Gifts

The recent preponderance of car commercials portraying a bundled-up husband surprising his wife with a snow-covered, bow-topped, midsized SUV can mean only three things: First, those ads were written and produced well before the US economy collapsed more precipitously than Paul Reubens’ promising film career after an ill-fated, 1991 visit to an X-rated movie theater.* Second, the cash-strapped car companies could not afford to write and produce new commercials for this season, instead morphing the message of the original ad campaign from “holiday indulgence” to “a great opportunity to move out of that house you can’t afford and into the backseat of a spacious Lexus RX400h.”

Third, it’s Christmas! Or Hanukkah or whatever winter holiday you happen to celebrate (but really, it’s Christmas).

With the festive Christmas season comes the yuletide obligation of exchanging gifts, which proves year after year to be a stressful endeavor. Good gift giving requires functioning emotions (aside from those aroused by the vibrating alert of a new email sent to the Blackberry in your front pocket). As common knowledge dictates that douche bags lack such emotions, as well as thoughtfulness and the capacity to care for human beings not named Pete Wentz, they often struggle to find the right gifts. To make Christmas successful this year, try these DBH-tested suggestions below, organized into categories mirroring the complexity of douche bag relationships.

From Men to Women They Are Trying to “Get With”
The quickest way to a woman’s heart (patterned thong) is through her chest:

Celebrity-designed diamond pendant necklaces!

Women love both celebrities and jewelry. Thus, any douche bag can win over his as-yet-unrequited love and by combining these two innate desires into one Open Hearts diamond pendant necklace designed by Jane Seymour. At the affordable price of $129.99, one might think this pendant is only diamond-shaped, but it does contain actual precious stones arranged in an eye-pleasing design that resembles a cross between a startled rattlesnake and low-hanging testicles. Once you've purchased this surefire Christmas miracle, you might want to stop off for a three pack of condoms before exchanging gifts as this pendant will surely disarm any female co-worker, no matter how persistently she asserts that office romances are a bad idea.

From Men to Women They Aren’t Trying to “Get With”
With the absence of enjoyable sex a foregone conclusion, celebrate the slowing metabolism, atrophied libido and increasingly sedentary lifestyle of your loved one by giving her the freedom to use her arms while covered with a blanket. Any woman who lounges beneath a throw blanket for more than four hours per day knows that the main impediment to a healthy, active lifestyle lies in the fact that whenever she moves her arms the blanket is thrown askew tragically, exposing her entire upper body to the harsh living room elements. A Snuggie allows her to hurdle her daily obstacles with one well marketed product, and leaves the door open for her husband to vividly imagine being married to the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland as he watches Survivor: Gabon and tries to suppress his thoughts, both homicidal and suicidal in nature.

From Women to Men with Whom “It’s Complicated”
Douche bag women think about themselves 8,764 of the roughly 8,766 hours in a given year, the exceptional two hours being the season finales of American Idol and Paris Hilton’s My New BFF, neither of which are scheduled to occur on Christmas. Still, this impervious sense of self-entitlement can open doors to both holliness and jolliness. For example, what girl’s sort-of boyfriend (it’s complicated) wouldn’t want to reap the benefits of giving his girl a uniformly waxed bikini zone and the cleansing serenity of three free Bikram Yoga sessions?

To be realistic, any guy dating a bag-ette should be elated by any modicum of satisfaction during the holiday season, as she no doubt firmly believes that Britney’s new album Circus is God’s joyous gift to all mankind, and the falsetto, mournful track My Baby is a collaborative effort between Spears and the Lord (using His earthly producer handle, Guy Sigsworth) expressing their individual, yet shared sorrow of having a baby boo taken from them (so tiny, so small) after being deemed unfit parents in a court of law (though Spears eventually won visitation rights to her children).

*Holiday Party Topic of Discussion #1: Why does Pee Wee still get a bad rap for masturbating in a porn theater, while barely anyone seems to notice or care that Jeffrey Jones, the principal from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, was arrested for paying a 14 year old boy to pose for pornographic photos and, consequently, possession of child pornography?**

** Holiday Party Topic of Discussion #2: Masturbating in poorly lit public is a victimless crime, like possessing marijuana or aggravated assault if you’re drunk and the victim was staring at your girlfriend’s boobs from across the room for like 20 minutes and didn’t think you noticed but then later as you both were walking to the bathroom you said something to him which made him shove you and then you poked him in the throat with the fat end of a pool cue and punched him in the forehead.***

***Holiday Party Topic of Discussion #3: He really was an asshole.

Ask a Douche Bag III

Dear DBH,
I was walking down the street yesterday when I saw a man who looked exactly like Dr. Ayman al-Zawahri (al-Qaida’s fiery spokesman and second-in-command) and smelled unmistakably of jihad. I got in position to foot sweep Dr. Zawahri from behind and stand on his throat until authorities arrived (thank you, Walker, Texas Ranger), but my Dominican friend who was with me at the time was afraid he would get deported and made me back down. I resisted my vigilante urges, but I have not stopped thinking about the missed opportunity, and the entire ordeal raised a lot of moral and ethical questions in my mind. I guess the real question is: To what extent do state and federal laws protect me if I as an individual engage directly in the Global War on Terror?
-Passenger Fifty Devin

P.F.D.,
All pre-dawn raids across internationally recognized borders aside, the “global” war on terror is just a buffed-up moniker for the struggle every American must wage inside his or her heart. It is a struggle to preserve our American way of life, to prevent the blood of jihad from permanently staining the delicate poly-cotton blend that is our social fabric.

At times, this internal struggle manifests itself outwardly in the nose cone of a Hellfire missile screaming towards a Nissan Pathfinder bouncing along a winding, dirt road in the Hindu Kush Mountains. The struggle against the jihad, however, most assuredly hinges only on the resolve of all patriotic Americans. And to properly equip said patriotic Americans for this struggle, the US Government has enacted enough freedom-retarding, or freetarding, laws to make a Federalist move to Canada (or Upper Virginia, to use the parlance of his days).

Thanks to the No Patriot Left Behind Act (NPLBA), it is now lawful for an American citizen to immediately incapacitate, without cause and by any means necessary, a person whose name appears on the Federal Watch List. This list includes such high profile evil-doers as Osama bin Laden, Mahmud Ahmadinejad, Kim Jung-Il, David Schwimmer and current head of al-Qaida in Iraq, Abu Ayyub al-Masri. The NPLBA protects overzealous citizens who mistakenly wrestle to the ground terrorist doppelgangers with legal immunity and a free venti Signature Hot Chocolate from Starbucks (while supplies last).

In the event a citizen does, in fact, manage to single handedly hogtie one of the world’s most elusive terrorists, stipulations within the NPLBA heap great rewards upon him or her, including “forty rations of cured swinemeat; beachhead property along the Atlantic North West spanning no more than fifteen and no less than twenty-three Prussian miles (the greater of that which shall not infringe upon the sovereign territory of Upper Virginia, or Lesser East New Greenland as it was known, as agreed in the Treaty of Toronteaux); and a majority stake in Lehman Brothers Holdings Inc.”

Legislative language can be complicated at times, but suffice it to say that any American willing to risk the inconvenience of minor abrasions or a twenty-minute court appearance for the sake of freedom will be well compensated.

So the next time you get an uneasy feeling about the two Arab-looking guys sitting next to you at Wendy’s who seem to be innocently discussing their Netflix queues (but you think they’re giving each other coded messages because they keep mentioning “Maid in Manhattan” and “Arlington Road” and “Weekend at Bernies II” and one of them is making menacing motions with the light saber app on his iPhone) don’t think twice about front kicking either of them in the teeth and blowing your terrorism/rape whistle as hard as you can. It is your duty.
-DBH

Ask a Douche Bag II

Thanks for all the emails! Keep them coming to dbhandbook@gmail.com and let DBH solve your problems.

Dear DBH,
I was on a first date with a guy last night and he offered to give me a free television. I mentioned that mine was broken earlier in the night and I’m not going to lie…I really do need the TV. I almost accepted his offer, but when he offered to pick it up on the way home from dinner and bring it over to my house, I became suspicious. Could he have had an ulterior motive?
-Miss Ingmy House

Miss House,
Was it a flat screen? What’s his number…

To explain what you experienced, the DBH should first introduce its theory on first dates, summed up into an analogy with which all women can identify: “The Cupcake Theory.”

