The Circumstantial Douchebag

"Location location location!" A popular expression in real estate; not so highly utilized in the dating world. My relationship, or lack thereof, with my second Friendly Neighborhood Douchebag seems to hinge almost entirely on location. Before I continue, I should probably make a note that, unlike my first FND, FND II is actually a rare and tragic subspecies I like to call the Circumstantial Douchebag: a nice, normal guy who reacts to current conditions in his life in an entirely douchebaggy way.

FND II came to me through the elusive Coworker Set-Up, and after our first high-pressure date (blind date, New Years Eve...) things fell nicely into place. We lived in the same 'hood, went to the same gym (RED ALERT!) and were on the same page about wanting whatever we had to evolve. We were in the same location, both figuratively and literally.

I knew that might change-- my coworker had mentioned he was looking to move back to his home state, though he didn't know I knew -- but things were still fresh, and it seemed irrational to put things on hold because of a hypothetical. After about a month, he, wracked with guilt, let me know about his desire to move. He assured me this had been his plan since long before we met, and anxiously awaited my reaction. I found his remorse for withholding this information comforting, because I really did like him, and he was genuinely disappointed by the circumstance in which we'd found ourselves. "Let's see what happens," I told him, and he seemed relieved. We agreed that a lot could happen in the coming months, both bad or good, whether he moved or not.

We kept on truckin' for another month or so, but disappointments in his quest to find a job back home coupled with the stress of finishing up a graduate degree slowly broke things down. He would shut down, compartmentalize his stress far away from his feelings for me, and rather than allowing me to help, he'd keep himself in his apartment alone to deal. He couldn't get his head in the game, and I didn't want to sit on the sidelines and wait for him to figure his life out. Neither of us wanted a long-distance relationship, and that seemed to be the only place things could head, so we cut our losses and decided to be friends.

Our location quickly became a liability. My walk to work and his walk to the Metro overlapped. And although our work out schedules were different -- I'd hit up the gym before work, he'd go later in the day before class -- I lived in fear that he'd see me at our gym looking like a hot mess. We talked online during the day, and friendship seemed very possible, but it was hard for me to forget how his status as a douchebag really was entirely circumstantial, and I allowed myself to admit I still cared. I knew a run-in was inevitable, and eventually it happened. I was walking to work, he was going to class, and, though it was brief, there was clearly still chemistry between us. We hooked up shortly thereafter -- an act made much simpler by the mere 5 blocks separating our apartments.

Soon after the sexual relapse, he broke the news to me: he'd finally gotten a job back home, and was moving soon. This was about 3 weeks ago now, and he finally moved yesterday, two days after he served as a groomsmen in the wedding of our mutual friends/my coworkers. The night of the wedding, I'd left my Gmail window open before I went out, and returned to an IM from him, sent an hour or so beforehand: "I just got back from the wedding", then a few minutes later, "are you there?" I can only assume what would have happend if I had been there, but it's probably better that it didn't.

Now that douchebag-causing circumstances in his life have changed, I hope we'll be friends, despite (or maybe because of) the 6 state buffer zone that now lies between us. And now, our gym is just my gym, and I can roll in as hot and messy as I like.

The Douchebag Heard Round the World

I am not ashamed of, nor do I make any attempts to hide, my unabashed love of "The Bachelor". In fact, my 6 year love affair with "The Bachelor" is by far the most impressive relationship that's ever come out of this franchise. And yet, despite the show's horrific track record for actually forming solid unions after the cameras stop rolling, I remain a devoted fan.

I, however, am not one of those reality show fanatics who swoons over the hunky bachelors and roots the female contestants on in their quest for love. No, I am the Cynical Viewer, the one who laughs at the forced romance (a sunset helicopter tour of Aspen on your second date?), who mocks the desperate women looking for their "fairy tale" on primetime national television, and who appreciates the bachelors for the purebred douchebags that they are. I've written extensively about the biggest, most manufactured douchebag in "Bachelor" history -- Prince Lorenzo Borghese of pet pedicures fame -- but each season's bachelor inevitably proves himself to be pretty douchey by the time the final rose is given.

This season, perhaps my favorite bachelorette in show history was dramatically booted off the show one episode before the final rose ceremony by British Douchebag Extraordinaire, Matt Grant. However, instead of melting into a weepy bundle of mascara and raw emotion, she sat stone-faced next to him, on a bench in Barbados, and called him a douchebag TO HIS FACE. Not even the bleep ABC insisted on throwing up to block the word (seriously, Tina Fey can say "rub oil on your taint" in the Baby Mama commercial and Amanda can't say "douchebag" on TV?) ruined the moment. Thus, I'd like to officialy declare Amanda Rantuccio of Niceville, FL Douchebag Exposer of the Year. And my personal hero.

