Wildly American

There are few things in this country that can be considered truly American. Much of our culture is obtained rather than organic: traditions pillaged from native peoples, transmuted from horrific tragedies into benign and nostalgic coincidences; identities ferried across the Atlantic in steerage, lulled to slumber by the melancholy lilt of a violin and a warbly Irish brogue; family values and carbohydrates forced northward by a slo-mo invasion of pioneers caulking and floating en masa* across the Rio Grande—kind of like the Oregon Trail, only you start out as a banker, but end up tarring roofs with seven of your amigos in Hagerstown, Maryland for $40 and a ride back to Home Depot.

The “American Culture” in which we are immersed today is not exactly American. It’s a mix of Old World, Far East, Sub-Saharan and Jewish traditions, whose spice and vigor have melded over the centuries to create a stringy fondue now celebrated almost exclusively on Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, and the MTV Music Video Awards.

There do exist, however, some things that are truly American, as nothing encompasses the spirit of this nation more than unnecessary investment of emotion, time and cash money on something that, besides pure entertainment value, does not benefit society in any tangible manner: sports.

Not all sports fit this category, mind you, for what is baseball if not a more marketable, logical version of cricket, a sport popular on every continent on the planet? What is basketball if not a less flamboyant, more horizontal version of the ancient game of tlatchli? A truly American sport would be enjoyed by Americans only. It would be so confusing its export to Europe, Latin America and/or Asia would be as comically tragic as thought of FOX ordering 13 episodes of a sitcom starring Michael Strahan and Carl Weathers because its executives thought the show would be good to pair with ’til Death. If a spin-off show that pits Brad Garrett’s subdued, baritone observational cynicism against the tribulations of marriage needs help drawing an audience at 8:30 on a Friday night, why even turn on the television?

Yes, American Football has solidified itself as America’s true pastime. It happened sometime between those forgettable years when large men made it OK to say “inject me in the buttocks” in a locker room and when hockey expanded into markets that haven’t seen naturally occurring ice since T. Rex was Phoenix’s most prominent citizen and started signing players with more Z’s in their last names than a Peanuts comic about Snoopy sleeping.

So how could football improve upon its already successful model? With the help of an unlikely innovation: the Wildcat offense.** Flashy and unexpected, the Wildcat offense successfully made the jump from college and spread across the NFL with the intensity of influenza molecules in a subway car crowded with the elderly and their infant grandchildren on their way to the zoo. Since Ronnie Brown of the Miami Dolphins took the first snap of an offensive game plan that dismantled the heavily favored New England Patriots in 2008, the Wildcat has re-energized football. It has simultaneously marginalized aging white pocket passers and given more athletic coughblackcough running quarterbacks a chance to succeed in the NFL without putting on a headset.

In reality, however, the Wildcat offense isn’t even an innovation at all. Newcomers to scheme often forget it is based on the Single Wing offense pioneered by none other than Glen “Pop” Warner as early as 1907, meaning this exciting new offense has been in existence since before WWI. Pop Warner, in his infinite wisdom, took a game that was essentially a three hour rugby scrum and turned it into something entertaining. Little known to the average football fan, Pop Warner’s fertile genius also gave birth to the shotgun formation, split-out receivers and, much later, the reverse cowgirl.

Yet that doesn’t stop college and NFL coaches and players from lining up to claim their rightful throne as the first to implement this “new” offense. Even Michael Vick, who should probably just be happy the offense wasn’t pioneered at the University of Georgia, claims to be the “original Wildcat”.

Creating and more successfully marketing inventions that have already been invented is what makes this country tick. The Wildcat is what ‘N Sync was to the Backstreet Boys. It’s what the ShamWOW is to the chamois, Pepsi to Coke, Dominos to Pizza Hut, the Snuggie to a backwards robe. Sure it seems a little confusing that defenses have a hard time stopping an offense led by a player with probably nine career NFL passes to his name (hint: he’s probably going to run), but until someone figures out how to make deep-fried C-notes*** a snack food reality, that is just what makes the Wildcat offense arguably the most American thing in America.




