On the Origin of Douche Bags

Written Sept, 2010, after a vile experience

*

Oh, Machismo; to the Penile Wastes dwelling on this known celestial body, melded in the molten core of the earth, fixed eternally, irremovable; to the Scumbags who cannot withhold from engagement in Douchebaggery; Hear My Cry:

 

When you honk at me, crouching behind the glorious mask of an Escalade (or even a dinky little station wagon), you’re only emphasizing your tragically minuscule penis to me, and to everyone within a planet-sized radius. Here, drink some Miracle Grow, dyed extra blue with testosterone, to help you grow a pair. Dive deep within your newfound gems for the charm, tact, and class necessary to befriend a half-decent woman with self respect. Let them blossom into gems that women actually WANT to handle, not grimey, crab-ridden sacs of Despair. These things do not urge me to jump into your car and ravish your greasy body. I am not sent spinning into an endless helix of attraction and lust. They make me hate you, plainly and comprehensively said.

 

Lo, and behold! the scum bag who brakes betwixt an onslaught of traffic and me, just to honk loudly in my be-headphoned ear. Honking and waving, grinning… his golden teeth catching the morning light and flashblinding me. Why? I ask myself. Why do you obstruct my venture onward? Why are you even horny at this wee hour of the morn? Of course, I do not remove my earbud (if anything, I pump the Zeppelin louder to drown out the vehicular Kanye). He mouths standard things that look like “Mami,” and “Oww,” and “Bonita,” meaningless blessings and cat calls. This is one of those rare occasions I wish my face was hidden behind a dark pair of aviators.

 

Then the phrase that only the least tactical pull out of their vaginas: “Scue me… can I talk to you for a minute?” There are more flaws in that statement than in the character of Hamlet.

First of all. Unless you tried to say “Scusi,” because you’re Italian (which you’re not), then complete your words and sentences in correct grammatical form.

Secondly. Just like any other human being with a larynx, a pharynx, a tongue and a brain, I’m pretty sure you CAN talk to me or just about anyone else on the street. Or are you actually mute and just playing a recorded Holler sequence? Also, if you wished to be granted permission to speak to me, I accept your flattery but mock your misuse of English.

Thirdly. I really don’t know what kind of captivating conversation you expect to hold with me in the span of sixty seconds.

 

By now, an entire street’s worth of traffic is honking, and a few other sleaze bombs holler at me while honking at you. Roll up your windows and lower the gangsta rap. Such suggested and encouraged signs of maturity may be compared to ignoring an erection. I have faith that you can do it, save the fun for later. Hit the gas before you incite a rumble, asshole.

 

I realize he is truly awaiting a response from me with that stupid, empty-skull grin on his face. Why yes, I would love nothing more than to jump inside of your vehicle, stranger! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for! I say to him, “No, I ran out of minutes this month,” and walk around his car. Pretty lame response.  I make myself feel better by swearing such a lowlife hardly deserves a well-planned retort.

 

The brainless smile melts off his face like flan on a hot day. “Aight girlie, you take care. God bless,” and he’s out.

 

I ask one question – how does this exact scenario manage to flesh out amongst the entire female population day after day? Is there a cult of Douchebags that meet in a basement somewhere in the Bronx, who memorize a list of phrases and sweet moves to test on women in the street? Are you covering up a hairy, empty shell of a sorry man?

 

Do any of you schmucks GET girls this way?

 

Females are often accused of being the genetic carriers of “Trying Too Hard,” sometimes called Insecurity or Phoniness (located on Chromosome 21… you know, the one that is also linked to MR). Well, mirror mirror on the wall… hate to break it to you, but a man in pursuit of some action is the Fakest of them all.

 

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On the Origin of Douche Bags

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