To be honest, at the beginning of the show I didn't fancy Matt Grant to be much of a d-bag. I'm obviously a sucker for a tall guy with a great smile, not to mention a dreamy British accent, but aside from that he seemed like a smart, witty and generally fun kind of guy. Clearly Amanda and I were in the same boat, as she seemed quite smitten with him, and he with her. She got the First Impression Rose on the first night (basically the "I think you're hot" rose that makes all the other girls insanely insecure and jealous), and he found her chronic, nervous hiccups (the "Meeps" as she calls them) endearing and not freaky-deaky. By the time the final three bachelorettes got to Barbados, I was certain Matt knew he was picking Amanda in the end. After all, it was between her, Shayne, the twenty-two year old actress/daughter of Lorenzo Lamas and Chelsea, who annoyingly told Matt on several otherwise intimate occasions that she thought holding hands was "dumb".

I was pretty sure he saw through Chelsea's bullshit (including the slutty black chemise she put on in Barbados to show Matt her "romantic side", which I'm pretty sure is code for "vagina"...), and realized that while Shayne is fun and pretty, she is also REALLY young and REALLY into being an "actress". Plus, Amanda pulled an amazing prank on him during her hometown date that involved a fake mom licking Matt's ear in their backyard, and pretended to break up with him after a 50s style date because he was such a bad swing dancer. Not to mention on all their dates, all Matt said was how perfect Amanda was! Everyone I knew agreed -- Amanda and Matt were MFEO.

So when he gave the second and final rose in Barbados to Chelsea and Amanda's jaw dropped in shock, mine did too. When riled up, I frequently speak to my television set, and I'm pretty sure the word "douchebag" actaully came out of my mouth. I braced myself, waiting for the waterworks that would inevitably come when Matt walked Amanda to the Loser Limo. Not that I particularly thought Amanda would be a cryer, it just seems like that's always what happens on this show, especially when the newly-rejected girl had been delivered such a large load of bullshit by the guy throughout the whole process. The bullshit didn't stop even though he'd just dumped her on national television, and he sat with her and told her she was perfect and he'd meant everything he'd ever said to her. So when she sat there and not only didn't cry, but called him a douchebag and told him she didn't believe anything he was saying, I started to clap.

So while the Federal Communications Commission may feel "douchebag" is an inappropriate word for primetime television, Amanda Rantuccio has taught us that sometimes, you just have to call it like you see it.

For Immediate Release

When you're in your twenties or thirties, single and gainfully employed, it's not surprising if your career ranks pretty high up on your list of life priorities. Nowhere does that seem more true than in cities, where, for the most part, we live away from our families on moderate income in small, rented apartments and have groups of friends who are equally as career-driven. Work hours are long, vacations are rare and free time is typically spent at happy hours, the gym or watching Top Chef reruns on Bravo (okay that might just be me...).

Point is, if you let it, your life can easily become consumed by your job. This, however, is a highly sought-after life-quality of the Professional Douchebag, a common breed of city-dwelling male for whom the questions "who are you?" and "what do you do?" could be identically answered. The ProDo doesn't just like his job, he is his job, and he wants evvvvveryone to know.

Don't get me wrong, motivation and drive are certainly qualities I look for in the opposite sex, but the ProDo manages to take those attributes to a new level. In social situations, instead of flirting with a girl, establishing a connection and asking for her phone number, the ProDo prematurely presents his business card to said girl in an attempt to allow his employer and job title -- and not his actual personality -- to make the first impression. As most women I know, myself included, don't pack a stash of business cards in our clutches when we go out on the weekends, or if we do we reserve them for actual work scenarios, this business card proffering is typically one-sided; thus, the ProDo and his inflated ego believe it's now on the girl to make the first outreach, which is, of course, one of the cornerstones of the Code of Urban Douchebags.

I came across the quintessential ProDo about a year and a half ago. My friend had met him through a friend, and she wanted to set us up. She said he was tall and smart and I was single and bored so I said sure, have him get in touch with me. He emailed me a few days later, and my ProDo radar immediately went off: it was a White House email address. The emails were harmless at first -- discussing cover bands, our mutual friend, etc. -- but then began veering in the typical ProDo direction. "Turn on your TV in a few minutes," he said. "Maybe you'll see me sitting in the Rose Garden audience, ha."

