As I have said before, I am a
people-watcher. Sometimes it’s entertaining, sometimes disturbing
and sometimes it makes you wonder how in the hell we ever survived as
a race for as long as we have. One distressing trend that seems to
have somehow become incomprehensibly popular is douche-baggery. They
are out there, walking among us and apparently breeding like rats.
You can spot them puffing and preening and wearing ornamental
t-shirts that would be too tight for a young greyhound. This, I
assume, is to show off their fresh ‘gym pump’ or perhaps their
steroid pimples. They have a vacancy about them that they try to
compensate for by talking incessantly about their prowess at shooting
Jager-Bombs and the frequency which they get sex. I’m thinking
that somehow the two things are linked, if you feed someone enough
Jager-Bombs you can leave your rohypnol at home. I wonder how many
half-bright, second generation, window-licking douche-bags have been
inflicted on the world because of poor decision-making and
Jager-blindness. They sport goofy-looking tattoos that scream, “Look
at me! Look how incredibly cool I am!” I’m not against tattoos,
only the ones whose function is to draw attention to a weakness
in genetics. When I encounter one of these walking abominations and
have the misfortune to endure any amount of conversation (it happens
frequently, I work in a bar), I usually have a hard time focusing on
what they are saying because I get distracted by fantasies of driving
a rat-tailed file through one of their eyeballs and into the area
where an un-mutated human’s brain would be. I suppose that they
are necessary in ways; they drive the economy with their conspicuous
consumption of over-priced sports cars, unnecessarily large and
ornate trucks, expensive t-shirts that don’t fit and men’s hair
products. They are also good for the alcohol and bar industry.
Besides the alcohol that they consume themselves and pour down the
throats of potential victims, they also force others to buy and
consume more alcohol, how else could anyone tolerate their presence?
I would have to be blind drunk to share space with one for more than
a few seconds at a time, otherwise I may start to chew the furniture
in a desperate, mindless frenzy to distract myself from the monosyllabic
idiocy that seems to ooze from these creatures constantly.
So, be mindful friends, if you encounter something that has a
one-dimensional personality with a two-digit I.Q. and makes
references to themselves in the third person, exit the area as soon
as possible so as not to be driven to murderous rage or disintegrate
into depression for the future of our world. Douche-baggery is afoot
and there is no cure. If you could spot them in infancy you could
kill them before they were allowed to feed, but unfortunately it is
an affliction that develops later. Maybe someday they will have
tests for douche-baggery but, for now, there is just no way of
knowing.
 |
Self-Evident
|
 |
| The Rat-Tailed File: A Possible Cure For Douche-Baggery |
|
|
No comments:
Post a Comment