Surprisingly, first dates and cupcakes share a common bond: a man has no fervent opinion, neither positive nor negative, towards either party of the analogy; yet the intense, insulin churning female reaction to both is readily apparent to all. No woman can resist cupcakes…not even she who claims to be on a diet and can’t eat cupcakes because they’re all carbs and would cost her too many Weight Watchers points (even if she chased it with a handful of Benefiber…it’s happened…) and she really, really wants to fit into that two-piece she bought when she was 13 before going South Padre Island with her high school crew this Spring.

Thus, in an attempt to link the woman’s high emotional expectations of a first date with her positive affinity towards baked goods, the man creates a cupcake for the woman, metaphorically speaking. He starts with a solid base of polite charm, throws in proof of employment and the absence of felony charges stemming from a methamphetamine lab he once operated in Louisa County, sprinkles in positive references of his mother, and combines thoroughly with copious amounts of free wine and appetizers (or appeteasers, depending on his income bracket). He bakes this mixture at 375 degrees of awkward commentary on flipcupObamaDarfurhousingcrisis for 45 minutes, or until he inserts a toothpick deep into his ear and it comes out clean.

To be sure, this is a complicated and arduous process. It can be quite disappointing for the man if the woman rejects his cupcake at the end of the evening, especially if it is in favor of the Joop!-drenched cupcake sitting two tables over eating the Asian chicken salad and sipping on a balloon glass of Malbecthesmarmybastard…

But the man has one final fallback strategy, as no cupcake is complete without a thick layer of Desperation Icing. In order to increase his chance of success, the man tops his cupcake with sugary deal sweeteners such as clothing, a 50 percent stake in the man’s current and future asset portfolio (to include children and/or dogs), the promise of more free food, or big ticket electronics. Often, the desperation icing is a last-ditch, targeted attempt to gain entry into the woman’s apartment or even bedroom (‘I have this unwrapped closet shelving system that’s just lying around my apartment…why don’t I bring it over and install it for you tonight!’).

A WARNING TO MEN: Understand that topping your cupcake with desperation icing is risky business, no matter how big the potential payoff. For example, DBH has received letters from countless male victims of Wii and Run, an increasingly common result of botched desperation icing wherein a female graciously accepts an expensive and hard to find gaming console, only to break off the relationship (whether nascent or long standing) days later. Other not-so-desirable outcomes of desperation icing include Louis Vi-Gone! and Thanks for the Year of Free Verizon Fi’mbreakingupwithyou.

-DBH

Ask a Douche Bag

Welcome to the first and only advice column written for douche bags, by douche bags! It may be shocking to learn that a douche bag’s life could be anything but perfect, what with 300 Hollywood Tans locations in the US and abroad (now paying customers can finally get a tan in Dubai!). The reality is that douche bags have problems, too, and not all of them can be solved by Red Bull or grad school. That’s where DBH comes in.

Email your problems to dbhandbook@gmail.com and let DBH gently nudge you over life’s most inconveniencing hurdles!

Dear DBH,
I’m really interested in this girl I saw dancing in a cage at Fur last weekend. I’m not usually the love-at-first-sight kind of guy, but I was entranced by her rhythmic gyrations and her Ugg boots. She also open-mouth kissed one of her gurlz during a Katy Perry song. I want to buy her a drink the next time I see her, what should I order?
-Flirty Martini

F.M.,
Buying a drink for a girl at a bar or night club is a fast and easy way to say, “It would really help me out if your judgment was severely impaired for the rest of the night,” without screaming over T.I.’s enlightening lyrics. Every girl loves the attention and cost-effectiveness of having drinks bought for them. To a girl, however, the drink you buy says more about your opinion of her than it does about yourself. For instance, sending a Bud Light to that brunette at the end of the bar could be perceived more as a statement on the snow white love handles cascading over her black “going out” pants than a gentlemanly gesture. Make sure you send the right signal. Here are some suggestions and the implied messages they may convey:

Cosmopolitan: Your Jimmy Choo handbag and outwardly apparent emotional instability reminds me of the characters from Sex and the City…isn’t this what they always drink? I really hope you’re the slutty blond one out of your friend group. I liked her in Mannequin…

Jager-bomb: I want you to black out so I can take you back to my apartment in Court House where you will wake up in the middle of the night to throw up on my Tempurpedic pillow and night stand. Hope you didn’t eat noodles tonight!

Red-Headed Slut: I was trying to ask the bar tender if he knew the name of that girl at the end of the bar, but he thought I was ordering you a drink. Let’s have some forced conversation and then move to the dance floor so you can rub your sparkly body lotion and lipstick all over my expensive, lavender Armani Exchange shirt.

Red wine: You look like a 40 year old single mother and I want to spend the rest of my evening pretending to think you’re 27 and claiming that your seven inch C-section scar is barely noticeable, even up close.
-DBH

Unemployment Assistance

Top economists often point to flexibility of the workforce as a key factor in a nation’s ability to weather economic instability. In other words, it is an individual laborer’s ability to move fluidly from one sector of the economy to another that keeps the entire machine chugging along. In these times of danger and uncertainty, this theory is being put to the test.

Traditionally, it is the expendable blue collar workers who bear the brunt of recessions. To the surprise of many white collar douche bags, however, this trend is being turned on its head. As the nation’s largest banks and financial institutions collapse into one another like so many intricately painted Russian matryoshka dolls, more than a few douches are left out in the cold.

In the past, many a young douche bag has jumped from the Ivy League diving board, cannon-balling into the deep end of Wall Street employment. That swimming pool has since been drained by America’s irresponsible lower class and its inability to repay mortgages they knowingly and willingly took on. Douche bags are now paying the price.

As a public service, DBH has combed through the classified pages of many respected newspapers and has reprinted below five jobs perfect for newly unemployed douche bags, both young and old. This list will be updated periodically for as long as the economic tsunami continues to pummel this great nation’s financial coastline:

***

WANTED: Tweenage, liberal grassroots political canvasser for upcoming American election campaign. US citizenship and requisite right to suffrage preferred, but not a deal breaker. Job includes door-to-door canvassing during commonly accepted dinner hours to inquire whether each house’s occupants are registered to vote. Candidates should understand that the conversation does not end at “I’ve already voted, thank you.” Substantive understanding of relevant, contemporary political and economic issues not required, only an unsettling motivation to “Get Out the Vote” for no discernible reason. Do you have the ability to talk for at least five minutes without presenting a pause during which you can be politely interrupted? We want you!
MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS: At least one week of clipboard experience; pushy, holier-than-thou attitude; proper attire for men includes crisply pressed khaki pants with tight fitting, plaid button-up and white sneakers; for women, ill-fitting political sweatshirt over girth-obscuring black pants and sensible shoes.

***

WANTED: Web-based ironic screened T-shirt company ISO female model with homespun mediocre looks for internet advertisements. Completely intact, non-reconstructed face and torso are a must; attractiveness and/or legs not a priority. Must have exceptional breasts that will coquettishly distort the design printed across your chest that capitalizes on a recent social phenomenon and is just subtle enough to take a few seconds to understand (and grow tired of). Great temporary job while you wait for the Ford Modeling Agency to formally reject your application! Please send 8x10 head shot and max 150-word essay on why the US credit market is in such dire straits and whether the European Central Bank will react in time.
MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS: perky (not droopy) C- to D-cup breasts; minimum 0.5” nipples; shoulder-length hair/wig; minimum 70% original, whole teeth; must be willing to be paid in unsold, XXXL T-shirts.

***

WANTED: Constantly incredulous stock trader for upcoming photo shoot. Well respected newspaper seeks motivated, yet devastated, stock traders to pose for front page photos detailing the precipitous collapse of the world economy. Candidates should have a strong background in dramatically wiping various areas of their faces (eyes, mouth, forehead, etc.), violently flapping their arms, and covering their mouths with both hands while making a “Oh my God I think that Suburban just ran over Scott Bao…or maybe Tony Danza…either way it’s bad, right?” face. Candidates accepting the utter demise of the financial system, resigning themselves to plodding expressionless around the trading floor surrounded by digital stalactites, need not apply.
MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS: Ridiculous primary-colored jacket; conservative tie that clashes with aforementioned jacket; thinning hair; penchant for being amazed by the expected.

