Friday, May 09, 2008

The ultimate D-bag....

So I recently went out for drinks with some of my fellow disgruntled co-workers. And one of them being a kind of passive therapist, it was really just a matter of time before a colossal douche became some kind of problem.

I suppose that my years of boozing in a real city have hardened me to an extent where I have absolutely no qualms about calling out someone on their doucheyness. It just kind of goes with the territory, and in the end it saves everyone a huge amount of time. Courtney the passive therapist has never lived in a major city, and thus has never had the opportunity to acquire this skill... But D-bags are everywhere, so there really is no excuse for her apparent lack of judgment on this momentous occasion.

I was up at the bar, demanding a little service, meanwhile a guy approached our table. Now, for those of you who have any kind of cynicism and hardness about you, and for those of you who have a finely honed douche-dar, let me tell you, this guy was the type to set off bells and raise red flags IMMEDIATELY.

He introduced himself as "David," a motivational speaker from Los Angeles... This profession in and of itself should start the cursory eye-rolling. He had thinning hair, and was sporting some khaki cargo shorts and a NY Giants superbowl hooded sweatshirt. Some of you are like me, and thinking, "Ok, I don't even have to see this guy, and the mental image is already sending up flares for d-bag all over!" When I returned to the table from chatting up the bartender and getting a drink up at the bar, he was standing next to my chair... And by "next to" I mean practically on top of. I proceeded to sit back down, and despite the fact that he had ample room at the end of the table, he continued to stand RIGHT THERE... RIGHT NEXT TO ME... SO CLOSE HE WAS IN MY BUBBLE. I volubly announced my displeasure to those not engaging him in conversation. "SO... I SUPPOSE I COULD MOVE TO THE END OF THE TABLE... SO THAT I ACTUALLY HAVE THE ELBOW ROOM TO LIFT MY BEER... SEEING AS THE PLACE ISN'T EXACTLY JAM-PACKED TONIGHT, OR EVER... BUT SINCE THIS IS MY TABLE, AND I WAS HERE FIRST, I DON'T THINK THAT SEEMS RIGHT, DO YOU, LADIES?" Douchey McDouche did not take the hint for another 10 minutes or so, when I finally lost my gourd and said flat out, "You're in my space. You need to move away from me... The farther the better."

He tried to be impressive. He came off as crass, (and not the good kind of crass like me). He talked about how much money he made, to the point of giving an actual dollar figure. He rambled about how great his life was, and how he whiled away the days in sunny California by walking with his dog on the beach while smoking a joint. He name-dropped the celebrities he claimed to know. (We were not impressed.) Here's a conversational sampling:

D-bag: "Well, my friend 'Charlie' ... I won't use his last name, because he's pretty famous..."
Liz: "Sheen?" (Don't read that as an interested Sheen. Read it as a 'This is obviously what you're shooting for, so maybe if we hustle you through this story and still show absolutely no interest so hopefully you'll go away")
D-bag: "Yes. Well, Charlie had a really fucked up childhood."
Liz: "I'm pretty sure that's common knowledge actually. And if you're talking to a table of social workers and therapists, at least to us, his adult life makes it pretty evident that his upbringing was totally fucked... Or we could just watch the E! True Hollywood Story."
Addison: "I'd have been more impressed if it was Charlie Gibson."
Liz: "Yeah, me too, or maybe Charlie Rose...but Charlie Gibson is based in New York."
D-bag: "Well, so anyway... BLAH BLAH (insert efforts at trying to sound impressive and interesting and failing miserably here.)"

So after a time which felt like FOREVER, but in actual time was probably about 15 minutes, the rest of us had lost ALL patience. Courtney however was doing as therapists do, and asking open ended questions. The rest of us exchanged glances and basically made it evident that this douche must be stopped, and he must be stopped now, and that Courtney wasn't helping... And she was officially voted out of all future nights at the bar. I remained engaged in conversation with the other girls at the table and pulled out my phone to play a little brick breaker and make it abundantly clear how over this guy the rest of us were.

So then the douche drew his metaphorical sword... Little did he know he was about to be hacked up into little pieces with it. He was talking about his motivational speaking career, and how everyone had insecurities... And then he reached over and pulled back Courtney's hair. He proceeded to say, "See, I'm betting that these ears are her insecurity, I mean she could fly home on these things!"

