 'shit, I wanna rock that brown paper bag over my head' because I suck so bad at Tetris... but then I remind myself that it would be a huge disservice to girls who are seeking pleasant looking faces. SNAP! But I might do it anyways.
This Tetris thing is obviously a metaphor for something else ...
I wish I could situate all of it and make it fit nicely like it once did. Perhaps I should stick to colors instead of shapes, Dr. Mario.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Radical Honesty Post
It's 7:12 a.m. and I'm pounding the keyboard loudly with the ferocity of a geeked out wood pecker whose hollowed laurels are fulfilled once humans are annoyed.
I want people to know that I'm working, so I peck like a mother fuckin' character from Willow.
Oh the places you'll go in this mixed media world of mayhem I'm immersed in right now.
This is the honesty post, so I have virtually parked my rear end on the world-wide-web this morning, gravely surfing YouTube in search of really engaging and intense thumb war battles, street-wise bohemians freestyle rapping about the good life as a starving artist in Grenich and how-to instructional content about how to write a thank you note.
In no order of importance here are some truths that I must confess:
I still read Cosmopolitan magazine when accessible
Yogurt has become the sensible baby food of adult culture but I'm still embarrassed when I eat it in public ... do I chew, straight swallow or drink?
I recognize the coffee mug advice that gives me pithy, perky, predictable, trite advice on how to live.
Girls love me because of my low-maintenance style with androgynous shag haircut and simply cut clothes that say, "damn, too much style, coming through .... make way."
I linger at the self-actualization aisle at Barnes & Noble with a book from another aisle in my hand to act discreet. "Self Reliance" by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Tackle that mother fucker with the craziness of a linebacker with a chemical imbalance.
I think everyone needs a good sports nickname ... sincerely, JJ "THE HAMMERIN' HOMUNCULUS"
I say things for sport: Who does that?
I can't swim, only doggie paddle and when required to swim it's a crushingly embarrassing experience.
I twirl the few chest hairs that I have when I'm lying in bed.
There's a feign interest I have in watching older, distinguished men read the back of wine bottles and critique its quality. Once they put the eye-glasses on half way, I'm already taking diligent notes on how to be a man.
I don't enjoy compliments like most people do. It makes me feel uncomfortable because I feel required to return the volley.
I have an uncanny knack at telling a woman's dress size.
Speaking of dresses, I love sundresses. Hot girls + sundresses = amazing day.
Every play-list in which I create seemingly of random songs provide a secret message to one person.
I enjoy delivering eulogies.
No one can beat me at caressing a woman's neck. Back of my fingers, in a slow fan. I'm not joking. Same goes for the lip lock. No one.
That's it for now. back to work.
I want people to know that I'm working, so I peck like a mother fuckin' character from Willow.
Oh the places you'll go in this mixed media world of mayhem I'm immersed in right now.
This is the honesty post, so I have virtually parked my rear end on the world-wide-web this morning, gravely surfing YouTube in search of really engaging and intense thumb war battles, street-wise bohemians freestyle rapping about the good life as a starving artist in Grenich and how-to instructional content about how to write a thank you note.
In no order of importance here are some truths that I must confess:
I still read Cosmopolitan magazine when accessible
Yogurt has become the sensible baby food of adult culture but I'm still embarrassed when I eat it in public ... do I chew, straight swallow or drink?
I recognize the coffee mug advice that gives me pithy, perky, predictable, trite advice on how to live.
Girls love me because of my low-maintenance style with androgynous shag haircut and simply cut clothes that say, "damn, too much style, coming through .... make way."
I linger at the self-actualization aisle at Barnes & Noble with a book from another aisle in my hand to act discreet. "Self Reliance" by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Tackle that mother fucker with the craziness of a linebacker with a chemical imbalance.
I think everyone needs a good sports nickname ... sincerely, JJ "THE HAMMERIN' HOMUNCULUS"
I say things for sport: Who does that?
I can't swim, only doggie paddle and when required to swim it's a crushingly embarrassing experience.
I twirl the few chest hairs that I have when I'm lying in bed.
There's a feign interest I have in watching older, distinguished men read the back of wine bottles and critique its quality. Once they put the eye-glasses on half way, I'm already taking diligent notes on how to be a man.
I don't enjoy compliments like most people do. It makes me feel uncomfortable because I feel required to return the volley.
I have an uncanny knack at telling a woman's dress size.
Speaking of dresses, I love sundresses. Hot girls + sundresses = amazing day.
Every play-list in which I create seemingly of random songs provide a secret message to one person.
I enjoy delivering eulogies.
No one can beat me at caressing a woman's neck. Back of my fingers, in a slow fan. I'm not joking. Same goes for the lip lock. No one.
That's it for now. back to work.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I Just Threw Up A Little Bit in My Mouth
I was feeling dangerously experimental this evening.
Trying to remedy that hellish hour of boredom that had me considering ungodly activities for fun, like changing my voice mail greeting or seeking the wisdom hidden in the multiple fortune cookies I was eating at the time.
*Notes of interest:
I will not return your phone calls unless you leave a message and sing it to me in E minor.
I once got a fortune that said, "It is impossible to please everyone, so please yourself [in bed].
So, what was I to do to entertain myself?
Since I'm a word wrangler of such gritty minimalism whereby apostrophes will hug and cling to these sentences like saran wrap, I'll keep this entry short and sweet. I'm really not terse, but I will be for this entry.