***

WANTED: GEICO marketing directors ISO talented third graders (or educationally equivalent immigrants) to explore new depths of television commercial writing. Prior attempts by professional writers of the “Caveman” advertising campaign have approached desired level of ineptitude, yet have left much to be desired. Selected candidates will be tasked with writing 15 new “Caveman” commercials in order to run the once-funny campaign completely into the ground. Candidates will have at their disposal all the modestly popular late-80s to early-90s music and forgotten, C-list celebrities they can handle. Ideal candidates posses a one-dimensional sense of humor and the unique ability to laugh at a hipster caveman dancing in front of a green screen. Benefits include writing credits for the spin-off “Caveman” animated short to appear before episodes of the USA original series “The Starter Wife”, as well as a virtually limitless supply of orange Hawaiian Punch.
MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS: Ability to identify ironic situations in which a caveman would find himself simultaneously at ease and out of place, artfully portraying the existential nature of car insurance; at least four No. 2 pencils.

***

WANTED: Prescription drug conglomerate ISO medium-sized group of 60 year old, white males for post-retirement masculine disorder commercials (4-5 males ideal).* Roles will include engaging in overtly homosexual activities such as driving in a vintage convertible automobile with the top down or going on a group bike ride through the picturesque Arizona mountains. Roles may also include engaging in activities vaguely resembling sexual intercourse, such as throwing a football through a tire swing, or feeding small trees into a wood chipper. Female actresses of disproportionate youth and attractiveness will be provided on site to play the role of the spouse (must provide own bathtub and platform for romantic beach and/or mountain scene.)
MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS: Prior experience with poorly functioning prostates and sex organs (otherwise known as “Male Bikini Zone Deficiency Syndrome”) to accurately portray the defeated, yet hopeful smile that indicates your shortcomings are the product of legitimate health issues and not irritation resulting from excessive bicycle riding or lack of attraction to your dried up, handbag-of-a-wife.


*Do not read this ad if you are currently taking nitrates for chest pains, as it may result in a sudden drop in blood pressure.

Leaked 2008 VP Debate Transcript

Can you smell it in the air? Election season is at full tilt. Undecided voters across the nation are being bombarded with red and blue splotches of propaganda, left to wipe the 30-second spots of mud from their TV screens with their blue-collared, rolled up shirt sleeves, smearing it in vain (incidentally, this is the preferred filter through which to view such half-assed programming as Two and a Half Men or Tyler Perry’s House of Payne…if you can cram some of the mud into the speakers to block the painfully predictable banter that passes for network sitcom humor, even better).

This campaign season, all eyes are focused squarely on the (mind-boggling) newcomer to the national stage: the rogue, anti-establishment senior class secretary of Wasilla High School, Sarah Palin (she used college-ruled paper, even in high school). Voters on all sides of the political Octagon are waiting with baited breath to see her appear on stage near her Democratic counterpart, Sen. Joe Biden. Though the networks are waiting until October 2 to air the debates, DBH has obtained a leaked transcript of the pre-recorded affair. Here’s an excerpt:

Announcer: Broadcasting live from Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2008 Vice Presidential Debate. [applause] Now, from the hit morning info-grab bag hour “Fox and Friends,” please welcome your moderator, Gretchen Carlson! [applause]

Gretchen: Good evening, Missouri!! Thank you! Wow, thank you. It’s such an honor to moderate this, the first vice presidential debate of the 2008 election. Let’s get right down to business, as I’m sure you all are as eager as I am to hear Governor Sarah Palin and Representative—I’m sorry…Senator Tom Biden—square off on the tough issues facing our nation today. First, let me introduce my co-moderators for tonight’s debates.

To my right, directing his questions to Governor Palin this evening is my esteemed colleague from FOX News, Sean Hannity. [applause] As you can see, Sean is dressed tonight as “Snow Machine Reagan” so as to appear comforting and inspiring to Governor Palin as she read—responds to his hard-hitting questions.

And to my left, directing her questions to Mayor Biden is eight-year-old Brownie Girl Scout and bone cancer survivor Emily Jenkins, who has recently been diagnosed yet again with cancer in a different and less curable bone. [somber applause]

This evening’s debate will begin with a half-hour question-and-answer period. After the first round, we will remove the podiums from the stage and the candidates will participate in a timed field dressing competition, using two lovely mule deer bucks shot right here in the great state of Missouri! [loud applause]

Mr. Hannity, we’ll start with your first question. In keeping with the debate rules, Governor Palin will have 30 seconds to respond, including the time it takes Mr. Hannity to ask the question. That’s a lovely snow machine you’re sitting on, Sean.

Hannity: Thank you, Gretchen. This is actually the snow machine Todd Palin rode to 16 straight Anchorage Grand Prix championships dating back to the early 90s. Remarkable story.

My first question is this: Governor Palin, how can one human female have as much courage as you do to be the Commander-in-Chief of Alaska, clearly one of the most important states in the Union with regard to overall area, economic impact and international relations? I would think that critical position would be entrusted to a room of supercomputers, processing terabytes of information at any given moment. The average human can only process a mere fraction of that. Do you, in fact, have superhuman mental capabilities, or are you some kind of cybernetic, artificial-intelligence-infused being sent to America as a gift from Japan?

Palin: That is a great question, Sean. I think what I’ve done in Alaska, oil and special interests, standing up to those who needed to be stood up to, really when you think about it our border with Russia and Canada. The Alaska National Guard is tackling some really tough issues right now and as I cut over $500,000,000 in earmarks from the state budget.

Hannity: What divine eloquence we are all blessed to witness on this day. Thank you for honoring my question with your answer. [applause]

Gretchen: Ok, now over to Ms. Jenkins for her first question. Senator Biden will have eight minutes for his response.

Emily: Mr. Biden, you’ve been in the United States Senate since 1972, during which time you have fought to find a cure for all kinds of cancer, including breast cancer and the very, very painful bone cancer from which I now suffer for a second time. Why have you failed to eradicate this painful scourge of humanity?

Biden: Wow, little girl, that’s a mouthful of a question…didn’t expect you to be so…articulate…It is true, I am proud that I’ve used my time in the United States Senate to direct every dollar I can towards the fight against cancer. I’m not sure if I would characterize the current lack of a cure as a failure on my part, but we do need to do more. And that is why the Obama-Biden administration would—

Gretchen: You have seven minutes and thirty seconds left, Senator Biden.

Biden: Um…thank you, Gretchen.

Gretchen: And I’m being told by my producers that I mistakenly referred to you earlier as Tom Biden…Tom Biden. Clearly we all know your name is Joe Biden, and for that I apologize. We will grant you another five minutes for your response to make up for the mistake.

Biden: Well I’m not sure I need 13 minutes to answer this sweet young lady’s question, but as I was saying the Obama-Biden Administration would create a health care system that’s affordable for everyone, so every American can get the adequate and accessible health care they need, such as walk-in clinics in some of our nation’s larger chain retail outlets. With prevention programs that focus on proper diet and exercise, early detection methods to catch the deadliest forms of cancer and other diseases before they get out of control—

Gretchen: All right, Senator Biden has elected to forfeit his remaining time—

Biden: I’m sorry?

Gretchen: You stated that you didn’t need the full 13 minutes we have allotted you, thus, you have elected to forfeit the rest of your time. The remaining 12 minutes and 28 seconds will be added on to your aggregate time in the field dressing competition, along with any other penalty minutes.

Now back to Mr. Hannity for his second question.

Hannity: Vice President-Elect Palin, you have been married once, to your high school sweetheart and 12-time Juneau-to-Nome Snow Machine Marathon champion Todd. Meanwhile, MILF Hunter Biden is already on his second marriage…and counting…What character traits allow you to be so faithful and loyal in the sacred bond of marriage? Including in your response the words “freedoms”, “reform” and “verbiage” will earn you bonus points.

Biden: Now wait a minute my first wife, the love of my life, died in a car accident 30 years ago. I don’t see—

Gretchen: This question is for Governor Palin. Senator Biden will now be required to field dress a muskrat in addition to his mule deer. Any further interruptions will result in immediate disqualification.

Palin: Todd and I sat down and talked about me running along with Senator McCain to reform this country and really shake things up. I put it to the girls to vote because they enjoy the same freedoms as every American and they said that they wanted me to march straight to Washington and take on those fat cat ear-markers.

Hannity: You still have two seconds remaining.

