Insider Tips to the Art of Douchebaggery
I work in a place that attracts douchebags like water to a drain. Somebody has to. When you’re a douchebag, you either own it and drive a Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, bitch!” for the rest of your life, or you go to great lengths to chastise douchebags and relentlessly piss and moan about how they’re everywhere and how you can’t stand the sight of them, until eventually you jump into your Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talking about, bitch!” for the rest of your life.
Understand this: douchebag is in the DNA. It is not a temporary condition, like being drunk. You can’t barf it up and return to a state of normalcy the next day. Douchebag is forever. The only question that really matters is, are you aware of your douchebag status?
People who have no idea they are a douchebag will suddenly look in the mirror one day and see the buffed, tanned body and the hair molded into a perfect porcupine, and they will scream at the sudden recognition of who they really are. “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
This is what’s been bothering me: the douchebags who won’t own up to it. If you’re going to be a bagger, live it, breathe it, roll in it! Don’t act like a perfectly cool guy one minute and then blindside me the next by telling me a story about how you were spinning doughnuts in your high school parking lot earlier that day while checking out the cheerleaders. “Bro, it was so bitchin,” you will tell me. “You gotta come with next time.”
The fact that you graduated from that high school twelve years ago is pathetic. The fact that it does not even register as creepy to you is terrifying.
Time to cut through the bullshit. Stop living a lie. The only thing worse than a douchebag is a semi-douchebag who won’t admit who he is. I see the shit you do and the things you say to people. You love it, and that’s great. It’s time to stop half-assing things and accept your fate. Come out from hiding and let the world know: I’m a douchebag and I love it!
I can sense your hesitation here. You want to know, what makes me the big d-bag aficionado on campus? Why listen to the guy who bags on baggers? I’ll tell you why. I observe these specimens in their natural habitat where they thrive five nights a week. Bars, my sleezy friend, are like a douchebag safari, and I’m driving the jeep. Now, if only I had a high-powered rifle….
…but I digress…
LESSON I: DOUCHEBAG STYLE – STRIKE A POSER
Here’s the most important rule to remember if want become an authentic bagger: your style’s gotta be sick! I’m talking about the kind of sick that makes everyone in the bar turn and look at you when you walk in because you stick out like a clown at a funeral. No posers allowed, you hear me, dog?
For starters, anyone over the age of thirty-five should stick to the basics, and that means suiting up in either Ed Hardy gear or his retarded brother Affliction. Turns out that shirts with flowers and glitter on them aren’t just for little girls anymore. Ed Hardy has remarkably persuaded an entire nation of grown men that sporting designer shirts suited for eight year olds would be fucking awesome.
If your Ed Hardy or Affliction attire happen to be in the dirty clothes hamper, you are welcome to default to a snug tank top or even an Alligator shirt with the collar up. If you choose to forego the tank top, make sure the Alligator shirt is tight enough so the sleeves are allowed to shimmy up your arms to reveal the barbed wire tattoo encircling your curved, veiny biceps (which should be the same leathery consistency and color of my wallet from all the tanning you have been exposed to).
If you have neither barbed wire tattoos nor curved, veiny biceps, then get off your ass and pick up a barrel of protein powder and a bottle of tequila (to kill the pain of the tattoo) because fucking-A, I’m beginning to seriously question your dedication to this.
Next, you’ll want to invest in several Ralph Lauren designer jeans with swirly embroidery on the pockets, the same type of design you’ll find on most wedding cakes. These will be accompanied with a pair of clunky, steel-pointed leather boots which you can casually raise up to set on a stool or the back of a chair so people (girls) can see them and become aware of your awesomeness.
To complete the ensemble, accessories are of paramount importance. In addition to the tasteful stud or hoop earring you’ll stick in your ear, you must never enter the bar without wearing a pair of knock-off sunglasses (which you will claim are real), and once inside you can either continue wearing them, or for douchebag bonus points, you can flip them around and display them on the back of your neck.
The argument also remains that you ain’t no douchebag unless you’re sportin’ some bling bling (I pity the fool!), or pants that sag down to your knees so you have to walk like a penguin to keep them on, but this is reserved for the gangsta douchebag, which the younger generation of baggers rocks when they go out. I refuse to teach gangsta douche-wear since it is my goal to keep the gangsta douches out of my bar. Thus said, how about we move on to lesson two.
LESSON II: DOUCHEBAG DIALECT – DO YOU SPEAK DOUCHE?
Rule #1: Don’t ever use anyone’s real name. This is a great rule because you won’t ever actually have to take the time to learn and remember people’s names. Everyone is bro, bro-ski, bro-seph, boss, chief, kid, buddy, pal, friend or Ace.
The only name you will actually use is your own, which you will do while speaking about yourself in the third person. This is so you can test out the nickname you have cleverly created for yourself, as in “The Chad-inator needs a beerski, bro” (By the way, The Barman can’t stand when people speak about themselves in the third person).
Rule #2: When it comes time to work the babes, forego the nice guy routine. Bitches dig bad boys with swagger, and even though they may not readily admit it, they love it when a guy approaches and uses a bad-ass pick up line. It gets the juices flowing and has them ready to jump into bed with you the first chance they get. Don’t worry if she appears to be having a fun girls night out with her friends, just walk up and say something like, “Nice legs, what time do they open?” or “Is there a mirror in your pants, because I can see myself in them?” Then stand back and revel in her reaction.
Rule #3: Speak in movie lines. This will score mad points with your fellow d-baggers. If ever there is a lull in the conversation, simply scream, “Wolverines!!!!” from Red Dawn and then fist pound the guy next to you (don’t forget to do that cool exploding thing with your fingers afterwards either). You could also use, “Say hello to my leetle friend,” or if you’re going to the bathroom, it never hurts to throw in a little Arnold: “I’ll be back!”
Rule #4: Finally, if you are to truly become fluent in the language of douche, you must master the phrase, “That’s what she said.” The possibilities are endless. Example: While eating a sandwich, someone might say, “Man, this thing is huge. I can’t even get it in my mouth.” Bingo! Jump in with this fresh expression and you will have people all around you busting up and offering you fist pounds for hours.
There isn’t nearly enough time to cover the entire douchebag dictionary, but to get you jumpstarted, here’s a quick list of things you can say that will help declare your douchebaggery to those around you: Always talk about how many women you’ve banged and how drunk you were last night. Use words and phrases like, dope, tight, sick, swagga, word, talk to the hand, yo, peace out, would you like fries with that shake, and above all, identify every guy you don’t like in the bar as gay or a homo. Eliminating the competition is definitely a dope move.
This should give you plenty to work on for starters. Join me next week for more of “So you wanna be a douchebag?” when we will be take on the intricacies of Douchebag Charm and Douchebag Behavior.
Until next time, JAGERBOMBS! WOOOOOOO!!!