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.