Palin: Verbiage. [loud applause]

Hannity: Wow. That’s just Sarah being Sarah.

Gretchen: Ms. Jenkins, your question.

Emily: Senator *cough* Biden. Four years ago, my body was ravaged by indiscriminately destructive cancerous blood cells. My oncologist suggested a surge in the amount of chemo and radiation therapy I was receiving. Much like President Bush’s surge in Iraq, it worked. Why is this so, and would you also oppose proper medical treatment for my most recent resurgence of cancer, as you opposed the surge in Iraq?

Biden: Well, judging from those bruises on your arms and face, the treatment didn’t work that well. [stunned silence]

Uhhh…what I’m trying to say is…much like the Iraqi insurgency, your bone cancer has re-emerged because your oncologists failed to address the underlying issues of your cancer: a stable economy, a government that shares and transfers powers equally among ethnic and religious groups, and an enduring agreement as to the size and disposition of Coalition bases in all parts of the country, or in this case, your frail shell of a body. If I were you, I would elect to find another oncologist and not put up with another four years of the status quo that’s driving this country into the ground. [confused applause]

Gretchen: [pause] I can only hope that our faith in everything that is good will help us all get past those last few moments…Mr. Hannity, please distract us from this awkward reality.

Hannity: This is a two-part question: Commander-in-Chief Palin, everyone knows that Russia maintains a massive, strategic military presence along its extreme northeastern border, a mere two and a half miles away from Alaska. Can you please tell us how many command decisions you have made as Commander-in-Chief of the Alaska National Guard that have directly led to the repulsion and humiliation of the Russian marauding forces? Secondly, how many times have you communicated with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ using your personal Yahoo email account since assuming premiership of Alaska?

Palin: The answer to both questions is four, Sean. [rousing applause]

Gretchen: A truly awe-inspiring woman with an awe inspiring story. May God instill the American voters with the wisdom and blind faith to vote for the McCain-Palin ticket.

Biden: This is ludicrous! This lady can’t be vice president! Just two years ago she was the mayor of a po-dunk, nothing little ice burg in nowhere Alaska! Who give’s a crap about Alaska?? Sure, she’s good looking and she’s got legs that go from here to last Tuesday…I mean, what American male hasn’t had a fantasy about his elementary school librarian…but come on! Am I going insane?

Gretchen: Mr. Biden, please save your comments for the closing remarks.

Biden: Can it, you stuck-up floozy. Go back to talking about Clay Aiken coming out of the closet on your worthless morning gab-a-thon. You’re just jealous that you’re not a sultry, brown-eyed vixen like my counterpart over here. Maybe if you put on a pair of those Tina Fey goggles, you could replace me in the Senate! You’d have to take off that trashy street-walker wig, first.

Hannity: Senator Biden this is highly inappropriate—

Biden: You shut your mouth or I’ll take a sledge hammer to that Katrina-proof coif you’ve got perched on top of your watermelon. And wipe that Young Republican grin off your face…you look like you’ve been licking a poop-popsicle…you probably drank breast milk for breakfast this—

Gretchen: And that’s all the time we have for today…thank you for joining us for the 2008 Vice Presidential Debate. Stay tuned to FOX News for an hour-long look at Barack Obama’s destitute, Kenyan half-brother and to which Cabinet-level position the Democratic presidential candidate would appoint him if elected. Coming up next.

Pets

Ever since the first Homo sapiens splashed water from a nearby river onto a rabid distant cousin of the Irish Setter (more commonly known as the Cenozoic Spaniel) in an attempt to dissuade the beast from dismembering his monogamous life partner, dogs have been man’s best friend. Through a logical progression of events over thousands of years, man then domesticated the feline to keep the canine from becoming uppity. Upon realizing that cats are by nature snooty and aloof and, therefore, extremely ill-suited to fulfilling man’s desire to feel dominant and god-like, man turned his focus to less intelligent creatures. (Later, woman re-domesticated the cat because it was cuddly and had an independent, daring personality—something early woman wished she had.)

Remarkably, the concept of the pet has persevered through millennia rife with drought, famine and plagues, many of which were spread by animal-borne parasites. With an excess of wealth and free time, today’s man (not the defunct business-wear outlet) has turned owning pets into an art form. But simply owning a pet will not vault you into full Douche Bag status. Put a hat on that Irish Doodle, and you’re getting somewhere:

Breed to Taste
If God had intended for man to adhere to the laws of nature when it comes to breeding animals, He (or She) would not have made the spectacle of a Labrador Retriever mounting a Poodle (or dogs humping anything) so damn hilarious. Honestly, who wouldn’t want a breed of dog that sounds like a dessert and looks like a sober Andy Dick? Pay no mind to the horrible bone and organ defects created by breeding dogs so long their tiny legs can barely support their drooping intestinal tracts. You want a Doxiepoo (you guessed it, a Poodle-Dachshund mix)…so go get one!

The More the Merrier
Always wanted to be a zoo administrator but never had the time for those seven pesky years of higher education? No worries! Become the next Jack Hannah by turning your very own home into Busch Gardens Africa. First, move to Florida. The rest should come naturally. Just fill your house with 20 to 30 cats and dogs, add an alligator, some snakes and a goat chained to a pole a la Jurassic Park and voila! You may want to invest in a good carpet steamer, as the several inches of animal waste that will most assuredly layer atop your eggplant Berber will become cumbersome to navigate, even in your stylish galoshes.

Sever All Ties with Reality
The true test of a douche bag pet owner’s mettle is how far they are willing to go beyond the realm of anything considered sane and rational, for instance, taking an animal that is not a dog for a walk. Walking down the street with a cat on a leash isn’t a bad start, but nothing says “I’m unstable and live in my parents’ basement, but I'm also active,” like dragging your pet rat snake down the street. If you don’t own a pet rat snake, any snake will do. Or, why not take your fish tank out for a stroll on an office chair? Even better, walk your pet rabbit to the dog park, and then become irate and bewildered when the dogs tear it to pieces in a matter of minutes (also the great beginnings of a frivolous law suit).

Reincar-Nation!
What better way to bite your thumb in the face of science and/or the Creator (depending on your respective belief system) than by cloning recently deceased pets? Instead of mourning the loss of your beloved animal and moving on (as rational human beings would), strip its carcass of precious DNA-infused tissue, sell your house and hustle to the nearest South Korean cloning lab. Learning to properly traverse the grief cycle will certainly not be an issue, as anyone who even considers cloning deceased pets is inherently too chemically imbalanced to attract a willing spouse and, therefore, will never experience the loss of a human loved-one. As you enjoy a never ending supply of copies, you can experiment in new and exciting methods of discipline, such a strapping them to a bed and forcing them to obey your every command (and if you don’t think people who love their pet enough to sell their house in order to finance its cloning after being dead for TWO YEARS aren’t absolutely insane, then maybe you’re the problem.)

News Flash: Prominent Douche Bag Deported from Red Sox Nation

All-Star outfielder Manny Ramirez was officially deported from Red Sox Nation this afternoon in what is being described as a crackdown on illegal aliens. Naturalized Red Sox...Red Soxs...have been increasingly targeted by immigration raids believed by some to be necessary to prevent them from stealing valuable positions from American-born baseball players who, because they are less talented, normally do not stand a chance of out-playing their alien brethren.

Red Sox Nation president Theo Epstein described the deportation campaign as "necessary to preserve the integrity of baseball as America's pastime. In this time of war [apparently referring to the struggle to wrest the division title from the grasp of the Tampa Bay Rays], the allegiance of all foreign-born citizens of Red Sox Nation must logically be questioned. First it was Nomar, then Pedro, and now Manny."

Taking a page from the Alien and Sedition Acts passed between 1798 and 1801, President Epstein said that any citizen of Red Sox Nation deemed a threat to its values and security can and would be deported with minimal legal justification. Also, those citizens accused of engaging in seditious actions or "parlor speak" could face imprisonment or forced admittance to an internment camp. Though the exact location of the camp was not revealed, it is widely believed to be somewhere along Red Sox Nation's border with Azerbaijan.

Terry Francona, Red Sox Nation Treasurer and coach of its baseball team, stood firm with his president.

"Sure, we'll miss Manny's bat, but it's more important to keep our squad clear of any legal and ethical problems that could distract us during our push for the postseason. Manny wasn't Irish and he didn't even have a goatee, so we had to let him go. Sometimes, as a president, you have to make those tough decisions. I respect President Epstein for that."