I vomited a little in my mouth, but sensing a good story, bit and asked what was going on in the Rose Garden. He replied with...wait for it...the internal White House press release for the speech President Bush was giving in the Rose Garden at that moment. I responded and asked why he needed to be at the speech, he replied with a photo of GWB in a yellow tie and said "I work for the guy in the yellow tie." RED ALERT!!! This was a CLASSIC Washington DC ProDo, someone who thinks working in the government is akin to celebrity status and whose feeble attempts at modesty serve only to underline his douchebag status. Not impressed, I responded "yeah, but what do you actually DO?" to which he responded by attaching his email signature file (the e-equivalent of flipping me his business card) and made some comment about how he ran into "Pelosi" (no Nancy necessary, apparently) in the hallway. He soon followed up with a press release about why she was meeting with Bush that day.

I avoided setting up any concrete plans with him and went away soon after to Florida for Thanksgiving. I thought perhaps this well-timed 2 week vacation would cool things off, but I returned and he pursued trying to set up a date. I had my work holiday party and a training run for my half-marathon that weekend, but asked what he had in mind. Trying to describe the response wouldn't do this story justice, so I will merely copy and paste:

"Here's my calendar. Now that I know what I'm doing, it depends what you want to do. I could meet up tonight or after your work party Fri. Could try during the day this weekend, but between your running and my hangover that could be risky. I will probably begin filling the open slots later today, so let me know your preference, ha.

Today: Happy hour (open), dinner (open). Friday: Happy hour (Tom), dinner (Tom), night (open). Saturday: Day (open), dinner (Ron), night (Sarah's bday). Sunday: Day (open), dinner (Mike), night (Mike)."

HOLY SHIT. Not only did I not know who Tom, Ron, Sarah or Mike were, but did someone I don't know SERIOUSLY just send me his four-day social calendar?! Our mutual friend and I were going out that Friday, so we left it at "let's try to meet up", which of course I planned on not following through with. But then the texts came. He'd pulled my cell number from my email signature (which I promptly deleted) and gave me regular updates over the next couple of weeks about how late he had to stay at work, what politician or foreign dignitary had graced his hallways that day, how he could see the White House Christmas tree from his window, and ON AND ON. He had quickly gone from a hilarious story to a technological nuisance, and after 2 weeks spent off the grid at home for Christmas, I was rid of this ProDo for good.

And I promptly sent a press release to all my friends letting them know.

Oh Won't You Be My Douchebag?

Proximity. In a relationship, it's a great thing. In a break up? Not so much. In the past 9 months I've managed to get myself into not one, but two psuedolationships with gentlemen who live in my neighborhood, bringing new meaning to the expression "don't shit where you eat".

I will be the first to admit that I have always been somewhat of a Washington DC snob. I live in DC, I work in DC, I don't own a car, I live 2 blocks from a grocery store, 4 from my gym, within walking distance of my favorite restaurants and bars, and 90 percent of my friends live within a 10 block radius. I admit my geographical limits were...well, limiting...but if I could get a fresh carton of milk, a good crunchy tuna roll and a stiff gin and tonic without leaving my neighborhood, I shouldn't have to go too far for a good date, right? Turns out, that logic might be a bit flawed...

I met the first Friendly Neighborhood Douchebag last August, and I liked him immediately: he was funny, handsome, smart, motivated and generous, and he got major bonus points for the fact that he lived a mere half mile up the road, spitting distance from my gym. We shared the same favorite neighborhood spots, and the walks of shame from his apartment to mine were so short that they barely had time to register as shameful. Yes, everything seemed peachy with my FND until my travel schedule picked up, his trial prep (seriously, I can't escape the lawyers...) took over his life, and the phone calls and emails just stopped.

I must say, I was shocked. After all, was he not as thrilled as I was to have found someone so geographically desirable!? My work travel schedule cooled off, and shock soon morphed into the realization that proximity was now a bitch. The once-frequented favorite neighborhood spots became a liability, and I flung myself into a hyperaware state when walking around, looking at everyone to make sure it wasn't him. Convinced that leaving the house unshowered would inevitably lead to the first post-breakup run-in, I abandoned scrubby grocery trips and hangover lunches.