*wordplay!

**If there are any women still reading at this point, here is some background information you can use to impress your boyfriend or whatever guy is next to you at the bar in the Eli Manning jersey: the Wildcat offense is one in which the quarterback is supplanted in the offensive formation by a running back who takes the snap directly, thus creating the triple-threat option of running, passing or handing the ball off in any number of defense-confounding ways. It is called the Wildcat offense because it gained popularity in 2006 after the Kansas State Wildcats realized they didn’t have a viable quarterback and tailored their offense accordingly. If that primer didn’t help, just jump up and down in your undersized, pink jersey and say the phrase “God, it’s like Joe Buck doesn’t even have to try to be an asshole anymore.” You’ll be fine.

***Franklin Fritters anyone?

The Hierarchy of Cocktails

Though he may be dressed to the nines in his fitted Dirty English printed t-shirt and True Religion jeans—his oxblood Santoni slip-ons thumping a back beat against the pavement as he struts his way to the velvet rope—the archetypal douche bag requires more to properly equip himself for a Friday night on the town than clothes alone. These are times of uniquely euphoric economic disparity, when a heretofore run-of-the-mill douche, employed anonymously at a large defense contracting firm, can finally elevate himself above his peers in the financial sector. Thus, those that have it must flaunt it. To the extreme.

This summer, expensive clothes are passé. Any recently laid-off Wall Street schmuck can dust off a Thomas Pink tie and throw it under a spread collar from Banana Republic, hiding the fact that he was recently forced to trade his 34th story flat in Manhattan for his childhood bedroom in his parents’ split-level on the outskirts of Manassas. For a legitimate bag to enjoy the cream’s view of the milk below, he must concern himself not with what’s on his labels, but what’s in his hands. Every well weathered cougar or Bag-ette worth her salt can and does instantly judge a man by the impressiveness of his cocktail, based on this strict social hierarchy:

Level One: The One Trick Pony
Fueled by their precious, freshly unwrapped freedom, recent college graduates and divorced males alike waste no time upon entering their favorite watering holes. Thus, they dispense with pretense and order the most basic drink a bar offers: straight liquor. Utilizing both verbal and visual cues, they cleverly buttress their order with anywhere from three to nine extended fingers (these douches roll deep) to make sure the bartender understands they didn’t go out alone tonight. Not like last Friday. At times preceded by a Price-is-Right-esque glance back at their wingman, they shout their order with confidence: Five shots of Beam! Six GM shots! Chaz, what do you want? Four shots of Patron, chilled, biatch!
The upside: Speed. Without the drag coefficient of sugar and carbonation, one can enjoy alcohol’s warming embrace in a mere matter of minutes.
The downside: Loss of control. Though often voluntary, the drawback of starting the evening with shots requires even the most fastidious douche-on-the-prowl to abandon his strict 7:1 pie-to-thigh ratio.

Level Two: The Captain and Coke
This second-most-basic level of imbibitions entails the sweet synergy of spirit and soda. Jack and Ginger. Beam and Diet. Goose and Tonic. Drinks in this category are favored for their orderability—their names roll off the tongue as smoothly as the names of any girl born after 2005: Keandra, Mikayla, Dakota—and provide an illegal, but un-whistled moving pick between that special blond in the tube-top and the harsh reality of waking up to you the next morning. No harm, no foul.
The upside: Reliability. A douche is certain to find at least one combination of these drinks at any bar he patronizes.
The downside: Plebian. The Captain and Coke falls well short of the sophistication that 47-year-old divorcee at the other end of the bar requires.