In a statement released by Immigration Minister Don Zimmer, the Nation has adopted a Varitek-Goatee-Native rule. The rule protects all players whose skin tone is lighter that that of team captain Jason Varitek, as well as any player with facial hair, or those naturalized players who are native to the territory known today as North America. Under this rule, pale Japanese import Daisuke Matsuzaka, goatee'd Greek god Kevin Youklis, and half-Navajo Jacoby Ellsbury will all remain citizens.

Treasurer Francona is confident the deportation will help the Red Sox.

"Half the time, I wasn't sure if Manny understood anything I was saying," said Francona. "I told him to cut his hair or grow a beard like [David] Ortiz, but he wouldn't respond. He'd just look at me for a couple of seconds and then trot away like he had a pole shoved up his you-know-what. His hair would be bouncing everywhere....he was like the Predator with that hair. Frankly, I was scared to death of him."

Teammate and Red Sox Nation favored son Dustin Pedroia expressed relief after the late-afternoon locker room raid.

"To be honest, I thought they were coming after me," Pedroia said. "I was sure they had finally discovered that I'm white and small and therefore have no place in professional sports. I mean, it's pretty obvious that my current offensive explosion is blind luck. I close my eyes every time I swing the bat, for crying out loud! I'm just glad the attention is focused on immigrants and not my own shortcomings."

Mr. Ramirez could not immediately be reached for comment. Actually, Mr. Ramirez did immediately comment, but the unintelligible text message took several hours to decipher:

"I happy 2 b outta dat place...it no good 4 me and the food was caca maybe I go LA wit da big butts and b a blood or a crip lol...or I go 2 miami and I boat 2 home on da weekends. ttyl :P"

President Epstein vowed to remove all Ramirez jerseys and bobble-head dolls from team stores, as well as to install serious repercussions for any citizen caught with such contraband.

"Anyone seen wearing a Manny jersey could face criminal charges," said Epstein, adding, "even if he's a chunky, insecure Irishman, no matter how big of a douche bag he is. I mean it. I don't care if his sister's hot. I'll throw his ass in jail."

Cults: The Fantasy Baseball Leagues of Religion

“Cults, wonderful on the outside but on the inside can be very manipulating.”

This quote, from the eye-opening website devoted to how cults work, packs a lot of punch into one very articulate sentence. (NOTE: If you are currently or have been a cult leader, please do not click on the link above as it would violate DBH’s verbal agreement not to lead any such individuals to this treasure trove of illicit knowledge.)

Cults, or Coordinated Life Experiences (CLE) as they are commonly known, have sprung up all over the globe in one form or another since the dawn of man. True, the advent of the Internet and the ensuing liberation of information have slowed the CLE spawn rate to some degree. CLEs, however, have etched out a rich heritage and to list the names of cult leaders from centuries past would be to list a veritable Who’s Who of Douche. Until a decade ago, cult leaders regularly enjoyed the view from the zenith of the Biggest Douche Bags on the Planet List. The first time a cult leader did not occupy the number one spot on the List was when the little known 40-year-old Italian native Giacomo DiFrancesantonio vaulted to the top after going on three consecutive dates with a minor (shortly thereafter, Brodie upended Signor DiFrancesantonio. Brodie has remained atop the List ever since.)

Though technically known as Sacco Spumoni, Italian-born Bags provide myriad lessons on how to be a true douche (See Il Libro Doccia, Chapter 4: “How to Turn Brown Paper Bags Translucent with Your Hair!” and Chapter 9 “15-Year-Old Girls: The Ultimate Quarry”). But that is a subject for another chapter.

To study the tricks of the cult leader trade is to unlock the secrets of their douchiness. These valuable lessons will help put even the most wayward aspiring douche on the path to the bag. First, arm yourself with the cerebral-manipulating lessons spelled out below. Then, round up at least 10 of your most feeble-minded friends and start a CLE of your own!

Stay on Message
The CLEs of today’s world tend to smack of a religious flavor of one persuasion or another. It is widely accepted that CLEs serve as an alternative to the ho-hum established religions that currently exist. Through CLEs, a person can find meaning, guidance, and a place to dump his or her life savings. Though it doesn’t have to be connected to pre-existing religions, or based in any modicum of fact whatsoever, the message of a successful cult must remain consistent.

Perhaps Corey Feldman is the true Lord and Savior and “The Goonies” is less an entertaining movie than a moral and ethical guide by which every man and woman should live. Whatever the message, boil it down to its simplest form and pound it into the ears, eyes and noses of your following. Starting a cult is a lot like running a successful presidential campaign. The good cult leader does not wake up one morning and decide that, suddenly, Corey Haim is the Creator of All Things and one should base his or her life on the parables described within the scripture known as “The Lost Boys”. Keep it simple, keep it consistent.

Spread the Word
Once you’ve selected a message, spread it around! Ask your long-haired, computer savvy friends to help you design a website. Take out an ad in pet- or gun-related magazines to develop that flock of dangerously loyal devotees you’ve been looking for. Starting a Facebook page or blog will provide a good venue through which you can espouse your fresh brand of fundamentalist dogma (it's also a great place to share the pics of you and your gurlz up at Dewey!!!). A true douche cult leader will stop at nothing to influence as many people as possible with his or her opinions and half-baked beliefs.

For example, Sun Myung Moon, founder of the cult commonly referred to as The Moonies (a religion based on “The Goonies” doesn’t seem so far fetched, now does it??) and The Unification Church, decided to diversify his influence and, thus, created a small local newspaper called The Washington Times. Getting some A-List celebrities on board will also go a long way to boost your membership.

Dress for the God You Want, Not the One You Have
All good cults have a distinctive fashion that sets them apart from the other non-believers. From pant suits to prairie dresses, the discerning cult leader should look to dress his or her followers in a uniform that allows them to show off their individuality, yet suppresses their urges to be different.

Be creative. Robes and togas are so 1970s. Try a jaunty pant suit or the revolutionary Jodhpur-Jumper combination. Select a fabric that’s practical and breathable, such as velour or a form-fitting Lycra. Make sure that your dress code matches the daily lives of your followers—loose and billowy uniforms may get caught heavy farm machinery and severely injure your flock! A good uniform will help to unite and control even the most unwieldy of CLEs. And as a bonus, the enterprising cult leader can market his or her take on fashion to the non-believing masses…a great way to increase revenue!

Compound the Issue
A cult is only as good as its compound. What better way to demonstrate that your belief system is far superior to any other than to completely isolate your followers and cut off all competing information streams? An ideal compound is remote and sturdy enough to keep those within from wandering bleary-eyed into the dangerous world outside, yet vulnerable enough to be stormed by any number of federal or state agencies.

Armed stand-offs are a great way to spread the word of your CLE, harnessing the power of free, round-the-clock cable news network coverage. After all, who would remember the Branch Davidians today, were it not for those pesky agents of the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms trying in vein to breach the outer walls of David Koresh’s summer compound in Waco, TX? Texas has long been known as The Compound State, but other locations are quickly gaining ground. For example, Montana (where they pronounce the word cult “mil-ISH-uh”) has the fastest growing compound real estate market in the nation. South Dakota, with the added benefits of electricity and running water, is not far behind.

Consolidated Beer Empires

A venerable douche bag politician and inventor once said of beer:

[Girlfriend’s name], I’m almost certain I love Coors Light more than interacting or having sex with you. I don’t even like Coors Light that much, but just being near you makes me want to smash this Cold Activated Bottle on the edge of your coffee table and plunge the jagged remains into my cornea. Now, please just shut up and let me watch ‘Baseball Tonight’.

As this famous quote displays, beer has touched the lives of virtually all human beings (except Muslims, Mormons, Mennonites, Methodists, and other teetotalling religions beginning with the letter “M”). Beer is less a delicious, life-giving beverage than an international language of understanding and harmony. Every nation in the world, from America to Texas, celebrates the joy that is brewing beer.

In fact, newspapers and attractive female heads tell us the only disquietude afflicting the global beer community stems from the voracious advertising wars that persist between many of today’s leading beer companies.

But don’t let Soledad O’Brien fool you (no matter how unnaturally even her skin tone is), beer companies are piloted by some of the most sophisticated douche bags on the planet. After all, what better way to drive up sales than to foster some friendly competition? And what better way to foster some friendly competition than to launch a massive, industry-wide consolidation campaign rife with buyouts and hostile takeovers?

