Monday, November 19, 2007

ground control to major douche

Throughout the course of an average person’s life, I’d venture to guess he or she makes maybe a dozen or so radical revelations. Some of the more universal of these include realizing money isn’t just magical paper or plastic that spontaneously sprouts in your parents’ pockets; realizing that your actions can and usually do affect those around you; and, realizing your carefree days of youth are gone and it’s all downhill from here (What? Is that one just me? Oh.).

These "big ideas," have the power to single-handedly alter the course of your life, helping to formulate you, "the person." However, unfortunately, some people either purposely deny these life-changing moments or stupidly misunderstand them, which, in my opinion, is how douchebags are born.

On the surface, my Theory of Douchebagism is already pretty tight. One need only superficially glance at the likes of functionally retarded Paris Hilton and greasy Brandon Davis for fairly solid conclusive evidence. They both used their heiress/heir status to gain fame, they clearly don’t realize most of their actions annoy and, in some cases, could harm those around them, and, well, while Hilton and Davis are not "old" meaning elderly, they are arguably too old to be acting like everyday is high school prom.

However, my Theory of Douchebagism does not apply solely to the rich and famous (or not-so-famous in the case of Davis). Oh no, my hypothesis suggests that this theory is universal, breaking through boundaries of age, sex and social/economic status.

Let me present for you Exhibit A:

Last week at a soiree to celebrate the golden anniversary of Sputnik (wow, I just made the grand revelation that I’m a huge dork), I met one of the creepiest, most douchey men I’ve ever come across not only in DC, but, fittingly for a space-related event, in the entire cosmos. His name? Rusty Cox. (Sadly, or awesomely, I am not making that up.)

He embodied every stereotype of "lecherous old man," however, in his mind I imagine he thought he was being "dapper older gentleman." Clearly, Rusty Cox has yet to self-realize that he is, indeed, a major douche. When you tell a joke to a girl 30 years your junior and she doesn’t laugh but gags instead because your breath smells like a cross between stale Pall Malls and general ass, the last thing you should think appropriate to do is grope her and ask her if she’s married.

Now, had Rusty Cox realized the extent of his douchiness, I assume he would have taken a step (or 10) back, assessed the situation, and left me the f*ck alone. However, my Theory of Douchebagism suggests that, like Hilton and Davis, Rusty Cox has continually failed to make the revelation that he is a douchebag of the highest order. And so Rusty Cox shall continue douching up DC and grossing out the ladies until one day, if there is a God, his douchebag status dawns on him.

In case you’re wondering, Rusty Cox did try to follow me out uninvited. I managed to ditch him by the coat check when I ran Forrest Gump-style straight out the front door and hid in the shadows of the bus stop until the 42 rolled up. I’d never been so happy to hop on an overcrowded public bus in my life.

1 comment:

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