Level Three: The Marketini
Thanks to a false sense of intelligence instilled by decades of targeted marketing, any respectable douche bag claims to know a thing or two about quality and tradition (and Marc Ecko). Thus, he is constantly reassured that vodka—a spirit with a centuries-long history flowing from the earliest days of the Middle Ages past the banks of the Vistula to the Steppes of Russia—wasn’t perfected until 1992 when a Dutch distillery finally introduced its also ran European brand to the American market. Yes, the same conglomeration of provinces that brings you the tulip and one-third of the world’s cucumbers is also responsible for Ketel One (now effectively owned by Diageo, the behemoth that also owns such distinct brands as Smirnoff, Crown Royal, Jose Cuervo, Captain Morgan, Tanqueray, Hennessy, Dom Perignon, Baileys Irish Cream and Goldschlager). Nothing says, “I recently thumbed through the three nude spreads in this month’s issue of Playboy Magazine” like ordering a $12 Ketel One Martini, extra dirty, straight-up.
The upside: A touch of class. Ordering Ketel One straight-up gets you a debonair martini glass to swirl (pinky up) while you discuss such sophisticated topics as “This Witch Hunt Against Manny is Just Another F*cking Democratic Plot Cooked Up by Al Franken and his Cronies to Distract America from the Exploding Deficit” or “Holy Sh*t Look at That Girl’s Boobs”.
The downside: The taste of ass…? The Netherlands may be better at growing tulips than distilling vodka, but who would know? Try substituting Aristocrat in your next Vodka Cran and see if you can tell the difference. (Hint: if you can, you’re an asshole.)

Level Four: Bar-bituates
Ironically, peering down from its pinnacle atop the list of sought after alcoholic concoctions sits a non-alcoholic mixer: the energy drink, specifically Red Bull (unless you’re from Maryland, the only state where ordering a Rockstar and Vodka doesn’t get you punched directly in the mouth). Mixing the urine-colored, carbonated upper with its alcoholic foil is sweeping the nation like a cigarette-butt-induced wildfire, freeing the inhibitions of co-eds and cougars from Dewey to the Dakotas, from Tallahassee to Walla Walla. And just as the Talon was the flagship of Eagle’s sport coupe line-up, the coveted Jagerbomb is as close to caffeine-laced alcoholic perfection as it gets. Simply ordering one announces to the world that a third-degree douchebelt is in the room, so any guy looking to trade knuckles should probably just turn that Red Sox hat back towards the front and return to his table of friends-that-are-girls talking to him about the problems they’re having with the guys they do have sex with.
The upside: Endless Love. Free from the bonds of alcohol’s repressive depression, a douche is able to roam the streets indefinitely as he seeks to a) corner an unwitting quarry-in-formal-shorts, b) punch the guy behind him in line at jumbo slice, or c) punch this guy wearing formal shorts.
The downside: Tender Heart. Literally. That’s not just another Lionel Richie song. Your heart might explode.

The Science of Spring Fashion

There are very few things in life that can cheer a young man’s gloomy, frost bitten, late-winter disposition than a sunny spring day: the crack of a baseball bat slicing through anticipatory silence, the smell of cut grass lilting gingerly in the air…the boobs…

Yes, each spring—as if part of some Pagan offering to whatever animistic entity bestows a bountiful harvest upon the humble inhabitants of this land—women shed clothes faster than a flaming Bobby Labonte after a 12-car pileup. They trade sweaters for sundresses; pants for formal shorts; Ugg boots for delicate sandals or sometimes more Ugg boots (to lesser amusement).

As not-very-acclaimed British astronomer and wizard Henry Percy remarked one particularly bright spring day, blinking wearily after hours of observing the sun emerging and retreating from behind the nimbostrati: “As the sunne goeth, so goeth the tattie-pies.” Using the parlance of his days, Percy waxed poetic on the plunging necklines he observed during the warmer months of the year; yet, there is more to this concept than mere philosophy, bloated as it is with ideas and conjecture.

It’s science. Centuries of research have proven an inverse relationship between the amount of sunlight per day and the amount of fabric society requires for a woman to cover her desirables. The resulting equation is written thusly:

s + c = k,

where total sunshine (s), measured in minutes per day, plus the total area of clothing worn (c), measured in yards of fabric per $100 spent at Anthropolgie or a store of equal urban hippyness, is constant (k).* As one increases, the other decreases in kind.