For instance, did you know that the same company that brews Miller products also owns the rights to Coors (which merged with Molson of Canada in 2005 (which bought Corona in 2002))? MillerCoors, as it is cleverly known, also owns Peroni, Beast Light (but not Beast Ice, which is actually brewed in an chum barrel outside of an ice fishing shack on Lake Winnebago), Icehouse, Velkopopovicky Kozel Svetly, Pilsner Urquell, and Olde English 800 Malt Liquor (among 150 other worldwide brands).

Did you also know that every brewery’s website requires one to enter his or her birth date and state or country of residence before gaining access, making it really f*cking annoying to conduct research about their respective products?

Now there’s more good news in the land of carbonated consolidation: Anheuser-Busch, the company that infuses the Great American Lager with the delightful twinge of Beechwood and Clydesdale hooves, agreed to be bought out by InBev (itself a consolidation of Belgian Interbrew SA and Brazilian AmBev).

I do not currently hold an MBA that I’m aware of, but I’m pretty sure the douche bags atop InBev’s endive tower have just orchestrated the most amazing merger since Ramon Estevez and Janet Templeton teamed up to form Charlie Sheen. The Bags over at Budweiser did not make a poor decision, first rebuffing InBev’s advances, then (after several Cosmos) giving in. In fact, they made 52 billion great decisions. But InBev holds in its hands other, less tangible and legally transferable advantages.

First and foremost, InBev is now the proud owner of the Budweiser/Bud Light Chelada, a very not-made-up mix of Bud or Bud Light with Clamato (a special blend of clam and tomato juice) whose slogan “Just Open and Enjoy” reads more like a dare than a viable marketing campaign. What reputable beer company wouldn’t want a can filled with shellfish in their repertoire?

Second, the brewer of Stella Artois and Leffe has the rare opportunity to introduce new and original products to a NASCAR track near you! Soon, Kyle Busch fans everywhere will wait in line for Bud Red Light, a low-calorie Flemish Red ale best enjoyed from a tulip glass to enhance Red Light’s sour, yet fruity finish. In 2009, the entire infield of Daytona International Speedway will be vacated to make room for InBev’s “Ho Garden”, which is exactly as it sounds: an enormous mass of picnic tables, litres of sweet Belgian white ale, and buxom women in bikini tops and hot pants dispensing Hoegaarden laser pointers.

Finally, in purchasing one of America’s most beloved icons (with its German name and Czech roots), InBev has had the distinct pleasure of ruffling the feathers of jingoistic Senators and Senatorwomen, as well as other members of Congress. Many politicians from Missouri, home to Anheuser-Busch’s headquarters, sent letters imploring the company’s executives to resist the urge to make a sound business decision in the name of contrived, misunderstood patriotism. Realizing America enjoys a free market economy, thus, U.S. corporations are not subject to the state intervention that defined French dirigisme for most of that country’s modern economic history, Adolphus Busch politely extended his middle finger upwards and happily shoveled into his mouth another forkful of anguille au vert. Well, he didn't shovel it into his own mouth. He pays people to do that kind of stuff.

Instructional Video

It is a rare occurrence to stumble across an instructional video so well equipped to introduce others to the douche bag lifestyle it could have easily been titled “Horn-Rimmed Technophilia: A Step-by-Step Guide to Becoming a Black Belt Douche Silo”. Well today, the sun (actually The Post) has certainly smiled upon The Handbook. Before reading the rest of this chapter, please take a moment to view the video in question by clicking here (iPhone 3G Debuts to Eager Crowd).

To maximize the retention of the life lessons contained within these rich and powerful moving pictures, thinly veiled as a human interest piece on rabid iPhone worshippers, DBH will break it down as it has (and always will) into easy-to-digest nuggets.

Capitalize on the Weakness of Others
Ken H. teaches us a lot in just a few short sentences. First, heterosexual males should be wary of getting collagen lip injections, as the result can sometimes be quite frightening. Nonetheless, Ken has clawed his way to the top of his personal friend pile, as any good douche bag should. Ken’s friends can count on him for favors, and in return, Ken can count on his friends to sleep on a sidewalk for six hours, only to willingly abandon the head of the line minutes before a camera crew arrives to interview the person occupying that very spot. (The exact nature of Ken’s “favors” that would warrant such reciprocation is immaterial to this conversation.) Also, Ken reminds us of the first and only rule of TV interviews: awkwardly stare into the camera as often as possible. And wear the largest, un-tucked polo shirt you can find. With Birkenstocks. Douche.

Always Make Baseless, Hyperbolic Predictions of the Future
Always. This one is non-negotiable. Like Nostradamus, the world’s first human douche bag, modern day douche bags should conjure up wild prognostications using as little of the information at their disposal as they possibly can. Invisible phones in just 10 short years?? Andrew Yeah-Boyeeee was willing to put his honor on the line to make such a prediction. Of course, he knows that reducing one’s ability to see his or her electronic gadgetry accurately follows the established, natural pattern of innovation. To form this prediction, Andrew started with the world’s most important technological breakthrough to date, invisibility of wireless internet. He then (logically) applied that evolutionary trajectory to the hardware sector. It’s that simple.

How far are you willing to go? Ketchup flavored ice cream taking America by storm? Bulgaria’s rise to regional hegemony? Jason Giambi coming out of the closet as early as 2010? Hey. Do what you want to do. Right, Andrew?

Maintain Techno-Relevance
Every good douche bag should keep his or her gadget repertoire as up to date as possible, even if that means buying a product you already own. Our friend Ken already had the first generation iPhone, but because he couldn’t receive his Accenture emails and was forced to slum it with a Blackberry (most likely the Pearl…he looks like a man on the go), he had to trade up. The fact that first model year of any technology is usually rife with bugs, or simply doesn’t work at all, is irrelevant.

Be a Blogger!
Nothing says “douche bag” like thrusting your opinions upon innocent by-surfers on a weekly (or bi-weekly) basis. But, what makes a blogger a blogger? Try donning some horn-rimmed spectacles, or start that beard you’ve wanted to grow for years, but were dissuaded from doing so by your image-conscious significant other. If necessary, quit your job to maximize your spare time. Douche bag bloggers need all the time they can get to peruse the internet (or to study live specimens at Whole Foods) seeking inspiration for their latest vitriolic spewing of half-baked theories and witty turns of phrase. Can’t think of a topic? Well, you’re trying to hard. The topic of a blog is the only thing that matters less than the actual content. Bloggers earn the trust and respect of their readers with links to preexisting news articles or internet videos. A blogger could post the recipe for banana nut bread, for all the reader cares, as long as he or she includes a link to a video of a cat and a dog fighting on a trampoline.

Marketing*

As the American economy is in the midst of its most accurate Greg Louganis impression (and DBH is not referring to the American economy’s resemblance to the illicit love child of Mario Lopez and Patrick Swayze), every man must be on top of his professional game in order to keep his head above the financial waters.

Few sectors of the economy are more competitive and crotch squeezing than marketing. A slightly incorrect application of wit and scientific research could mean million dollar losses for a major marketing firm, and certain homelessness for its non-blowout-sporting employees. For a douche bag to rise like so much silky smooth cream to the top of the marketing crop, he must follow a few simple rules:

German Engineering
It is a scientific fact that Germans are better at harnessing the power of steel and brawn than any other race—uh…culture on the planet (see: that issue of The Economist that is undoubtedly adorning your coffee table or toilet-side magazine rack as you read this).

Highlighting the fact that a product was made in Deutschland (not to be confused with DoucheLand, opening in summer 2012…Just three miles south of Hershey, PA!!!) immediately signals to the consumer that the product is hand-crafted and sturdy. Adding the words autobahn rated and low cost (unless preceded by the word hall) will certainly allow any product to outpace its competitors.

Chipotle
Before the late 1990s, the average American regularly confused the word chipotle with the ancient Mayan game wherein two teams of naked, painted warriors aimed to bounce a hard rubber ball through a small, vertically oriented, elevated stone ring using only their hips and elbows. In 2008, every American is wise to the fact that chipotle translates directly to more expensive.