For months I lived in fear. Then it happened...it was mid-December and I was standing by myself outside Buca di Beppo in Dupont Circle -- and for the record, I am not proud to have just typed that sentence, for so many reasons. But alas, there I was, the only person on time for a birthday dinner (including the birthday boy), standing outside pretending to look busy on my cell phone. To be quite honest, I am still not sure if it was him who passed me, silently walking next to a plain-looking girl with a small plastic bag from a Smithsonian gift shop. I think months of convincing myself I was going to see him every day had managed to distort my memory of him. I have, however, chosen to believe that it was him, walking quietly towards his apartment with his unattractive girlfriend who had dragged him to the National Air and Space Museum and forced him to buy her strawberry Astronaut Ice Cream that she was toting diligently back to his apartment where she would devour it unattractively and they would not have sex. EVER. I felt like shouting "I have friends coming, and for the record I didn't choose this restaurant!" as they walked up the street away from me, but realized that I didn't really care.

Sure, I live in a dream world where the guys I've dated leave me for less attractive prudes with a penchant for educational museum trips and freeze-dried ice cream, but who cares. The build-up towards that first run in always feels monumental, so even if that wasn't him, the fact that it could have been -- and that he looked really unhappy -- managed to make all the anxiety and anticipation I'd felt disappear.

Now, he's just that douchebag who lives up the street.

It's Okay to Look

Being a single, city-dwelling twentysomething who has met far too many douchebags in bars to be anything other than completely jaded, I recently decided to venture into the next frontier -- online dating. I used to have some fairly serious doubts about the whole concept, but recently found my determination to resist weakened by the endless televised encouragement from Dr. Phil and those perky, laughing, handsy eHarmony couples. Especially that one with the young couple who met and introduced their parents who were both old and single and had dogs...vomit. So armed with the advice that it was indeed okay to look, I did just that.

And I was pleasantly surprised! Chucking preconceived notions out the window, I realized that no longer is this social medium reserved solely for middle-aged divorceés and people with full-body acne or halitosis issues. Some of the guys are actually cute! Had I been neglecting the most genius way to meet men all along?

The beauty of the premise is in the details, quite literally; and they aren't foolin' around with these profiles. There are sections to fill in smoking and drinking habits, body type, education level, pets, even income. Click on a guy you think is cute, and in mere seconds you have his full dating rapsheet -- you know whether he's ever been married, if he has any children, how tall he is, what pets he likes, what he thinks his best feature is...the upfront information is mind-boggling. Not to mention the photographs -- they let you upload somewhere around 20 or 25 -- and the personalized descriptions about your favorite things, job, religion, education, and what you're looking for in a date. Being somewhat of a picky person, getting info about non-negotiables (smoking, height, education, cat-lover) without having to exchange a word seemed like a dream come true.

Of course, minor inconveniences surfaced almost immediately. I started getting "winks" (quite possibly the creepiest way to show interest in someone, online or not) from gentlemen from Florida, Ohio, New York...even an 83 year old professor from my alma mater. I wish I was joking about that one. Men with some light fluency issues messaged me in broken English, "lovely smile you possess, is your heart open for the love to which I have to offer you?" I even got a message from a Marine relocating to DC from St. Petersburg asking me to "point him in the right direction for affordable housing", then assuring me that once he's settled in here, he'll "be in the market for new friends LOL". To offset these unsolicited e-advances, there's an option to respond to a message or a "wink" with a standardized "no thanks" message. I'm more into just being a passive bitch and ignoring the undesirables.

For the first few days, I was mostly a spectator, using the whole online dating thing as an amusing distraction from work. Then, after realizing that I was paying roughly $1.16 per day for this thing, I figured why not make the most of my money, and the mid-day "winking" rampages began. Any able-bodied twentysomething guy over 5'8" who lived in D.C. was getting e-winked at by me. Then, realizing that, for some reason, the 6'0"+ guys all decided to move across the river to Arlington, I started throwing winks across the Potomac. Not to e-toot my own e-horn, but my return was pretty high.

After a few messages back and forth with a couple of guys, I started lining my dates up. Drinks turned into dinner with Bachelor #1, and he didn't remove his black knit ski cap the entire time. Not to mention the fact that his reported height and his actual height were a liiiiiittle conflicting, which made me happy I'd worn flats. Trying to streamline my dating life, I made a quick decision at the end of the date that if he called me to go out again, I'd agree, but otherwise I wouldn't worry about it. The text he sent a mere day and a half later -- "hey, meant to thank you for the other nite - i had fun" -- seemed desperately random when it wasn't followed up with a 2nd date invitation, and I checked him off my list. I impressed even myself by simply not caring and moving on to date number 2.