The formula above is useful in explaining the springtime phenomenon known in scientific circles as (s)Undressing. By taking this example further, mathematics can also be used to derive a woman’s overall desirability using a few simple variables:

a = [(t+s²)(w/b)] - h / [ (1-2^1/2)d]

At first blush, this formula may seem a bit complicated, but after a brief explanation, its simplicity is revealed. Overall attractiveness (a) equals the total area of exposed thigh (t) plus short-shorts (s²) multiplied by the ratio of waist (w) to butt (b) minus herpes (h) divided by the female irrationality factor (1-2^1/2 ) times intoxication (d).

It should be noted that mathematical formulas relating to fashion hold true only for women; mathematics has yet to explain the mystery that is man. Consider the following simplified equation:

t + s² = a

As explained above, exposed upper thigh (t) plus short-shorts (s²) contributes to a very attractive ensemble. However:

(t + s²)/p ≠ a

When exposed upper thigh (t) plus short-shorts (s²) is divided by penis (p), it does not equal anything remotely attractive. This is known as “The Jorts Phenomenon” whereby an erstwhile attractive article of clothing worn by a female, in this case a stonewashed pair of Daisy Dukes that leave very little to an eager imagination, becomes legitimately disturbing when worn by a male (click at your own risk).

*This equation is not to be confused with the Beauty-Brains Postulate (B + b = k) used to explain the absence of all creative and constructive thought emanating from extremely beautiful (and not formerly obese) women.

Acknowledgements: Dern and friends, TJHSST, and women in sundresses everywhere. God bless you.

Ask a Douche Bag V

Dear DBH,

As a more-than-casual baseball fan, I’ve been following the World Baseball Classic (WBC) somewhat closely. After watching just two of the five games Japan played against North Korea, I have arrived at a conundrum of personal and national proportions: The true power center of baseball, a sport born and bred in the United States, has now clearly shifted to the other side of the globe. Not only was Team USA completely outclassed by its Asian counterparts, but American fans treated the entire event with the same interest and passion as the season premiere of FOX’s new television series Lie to Me (which may already be cancelled). I mean, a semi-final, elimination game pitting the defending WBC champion Japanese team against a resurgent Team USA failed to fill even half of the stadium…IN LOS ANGELES! It was a freaking home game for crying out loud. The next night, the thrilling, extra-inning championship game (featuring two Asian teams) filled not only Dodgers Stadium, but stadiums across Japan and North Korea, where the game was broadcast live via satellite (even with the day and a half time difference).

Am I wrong in interpreting the seeming indifference Team USA and its fans displayed towards an international showcase of America’s Pastime as a sign of America’s declining world hegemony?

(Also, it’s been over two months since the last DBH post…what’s the deal? I always figured whoever wrote The Douche Bag Handbook had no discernable social life and could post whenever he or she wanted.)

The Biggest "Douche Bag" Fan,
Ichiro SUCKS-uki

Dear Biggest Douche Bag,
First of all, DBH refuses to respond to criticisms of its social life lobbed haphazardly by someone with so much on his or her plate that he or she was able to dedicate any amount of time to watching the World Baseball Classic. In fact, DBH didn’t see any such person at Shadow Bar last weekend where DBH reserved a table and bought not one, but two bottles of Goose and was totally spitting all sorts of game at that one girl, Denise…or Dana or Danica or something…whatever…the brunette with that half-leather-jacket thing and the skinny jeans who totally would’ve gone home with DBH if her bitchy redhead friend hadn’t done nine shots of Patron and passed out in the bathroom.

The situation to which you are referring is not new. Every twenty years or so, Americans must be reminded of the tireless work ethic required to keep this country atop its rightful throne as the most badass nation in the history of the world (consistently edging out the Roman Empire which, while technically existing before the birth of the nation-state concept, remains the only recognized empire/tribe to methodically and radically adjust the pH level of another empire/tribe’s soil as part of an unbelievably over-the-top show of force).