Still, consumers have consistently proven that a company can insert this magic word in front of any product name and jack up the price by 50 per cent with little to no backlash. Case in point: Doritos’ Chipotle Ranch flavor outsold its ambiguously gay cousin Cooler Ranch by a ratio of 119,309 to 13 from June to September 2007. Also, after a Paul-Reubens-like fall from grace, toppled restaurant powerhouse Sizzler revamped its image by replacing its outdated moniker with the word Chipotle…and by serving its hodge-podge of crap on a tortilla in lieu of a wet, straight-from-the-dishwasher plate.

Organic
As with chipotle above, adding the word organic to any product automatically makes it sell 345 times faster than its synthetic, fertilizer-soaked alternative. As Americans irrationally dive headfirst into the swimming pool that is Going Green, this rule increases its effectiveness in all sectors of the economy. Products that before were not associated with anything remotely carbon based, such as metals or Hot Pockets, are fast becoming extremely popular with their new first name. Coupling organic with the word free, especially when in close proximity to the word arsenic can increase sales even more.

Vince with ShamWOW!
This rule could also be titled Hands Free Microphones, but that’s another chapter. Sure, Vince has the disposition and creepy eyebrow movement of a bridge troll…and he sounds like he could be running the ring toss booth at Wildwood (that hands-free microphone would certainly come in handy)…but this guy could sell riverfront vacation property in Myanmar!!! Too soon? Rumor has it that Obama for America tapped Vince to replace Robert Gibbs as its Director of Communications. Barack is now required to bring a can of cola and a carpet square to every campaign event.

*Sorry women, the glass ceiling in this industry is prohibitively low. If you really want to break into the advertising world, try learning the subtle differences between French and Italian roast coffee. Failing that, seek advice from the chapter on “Dating” and learn how to lure an unsuspecting marketing executive into legally binding nuptials.

It's the Economy, Stupid!

Sure, that guy sitting in the cubicle next to you at work is annoying. We all know him: his iPod is so loud he doesn’t realize people can hear him drumming on his desk and singing every third line of Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” in a nasally, falsetto whisper. It is true, The Handbook could devote an entire chapter to Desktop Divas, but a douche of even bigger proportions has arrived on the world stage. His name is Prices.

This week, Prices vaulted six spots to number two on the list of biggest douche bags on the planet. Take a look at the Top Ten (first place votes in parentheses):

1. Brodie (193)
2. Prices (25)
3. Sidney Crosby (2)
4. Voldemort
5. European explorers
6. R. Kelly
7. That guy at Clarendon Ballroom last weekend who sidled up to the bar and bought a drink for the girl I was clearly hitting on…and he was wearing those Cole Haan driving mocs I saw at Nordstrom the day before but couldn’t afford. They were like $300! I guess that douche bag had enough cash…he sure was flossing it last weekend…douche…
8. Snidely Whiplash
9. Karl Rove
10. That same guy from the Ballroom (see no. 7). I really wanted those shoes…dammit…

But this is not about shoes. It’s about Prices. Since 2007, Prices have cost the average American more money than gambling and Lindsay Lohan combined (smashing 2006’s record of just over $1,967,047 billion). And now, even as the U.S. economy is slumping, Prices keep rising.

Today, gas costs $4.00 per gallon, rice costs $0.21 per pound, and hiring a naked woman to clean your home costs $100 per hour. Even the price of corn is rising, which means in one week, your favorite Woodford Reserve Perfect Manhattan could run you $25.00 instead of $21.00. It is truly a tragedy. No, there’s no bigger douche bag right now than Prices, and things going from douche to douchier. But, judging by a recent interview with DBH, Prices doesn’t seem too concerned:

DBH: You’re approval ratings have hit an all time low, yet you’ve continued your meteoric rise this past year. What keeps that smile on your face?
PRICES: Well, it’s true. Pretty much everyone hates me. But it’s hard not to smile when you make this much money.
DBH: Do you have any fans at all?
PRICES: Of course! John Hofmeister, the president of the Shell Oil Company, invited me to his private floating yacht/island/waterpark/leper colony for Spring Break. We had a great time drinking fresh-clubbed baby seal wine out of panda skulls. I got to pet some of the lepers, too. With gloves on, of course.
DBH: That sounds amazing.
PRICES: Yeah, it was awesome until the velociraptors got out of their zone and then one of the dilopasauruses spit all over my Prada boat shoes.
DBH: Wasn’t that in Jurassic Park?
PRICES: Yes, he owns three of those as well. And a Wendy’s.
DBH: So you pretty much just hang out with rich people all of the time.
DBH: Pretty much. I’ve given up on poor people. I tried to go to Mali last year, but this really tall black guy got pissed off at me punched me in face. He broke my left orbital bone and I ended up needing surgery…it was a mess. He literally punched my face in. It cost me like $8,000.
DBH: Did you sue him?
PRICES: I didn’t sue him, but I got him back. Good luck trying to buy millet now, Moussa!!! [Laughs] Man…things like that remind me why I love my job.
DBH: Do you have plans for the summer?
PRICES: Actually, I’ll be working, but I have a big summer ahead of me. I’ll be in the US until July making sure people drop a C-note on a tank of gas. Then, I’m going to go skydiving with the American Dollar over the Alps. And I’m going to spend all of August snatching tortillas from the quivering, desperate fingers of young Guatemalan children.
DBH: Well, keep your hands off my chalupa!

Cable Television Series

They’re better than eating at the newest restaurant in town—that hot joint with the one-word name concocted by slightly altering a real word into a high society, faux Latin moniker like Trivium or Sequinox or Epatitus. They’re better than “out-greening” your co-workers by pedaling to work on a bicycle constructed of reclaimed 737s wearing a suit made from wheat grass and naturally shed (never sheared!) free-range alpaca lint.

Not only are cable television series hands down the trendiest of hot trends, they also satisfy the two Tenants of Trending: over-saturation of the market and a very low effort-to-respect ratio.

First, there exists a seemingly endless supply of critically acclaimed, ground breaking series from which to choose. First it was Sex and the City. Then came The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, Queer as Folk, The Wire, Entourage, Rome, The Tudors, Flight of the Conchords, Weeds, Californication…the list goes on! A 2007 San Diego State University study showed that the cable series conception rate (CSCR) in North America is on par with Amazonian deforestation, or as the study ominously phrased it, “Really f*cking fast!”

The CSCR shows no signs of letting up. During the time it took you to read this, HBO wrote, cast and filmed thirteen series including:

…The Bell Tolls
Starring former Saved by the Bell cast members Lark Voorhies and Dennis Haskins. Jolinda Negroson (Voorhies) is a paraplegic, single mother and truck stop waitress who falls in love with Mr. Felding (Haskins), her openly gay, HIV positive former high school principal. The two forge a symbiotic, yet legally unrecognized partnership and struggle to cope with the tribulations of an interracial, handicapped relationship in ultra-conservative and historically non-ADA compliant Brewton, Alabama.

Running Out of Time
Herman (Albert Brooks) is a down-on-his-luck bank teller who finds a magical track suit that allows him to jog into the future. Season two introduces late-80s phenomenon ALF as Herman’s futuristic talking, domesticated companion.

The Secret Diary of Madison Keller
An eye-opening look into the fast-paced, real world of Madison, a third grader from Hoboken, NJ. Season one explores “10 Fun Places I Would Go with Hannah Montana” and “Ew! Broccoli!!”

Second, to keep up with this hot trend requires just about as much effort as tragically confusing a Chi O. Merely alluding to the fact that you watch any one of the myriad shows is enough to give you credibility with your premium-cabled peers. Absorbing any details while watching a cable series is considered purely coincidental and immaterial to any discussion of the show with one’s associates. Take this actual conversation between “Tim” and “Mike” (names have been changed to protect the innocent):

Tim: Dude, I watched four episodes of Rome season two on DVD last night. It was f*cking awesome.

Mike: Aw man, I’m still on season one…what happened? No don’t tell me!

Tim: It was awesome.

Mike: Ok tell me!!!!

Tim: The big guy…you know…the general or emperor or whatever. I forget his name.

Mike: Yeah I know who you’re talking about.

Tim: Anyways, that guy totally destroyed like this entire army in Gaul or Africa, I think.

Mike: No way, that guy is such a bad ass.

Tim: And he cut this one guy’s head off with a huge broad sword…

Mike: Niiiiiiice.