That pride would prove to be short lived, though. Drinks again turned into dinner with Bachelor #2, and I found myself smitten. He was tall, handsome and polite and our hilarious emails over the course of the past week had kept me both entertained and intrigued. We lost track of time and ended up shutting down the restaurant, and the infamous-but-rarely-received morning-after-the-date-email served only to encourage me. And then it happened -- online dating managed to unleash new and surprisingly vivid depths of crazy in me.

My ability to focus on the other guys in line after my first non-thrilling date only served to bite me in the ass when I realized that this whole online dating thing has one fatal flaw -- it encourages dating multiple people. My emails with Bachelor #2 tapered off after he asked for my number, and I waited patiently that weekend for his phone call to come. And NOTHING. I became chained to my computer, checking my "who's viewed you?" list incessantly, only to see "ONLINE NOW!" flashing in orange under his photograph. Once in a while I'd check and he wouldn't be online, which of course sent me in a downward spiral of imagining what Victoria's-Secret-model-who-just-can't-find-the-right-guy-so-she's-trying-online-dating chick he was out with at that very moment. Then I'd refresh, and there he'd be -- "ONLINE NOW!", not "SUCKING FACE WITH GISELE BUNDCHEN!" -- and the self-loathing continued as I tried to figure out why he was sitting in front of his computer and not calling me.

Of course, like always, I allow myself to be crazy for a couple of days until I get tired of it and realize it's just not worth it. I pulled myself out of the bubble and I realized the real problem with online dating -- the built-in expectations are out of control. Everyone's available. Everyone's telling you that they're available. There's no shortage of men wanting to take a woman out on a date. And these men are openly declaring their desire to get married, have children, and live happily ever after! Combine all those factors, throw in a week of lengthy emails discussing everything from personal fiscal responsibility to foreign travel to Dancing with the Stars, and when you actually meet someone in person, the pressure to figure out if you have a real connection is ON. I felt the need to personally assess whether I could be the mother to his "2 children, someday" within the first beer.

The thing is, it's online dating, but it's still dating. And as easy as it is to like someone's profile, think they're cute in pictures and find them funny in emails, that really doesn't have much to do with real life. The commercials, the success stories, the "ohh, I'm going to a Match wedding next weekend!" from people makes you feel like online dating should lead to marriage or bust, and for a hot second I definitely got swept up in that. Now, I'm taking it date-by-date, and remembering that, like douchebags, there are always more "winks" to come.

Guest Blog: The Call of the Wild

By: Big Beef & Cheddar

The infamous and elusive 23 and under set has douchebaggy qualities all their own. While most I’ve encountered can barely grown facial hair, they still think it is perfectly acceptable to send overtly sexual text messages and walk out of the house wearing trouser socks and work shoes with shorts. Read: NOT OK. They are a rare breed indeed.

I myself encountered my most recent Young Buck after a somewhat difficult break-up. He was cute, somewhat drunk and in a bar. Recipe for a successful relationship for sure. Regardless of his rebound-like status, he grew on me, and after a couple weeks of hanging out, and over-analyzing if I should even continue seeing him, realized that he made me laugh. Which, at that point, was better than making me cry. So why not, right? WRONG.

The first strike against him was that he was a Marine. Now, I don’t have anything against blue-blooded, strong, American-boy types, but this one enlisted and subsequently re-enlisted because he didn’t have anything better to do. I’m talking zero goals or life plans. Not even a college class or two on Uncle Sam’s dime. As someone who is $60,000 in college education debt, it was almost infuriating.

Strike two: he kept telling me everything he thought I wanted to hear. I mentioned being in a book club; he started incessantly talking about all the books he had read. I know you don’t read! I said I loved sushi; all the sudden he was a sushi expert. I don’t want to date someone who makes up a life based on what they think I want. Be yourself!

Strike three: he was a smoker. That is a definite deal-breaker in my book. Not only is it a disgusting habit and a very well-advertised health issue, but it carries over in to so many of those guy qualities that I love. The smell of a man’s clothes, kissing…the list is endless.

Strike four: (and yes, there is a strike four, so I should have realized this “relationship” was dead in the water at this point) he was a HUGE flirt. Now ladies, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to get to an age where there is a definite difference between being an outgoing, personable guy, and a gigantic ladies man. I think that many of these Young Bucks possess the excessive flirting gene. It was certainly evident in college. I once read somewhere that men of that age flirt a lot because they are unconsciously trying to spread their seed, and flirting is the first step in accomplishing that goal. The goal being sex - with as many women as possible. I realize you can be 25 and still be a huge flirt, I just haven’t encountered that many. Usually by 25 or 26 they’ve calmed down a bit…gotten it out of their systems, if you will.