This cyclical American lethargy is known as the “Gung Ho Phenomenon” after the 1986 cult classic film Gung Ho starring Michael Keaton as the fun-loving, mid-level manager of a flagging American car manufacturer recently bought out by its Japanese competition. Keaton must convince the new Japanese management team sent to rescue its acquisition from financial insolvency not to terminate all human life inside the Hadleyville, PA manufacturing plant and replace it with so many efficient and non-health-care-requiring robotic arms. (Check out the sequel to Gung Ho coming out this summer! Current working title: Detroit: 2009.)

Sure, Americans are reaping every bushel of the get-rich-quick, under-educated, under-motivated, and under-funded oats we have sown over the past twenty years, but there is something the rest of the world is forgetting. This nation thrives on something more tangible and wonderful than the dogged work ethic of its citizens: the dogged work ethic of the legal citizens of other countries (namely Mexico and Asia).

It is the very absence of a functioning work ethic and, consequently, the image of a universally enjoyed, worry-free American Dream incorrectly inferred by millions of potential immigrants huddled around their AM/FM radios in every corner of the world, that keeps America going strong. Without creating such an enticing ruse, America could never attract such a hard-working class of illegal aliens and would most certainly crumble into something that resembled a third Canada (the second being actual Canada, which is considered inferior to the idealistic, humorous Canada portrayed in the ground-breaking sketch-comedy series SCTV of the 1970s and early 1980s.)

Thus, as Gung Ho has taught us through the magic of the silver screen, when the going gets tough in America, the rest of the world will swoop in to the rescue, reluctantly spark budding friendships with their American counterparts made awkward by vast cultural and language gaps, have a couple cases of light beer, close the plant after the inferior American workers fall two thousand cars short of the agreed upon quota required to keep the plant alive, but then finally realize that the Americans’ desire to want to succeed (without actually accomplishing any of their assigned tasks) is more important than a viable economy.

So don’t you worry, my jingoistic friend. This kind of thing happens all the time. In fact, in about six years or so after the Asian baseball teams grow jaded from constantly housing their North and Latin American competition, they will forget the true meaning of baseball and will become disgruntled with their uptight, old-fashioned managers. The “Mr. Baseball Effect” will then sweep across Japan wherein its men will attempt to grow thick, bushy mustaches and its women will try to convince any Caucasian male that a soapy is a celebrated part of Japanese culture.

-DBH

Seminal Moments in Douche Bag History

January 20, 2009 will be forever known as one of the most historic events in recent history: the inauguration of Barack Obama as the first African-American president of the United States of America. In light of such a watershed event, it is only fitting to reflect on other, similarly important events that helped shape the world as we know it:

Quintilis 1553
Improving upon the recently invented printing press, Johann Gutenberg’s son from his second marriage, Kyle Gutenberg-Stevens, develops predictive movable type (then referred to as T-Nein) cutting the time it takes to print one copy of the Bible from eight months to a paltry six. Predictive movable type would later fade from mainstream use when its speed is eventually outweighed by its inaccuracy, as seen in the abundance of unintelligible verses peppered throughout rare editions of the Bible printed using the method: “Genesis 1:12- And the earth brought forth grass, and herb wielding seed after his line, and the used wielding fruit, whose seed was go itself, after his line: and God saw that it was home.”

December 1787
Originally known as the Province of East Anuss, New Jersey is reluctantly invited to join the newly created United States after it walks up behind Delaware and Pennsylvania talking about the big cask party South Carolina is throwing at Independence Hall for Virginia’s birthday. Delaware really didn’t like New Jersey, but it had a crush on Connecticut, who was best friends with New Jersey’s roommate, Georgia…so if New Jersey wasn’t invited, Delaware knew it had zippy chance at getting its Constitution ratified that night (unless Maryland showed up).