I showed up to Hooters, in search of all things hot. Bosoms of spicy chicken and the scantly-clad '70s porn star themed waitresses. So I roll up in that mother fucker (I don't know why I just used such vulgar language there) and eat generous servings of fried gobs of chicken that would either a) feed several small African villages b) pose a threat to your esophagus and contribute to other worldy indigestion.
After eating, only minutes after swallowing greased lightning in the form of hot wings, I decided to run three miles for good measure.
For all intents and purposes, I had just eaten two pounds of butter. And the after taste tasted like axle grease ... and I felt like the business end of your shoes after you just sludged through a bar bathroom.
It was bad. And I needed some quick, spiritually uplifting health fix it was that bad. I think the atrium valves in my heart were signing up for Yoga class or some shit. So I washed all the grease out of my clogged arteries with ice cream. Wow!
This came half way through my run mind you. I stopped, bought ice cream and continued my run.
Dope? no sir. Contradictory? yes.
It was an intriguing exploration of the brilliantly simplistic premise that I completely negated the process of achievement when I decided to run. Yes, run. I had reached great feats by stuffing my face with fried goodness, and ruined it with a run.
Trying to remedy that hellish hour of boredom that had me considering ungodly activities for fun, like changing my voice mail greeting or seeking the wisdom hidden in the multiple fortune cookies I was eating at the time.
*Notes of interest:
I will not return your phone calls unless you leave a message and sing it to me in E minor.
I once got a fortune that said, "It is impossible to please everyone, so please yourself [in bed].
So, what was I to do to entertain myself?
Since I'm a word wrangler of such gritty minimalism whereby apostrophes will hug and cling to these sentences like saran wrap, I'll keep this entry short and sweet. I'm really not terse, but I will be for this entry.
I showed up to Hooters, in search of all things hot. Bosoms of spicy chicken and the scantly-clad '70s porn star themed waitresses. So I roll up in that mother fucker (I don't know why I just used such vulgar language there) and eat generous servings of fried gobs of chicken that would either a) feed several small African villages b) pose a threat to your esophagus and contribute to other worldy indigestion.
After eating, only minutes after swallowing greased lightning in the form of hot wings, I decided to run three miles for good measure.
For all intents and purposes, I had just eaten two pounds of butter. And the after taste tasted like axle grease ... and I felt like the business end of your shoes after you just sludged through a bar bathroom.
It was bad. And I needed some quick, spiritually uplifting health fix it was that bad. I think the atrium valves in my heart were signing up for Yoga class or some shit. So I washed all the grease out of my clogged arteries with ice cream. Wow!
This came half way through my run mind you. I stopped, bought ice cream and continued my run.
Dope? no sir. Contradictory? yes.
It was an intriguing exploration of the brilliantly simplistic premise that I completely negated the process of achievement when I decided to run. Yes, run. I had reached great feats by stuffing my face with fried goodness, and ruined it with a run.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Peace Out!
There's always something bewitching and unsettling when it comes to saying goodbye to people who you are only vaguely familiar with and you aren't sure how to bid farewell.
Hand shake? Fist pound or knuckle knocking explosion in unison, or a risky attempt at an elaborate thugged out, seemingly choreographed handshake that typically ends in some half ass man hug?
Whatever. I'm the "just throw two at 'em" kinda guy who just says peace with a sideways peace sign. I have clammy hands, which makes hand contact impossibly awkward, especially when it's with another dude.
My clammy hands effectively make the hand exchange seem more gay than a collective of wizards poofing fashion trends while blogging about Sex and the City at the same time. That's pretty gay, my friend.
There's not many things more awkward than someone trying to shake your balled up fist too. Don't be foolish people, if I extend a firm fist, it is not summoning your palm, so please refrain from making an ass out of the two of us., please.
Unless you genuinely thought we were playing the interactive version of rock, paper, scissors and you were showing me how paper is capable of suffocating rock, you are certainly not and never will be dope ass.
But I'm liking the revival of the Medieval handshake where forearms are grabbed ... the Japanese bow works too, and shit, even the Middle Eastern man kiss is less gay than an uncoordinated, misguided plunge in coolness when two people fumble their way through a good bye.
Hand shake? Fist pound or knuckle knocking explosion in unison, or a risky attempt at an elaborate thugged out, seemingly choreographed handshake that typically ends in some half ass man hug?
Whatever. I'm the "just throw two at 'em" kinda guy who just says peace with a sideways peace sign. I have clammy hands, which makes hand contact impossibly awkward, especially when it's with another dude.
My clammy hands effectively make the hand exchange seem more gay than a collective of wizards poofing fashion trends while blogging about Sex and the City at the same time. That's pretty gay, my friend.
There's not many things more awkward than someone trying to shake your balled up fist too. Don't be foolish people, if I extend a firm fist, it is not summoning your palm, so please refrain from making an ass out of the two of us., please.
Unless you genuinely thought we were playing the interactive version of rock, paper, scissors and you were showing me how paper is capable of suffocating rock, you are certainly not and never will be dope ass.
But I'm liking the revival of the Medieval handshake where forearms are grabbed ... the Japanese bow works too, and shit, even the Middle Eastern man kiss is less gay than an uncoordinated, misguided plunge in coolness when two people fumble their way through a good bye.
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