The problem with all of these Young Buck types is that the majority of them really are just immature. Most haven’t even come in to their own, and most wouldn’t be able to handle a real woman. If you make me pick the time and place of our date, you’re done. Be a man, make a decision. Pursue me a little. I want to be excited to go on a date, not feel like a babysitter.

The Portable Douche

After a long hiatus, I - Zsa Zsa am back with (unsurprisingly) a dearth of new encounters with the Ur-do, both of the male and female persuasion. If you have read my past blog postings (as well as Kiki's) you know that we are now impossible to shock - I have officially become jaded from my dealings with men. This leads me to the latest story for your enjoyment and my derisive eye roll - The Portable Douche.

In order to properly explain this situation, I must present some history for you. This particular Ur-do and I have a past - as in he once dated a roommate of mine (who was in fact a Fe-do, which explains the attraction). My interactions with this d-bag can be summed up with a few highly exemplary stories. First, he was from D.C. originally - NEVER a good sign. He referred to Bella Sera (a perfectly legit wine for those of us under 40!) as "swill", he frolicked around my apartment nearly nude - exposing his flabby yet hairy chest - bare except for a pair of pink Vineyard Vines Boxers. He monopolized my television watching CNN Finance - because he was obviously going to graduate and make millions, and when not watching news on how to get rich he compulsively watched dog shows on the Animal Planet, purely for the satisfaction of informing me how he was soon to purchase an $8000 Newfoundland pure bread, because "everyone in the family has one." Yet, as is sometimes the case with the Ur-do, I found him so utterly ridiculous to be slightly endearing, and a bantering relationship ensued with me constantly mocking him while he strove to impress me to the point of exhaustion.

Fast forward 3 years, I have now moved to his vicinity and he smells blood in the water. I have no sooner moved into my new digs when I am accosted by a barrage of text messages and 3 am calls. Yes, it is THAT guy - and he confesses his undying love, apparently fate has brought us together again. For those of you that know Zsa Zsa, I tend to be rather brutally honest. I explained there was no chance in hell, but we could stay friends if he would like.

Thursday night, I am about to pop in Season 2 of The Wire while enjoying a glass of wine. It is 11:00 p.m., after a long day I deserve to unwind. Then I get it, - a text "I'm in your lobby whats and I'm coming up". - Again its THAT guy. Shortly thereafter there is a knock on my door and in prances my untoward friend. He is encumbered by a full backpack (as is frequently used by yuppie college co-eds on European travels whilst traveling between hostels). "I hope I'm not being presumptuous but I packed an overnight bag." Yes, you are inappropriate, and no you cannot stay the night. Said Ur-do is wasted, vomitously so. He will not leave. Thus, I spend my relaxing night by repeating blocking his sexual advances. He goes to the bathroom, 10 minutes later I walk into my room to find him sprawled across my bed. Not okay.

Fast forward to the next morning. I am sleeping on top of the covers (which he drunkenly ensconced himself in), wearing my grubbiest sweatshirt/ flannel pants combo. I look the opposite of sexual and I am staring at the clock waiting for him to wake up so that I can kick him out. To no avail - he is up around 9 trying to nuzzle me - I tell him its time to leave. I am ignored, faster than I anticipated he is up and heading to my Jack and Jill bathroom with MY towel. "Lets take a shower together" - excuse me while I vomit in my mouth. "No, that is inappropriate, why don't you go back to your place, besides my roommate is asleep and you are being really loud." He gives me a wide, Cheshire Cat grin and heads for the bathroom, emerging to stick his head out and open the door enough to give me a full frontal shot..."are you sure you won't join me?" At this point I walk out of the room to make myself a pot of coffee - I need it. From the kitchen I can hear him loudly singing Journey.

I wish I could say this is the last I heard from this particular specimen of D-bag, sadly it is not. I am frequently awakened by 3 a.m. calls from Smith Point, and sexually explicit text messages. Thus I give you...The Portable Douche.

Return of the Douche

I've been in hiding for about the last year. And by "hiding", I mean I no longer have had the glorious free time at my new job that my old job so lovingly afforded me. But despite having no time to write about them, I did meet my fair share of Urban Douchebags, and thanks to the slow season at work, I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack and ready to douche it up. Hope you're prepared...the douchebags of 2007 are a rare, interesting and hilarious breed.