September 1853
Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony–wait…Susan B. Anthony–found the Women’s State Temperance Society of New York to combat rampant domestic violence and lollygagging stemming from the abuse of alcohol and other kindred narcotics. The Society is short-lived, however, as New York women discover that enjoying drinks purchased for them by moneyed and eager young bachelors improves their comparative sagacity, phrenologically speaking, and increases vitality. Later that summer, offering to buy a woman a cocktail is made popular by J. Z. Patterson at his Forty-Forty Club* in New York City, as he deems every Wednesday to be "Ladies Night" during which time any dram or jigger purchased for a lady "is to be sold at fifty per-cent of its originating pryce."

July 1935
Paul Sperry discovers that imprinting the soles of his boat shoes with a herringbone pattern, rather than the traditional hound’s-tooth design, improves traction when walking along slippery brick paths of university campuses in the American Northeast, especially when reinforced with madras.

February 2004
Stalking officially becomes both legal and socially acceptable (if not expected) as Facebook merges cautiously onto the Information Superhighway. Photo tagging destroys the political aspirations of an entire generation.

January 2009
Disgraced Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich quietly replaces his controversial appointment to the U.S. Senate, Roland Burris, with conveniently homonymic, NFL wide receiver Plaxico Burress, citing their shared fondness of brazenly flouting established penal codes and the inability of "those f*cking WASP motherf*ckers to tell the difference between two [African-American males]. You f*cking feel me, dog??? Ima get paid, bitch!" During Burress' rocky first week in office, he is arrested for illegally carrying a motion and sets the record for most bills introduced during one session after "making it rain" on nine-term Senator and President Pro Tempore Robert Byrd (D-WV). Senator Byrd would later describe the ordeal as "confusing and tiring."

*Forty-Forty, of course, referring to 40N-40E, the geographical midpoint between England and the United States. A popular political slogan at the time, "Forty-Forty or Fight," demonstrated America’s resolve to keep British warships on its side of the Atlantic, lest all out war be waged.

Ask a Douche Bag IV

Remember to send your questions to DBHandbook@gmail.com and have them answered (anonymously) on the Internet!

Dear DBH,

You know what's really annoying? That's not the question. When you are running on a treadmill at the gym and a d-bag gets on the one next to you and engages you in a treadmill speed war. I'm a girl, and seeing as you are taller, in better shape than myself, and male, you will probably kick my ass at speed (although I will still be running on here when your pansy-ass wimps out in 15 minutes). But it's not like I am just going to get blown away by your stationary speed and keep my slower pace and look like a slacker. Oh no. But really, I also wasn't planning on breathing this heavy at the gym. Maybe after, but not now. Anyway, how can I not compete with the d-bags at the gym and still win?

High five and a fist pump,
A. Winner


Ms. Winner,
(I’ll assume from your body image issues and your passion for competition—not yet dulled by years of acquiescing to incorrect answers shouted by your spouse at previously recorded episodes of Jeopardy—that you are not married. ‘It’s the Sistine Chapel, not the Sixteen Chapel,’ you’ll scream inside your head while taking a long, slow sip of your Coke Zero, swallowing it along with your feelings of anger and remorse.)

While your situation may seem intractable, it is not. To borrow a line from the Academy-Award-winning 1994 tour de force Speed, when life presents a challenge you cannot overcome no matter how hard you try, shoot the hostage.

That’s right, shoot the hostage.

And if that advice seems confusing and misappropriated, as if the author committed prematurely to a movie from which to quote (only to find it woefully lacking), rather than finding a quote to fit the question at hand and then citing the movie from which it came, you’re missing the deeper meaning.

Trying to beat a douche bag at the gym is like punting to Devin Hester or waging a land war in Asia—it’s just not a good idea, and you’ll more than likely end up sweaty and embarrassed. Like the current conflict in Iraq, and the misunderstanding in Vietnam before that, you’re trying to defeat an adept and well supplied adversary on its home turf. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from those two conflicts it’s that the only thing sweeter than absolute victory is changing the definition of victory with a series of incremental, purely symbolic and Pyrrhic successes achieved over an interminable period of time.