Tim: and then there was an orgy and then Larry David talked to Richard Lewis for 20 minutes about men buying tampons…

Mike: Aw man…I can’t wait to watch it. Sweeeeeeet…

Tim: I know. [Texting girlfriend with explanation of why they can’t have sex that night]. Awesome…

Women

As the old adage goes, behind every douche bag stands a douched woman. Not only do women admire and adore douche bags, extensive studies show they also perpetuate their preponderance. Today’s society pays an inordinate amount of attention to douche men, but what of the women?

Not simply relegated to subversive supporting roles, douche bag women actively contribute to the douche culture; however, many people have trouble distinguishing she-douches from normal women. It is true that the traits of the fairer douche are sometimes hard to resolve with the naked eye, but by no means it is impossible. In some areas, female douche bags outnumber their male counterparts by a 3 to 1 ratio (see: New Jersey). One simply has to know what to look for:

Bag Hag
We’ve all seen her…the underwhelming girl treading water in a sea of horizontally striped, primary-colored rugby jerseys. As their name suggests, Bag Hags consort exclusively with douche bags, and their emotional bruising is only slightly less repulsive than the midriffs spilling over their tragically tight jeans; however, the relationship between a bevy of douches and their Hag is quite symbiotic. The douche bags project their anger and frustration upon the Hag to prop up their otherwise teetering self esteems. In return, the Hag gets double-teamed more consistently than LeBron.

Drink Minx
Ladies, do you honestly believe you can go to a bar and get free drinks all night simply because you wore your backless, sequined washcloth of a top? The answer, of course, is “YES!!!” As a matter of fact, a Drink Minx could punch a complete stranger in nads, break into his house, stomp on his NES (and his Contra cartridge), slap his mom, key his Honda, drink his beer and STILL get Bacardi mojitos (and Cran-tinis for her gurlz) until last call. What’s most diabolical is how the Minx uses her guile (and her Cleavage/Fake Cell Number Combo Strike) to avoid the courtesy blow jay that is normally preceded by at least three free drinks.

Bag-ette
Popped collar and windshield-sized sunglasses…‘nuff said.

Miss Mess
Calling this chick a functional alcoholic would be like saying Perez Hilton is just a little gay. Miss Mess kicks off the evening with a BAC of .10 and works her way up. Way up. She seems completely sober upon arrival at the bar/dance club/Wendy’s, but by 9:30, after a Smirnoff Ice, Miss Mess is on the dance floor (as the DJ is setting up) bouncing to the erratic pulse of the beat inside her head (more often than not, a truant nipple works its way out to wish everyone well).

With mussed, sweat-infused hair, Miss Mess throws her spirit fingers in the air and let’s out a long “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” This display of fertility, and a respectable arm-pit-shaving average (APSA) of .375, signals to the men in the bar/dance club/Wendy’s that she’s available for courtship, but by no means will she be easy. Though her outward appearance screams otherwise, Miss Mess is no more promiscuous than she is a contributing member of society. The evening's lucky winner will come to realize this fact as he attempts to determine where he can drop off the now unintelligible Miss Mess without committing a misdemeanor. The night culminates triumphantly with the gentleman struggling to aim the tear-soaked stream of Miss Mess' half-digested dinner out the half-opened taxi window as he reassures her that majoring in [bull-shit sociology discipline] at [any small liberal arts college in rural Virginia] was a smart decision.

Driving

Anyone making their morning commute on an interstate highway knows full well that douche bags are a very punctual people. The verve and determination of a bag ten minutes behind schedule counts among the most awe inspiring of phenomena of nature. The owl swoops in the blackness of night to pounce on the unsuspecting field mouse. The salmon struggles upstream against the raging current to spawn, and later, to perish. The douche bag swerves and speeds through traffic, coming within mere whispers of the cars around him.

To a douche bag, if you’re not four minutes and three seconds early you’re four minutes and three seconds late, and that is why every inch of space in front of a douche bag’s car is vitally important. But unlike other drivers that careen across the road oblivious to the consequences of their actions (see: “The Asian Handbook”, Chapter 6 “Driving: What is This Thing and How Do I Make it Go?”), douche bags are in full control of their vehicles at all times.

Bags have an innate temporal and spatial awareness that allows them to guide their alloy rims breathlessly around other cars. As with any master of his trade, however, a douche bag must always practice his craft. To improve your driving game, try these simple exercises:

• Duct tape a brick to your dominant hand. If you can’t shift, steer, tune the radio and flick off the mother of four in your rear view using only your free hand, how are you going to work the celly with your boys on the Hill to hit up Indebleu for some bottle service?
• Drive exclusively with your peripheral vision. Turn your head from one side to the other, always keeping your nose perpendicular to your direction of travel. Your central vision should only be reserved for peering into passing tanning salons and staring down slower drivers as you pass them from the right shoulder.
• Do calf raises to build up your accelerator muscles. If you aren’t hitting 45 mph from one stop light to the next 100 yards away, you might as well exit your vehicle and step into oncoming traffic.

Most importantly, a douche bag needs to have a certain attitude that allows him to own the road. To get the best insight into the mind of a driving bag, let’s listen to their words:

“I have places to be. I’m not satisfied until I’m so close to the car in front of me I can’t see their license plate.” Brodie L., Acura TL S, Cherry Hill, NJ.

“I have two gears: fast and faster. And reverse.” Jihan H., BMW M5, Chevy Chase, MD.

“What is this thing and how do I make it go?” P. Nguyen, Toyota RAV4, Annandale, VA.

“My Duke vanity license plate says, “DEVILZ” for a reason. I’m a f*cking devil in my Z and any minivan, Durango, whatever…they f#cking know it. Sometimes I’ll pass a soccer mom on my way to Gold’s, then I’ll get in front of her, slow down until she is right behind me, and then boom. I’m gone. All she hears is the f*cking roar of my aftermarket exhaust tip.” Chanceworth “Chip” K., Nissan 350Z, Potomac, MD.

Baseball

With the baseball season rapidly approaching, it is important that douche bags are properly prepared, no matter which team they support. Oh, you’re already prepared? You watched a spring training game? Big deal. You signed up for a fantasy baseball league? Cool…stop talking about it every five minutes. I don't care which sleeper you picked in the ninth round of your chat room draft, you are not prepared.

It’s not enough to check the blocks if you want to push yourself into douchedom. One has to go that extra mile, but it’s not difficult. Simply remember the three basic fundamentals:

1. Red Sox
2. Red Sox
3. Red Sox

Red Sox fans have been roll models for aspiring douche bags everywhere since 2004. According to the IRS, Red Sox Nation is the designated country of residence for approximately 2.5 million douche bags living in America. One striving to be more of a douche bag baseball fan can learn a lot from these pros:

Buy a hat!
A backwards Red Sox hat is the most efficient way to say “I am a douche bag…throw me another Sparks!” Be creative with your choice, as there are many variations from which to choose: camouflage, shamrocks, girly pink, Japanese character (that actually translates into “rice wine vinegar stored in a burlap sack”), and the tiny socks alternate logo instead of the traditional “B”. WARNING: Medical studies show that wearing a Red Sox hat can lead to increased eye beadiness, goatees, and other Downes-syndrome-like symptoms.

Talk the talk!
Go buy a copy of The Departed. After your initial Matt-Damon-bicep-induced orgasm, repeat all of Leo DiCaprio’s lines until your fake Boston accent is as unbelievably dog poo as his. For advanced training, supplement with Ben Affleck in Good Will Hunting. First, overuse the word “wicked.” Then, revel in your disdain for soft “r” sounds (i.e., “Matt Damon has a wicked hahd body,” or “Did you see Manny’s jack yestahday? It went like 200 yahds and landed the cah pahk!”). The Boston accent is the official language of Red Sox Nation, and thus, douche bags everywhere. Use it while you spew obscure statistics to unsuspecting listeners, but be careful to cite only statistics from the past four years. Statistics accrued before 2004 are obviously skewed due to the clandestine, government-led sabotage campaign that prevented the Sox from remotely resembling a viable baseball organization.

Manny!
Manny Ramirez : sucking at baseball :: Jesus Christ : remaining in caves for extended periods of time

What’s the relation? God flatly refuses to let it happen. Biblical historians proved Manny's close familial ties to Jesus decades ago. Thus, it is every douche bag’s duty to spread the word. No matter what you and your co-workers/friends/parents/legal counsel are discussing at any given moment, take time to remind them of the wonder and joy that Manny can bring to their hearts.