[Cut to flashing red alarm lights and sirens common to films about German U-Boats and failed missions... Like those U-Boats, this guy was going down. He was going down HARD. He was to be crushed by the pressure of the surroundings. He was to be consumed by all the little fishies, And we will only remember him as that douche now resting for all eternity in a watery grave at the bottom of the sea.]

Despite the fact that we were displeased with Courtney at this point, we were not going to let this insult of her physical features go. [Keep in mind that during this whole conversation, I continued to play brick breaker on my phone, because despite the insults, he was not worth my full undivided attention.]

Liz: "Umm, I don't know how things work in California, but let me inform you of the way things work here in ol' country bumpkin Indiana. I know it may come as a shock, but around here insulting women 20 minutes after you meet them is not any way to get into their pants."
D-Bag: "No, I mean we all have our insecurities... I mean look at her, (indicating Addison). She's insecure about her looks."
Liz: "No she's not. She's fuckin' hot. She's just dressed down because she already has a boyfriend, and because like the rest of us normal folk, she's been at work all day."
D-bag: "Well, she's cute, but she's not hot."
Liz: "Actually she is fuckin' hot. And I suggest you drop it, because that's not up for debate."
D-bag: "Well what about you?"
Liz: "Ohhh buddy... WHAT ABOUT ME?"
D-bag: "How about your insecurity?"
Liz: "OHHH PUH-LEEEZE tell me what my insecurity is... I'm actually dying to hear this one."
D-bag: "You're insecure about your weight." (The rest of the table was totally up in arms that this was said, but I waved them off, knowing that this guy was no match, and I relished the opportunity to unleash the wrath for a little bit.)
Liz: "Actually, no."
D-bag: "Well sure you are. I'm looking at you, and I can tell you're a really sweet girl, but you're insecure because you're not the 'Barbie' of the world."
Liz: "WRONG-O, and let me tell you why. [Enter seething, scorching tone.] You can see I'm a really sweet person? That's just the beginning of where you are wrong. I'M MEAN, I'm hateful and I'll tell you something else, I enjoy it intensely. And as for my weight and being the 'Barbie' I realize that by Hollywood standards, I'm more than a bit chunky. I also realize that every magazine cover produced in the last 20 years has been photoshopped to death. I also have the self esteem to know that I don't have to adhere to some prepackaged plastic ideals of what is beautiful. Furthermore, if I was insecure about my weight, I also know how to use a phone book to look up the address of a gym so that I can work my fat ass out on the treadmill if it was something that caused me any genuine concern. While we're on the subjects of insecurity, women, and weight, let me point out that 99% of American women have body issues, and rationally or not, most of them are genuinely unhappy about their weight. So that little 'This is what you're insecure about' schpiel is worthless because you couldn't have picked a more general concern of American women if you tried... I happen to be in the other 1%, but that's because I know myself very well, and know that for me, the weight, while present, is a non-issue, because as I've already stated, I could easily change it if I wanted to. And as for my friends, she's hot, her ears are fine, and you are not worth any more of our time. But if we're honing in on insecurities, let's look at yours."
Addison: "I'm guessing that receding hairline and thinning hair in general is what you're insecure about."
D-bag: "Well, no, I just grow it out a little bit and comb it and it doesn't bother me."
Addison: "Yeah, because we all know combovers are SOOOO SEXY."
Liz: "I'm actually going to go with the obvious one here. You're insecure about you microscopically tiny penis... I mean you have name-dropped every celebrity you think you know, and you mistakenly thought we'd find impressive. You have repeatedly tried to impress us with all the money you claim to be making, and just so you know, quite frankly, talk of money is crass in ANY social circle. And as for your motivational speaking career which you claim is so lucrative, clearly the public speaking course at your local community college or learning annex, or wherever did not go so far as to teach you that alienating your audience is not a wise route to go, because before long your audience WILL turn on you. NOW... Since we've established that your have a miserably tiny dick, and since, in general, we're talking about the pathetic area of anatomy known as your genitals, as a woman concerned for your testicular health, I suggest you turn around and walk away because if you don't, I'll rip your nuts off, stomp on them, and throw them in the river... It's only about 20 yards from here... My fat ass plays on the company softball team. I might be fat, but I've DEFINITELY got a good arm... So, stay or go, your choice."

Of course he left after that.

But just in case you were wondering, THIS is why I am awesome.

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