So what do you do? Don’t try to beat a douche bag at his own game. Change the game:

Start a gym-wide rumor that How I Met My Mother was abruptly canceled after Neil Patrick Harris left the show to star in a one-man, off-Broadway adaptation of The Sisterhoood of the Traveling Pants that is basically just an hour of NPH dancing alone on stage in tight fitting jeans while humming the I Dream of Jeannie theme song …to himself.

Remark aloud that for years you thought Georgetown Prep and Landon were different names for the same vocational school located in Prince George’s County, until you found out last week that they were two completely different vocational schools located in Prince George’s County.

Turn every TV in the gym to the Hoosiers-Rudy-Brian’s Song-Invincible Saturday afternoon marathon on USA, then hide the remotes and count the number times every guy in the gym clears his throat in an effort to disguise the fact that he is crying.

Bring a bottle of vitamins with the label removed to your next workout. Whenever you see a guy wearing a “Property of [Big Ten school] XXL” shirt finish a set and strike up a conversation with a girl, walk over, hand him the bottle and say (loudly), “Excuse me…I think you left your Valtrex at the lat pull-down machine.” (Use a Sharpie to write “HERPES PILLS” on the bottle for a more realistic effect.)

Or simply forgo competition and revel in the fact that no matter how fast any guy can run on a treadmill, come Saturday night his impressive muscles and horse-like stamina will always be outweighed by his Zoo York Battle Reversible Camo hoodie and his bad gin-and-tonic breath.

...and he will probably buy you a drink…

You win!

-DBH

Something Wicked(ly Awesome) This Way Comes

Once every four years, a miraculous force marries the grimy oil of Washington politics with the murky water of the District’s underground social cistern, two otherwise immiscible entities, into one breathtaking emulsion known as the presidential inauguration.

Inauguration Day has changed greatly over time. For example, the quadrennial to-do was originally celebrated on the Fourth of March. Then, in an apparent nod to the lack of presidents dying of pneumonia contracted during their inaugural addresses, the Twentieth Amendment was ratified in 1933, which moved the inauguration into the heart of winter on the twentieth day of January (which moved Italian-American Appreciation Week to the last full week of April, until it was replaced two decades later by Administrative Professionals Week).

Contemporary inaugurations have also adopted a different tone from that of their predecessors. What was once a grave and cautionary ceremony, infused with the immutable eloquence of Washington and Lincoln, has morphed into a debauchery-filled weekend replete over 50 balls and galas that make the ending dance sequence of Footloose seem about as exciting as a Wes Anderson denouement. Beginning during the cocaine-fueled days of the Reagan Administration, the three days surrounding the actual inauguration have been officially confiscated by bow-tied, patent-leathered douche bags from every corner of the country, with good reason.

To a douche bag, very little in life is more satisfying and rewarding than an inaugural ball, as it fulfills up to 80 percent of his or her top five personal goals of any given calendar year, which include:

5. Being tangentially associated with a political figure or entity of minor importance.
4. Drinking 12 glasses of champagne during a weeknight event that isn’t New Year’s Eve or immediately preceded by a regularly scheduled kickball game.
3. Splitting a Panera Asiago Roast Beef sandwich with Jeremy Piven.
2. Watching Lindsey Graham do the robot to “Love Lockdown.”
1. Combining the words “tuxedo”, “K Street” and “balls” into the same Facebook and/or Gchat status message (without also using the words “homeless guy” or “feelings of self-doubt and remorse”).

But with opportunity comes the burden of choice: Which ball to attend? Wing tip or cap toe? Escort or ex? And what of pocket squares?

Fear not, douche bags, as you are not alone in the labyrinth of confusion and frustration. Take this actual conversation overheard at the most prestigious of douche bag haunts, the Liberty Tavern, re-printed in this medium with false names to protect the innocent:

Jordan: I can’t decide which ball to go to this year, dude. Last year I went to the Kentucky Colonels Society Gala at the Hay-Adams, but I lost my plantation tie at Foxfields, so I don’t think they’ll let me back in.

Chris G.: That’s too bad, that was a strong tie. I’m still trying to decide between the Arkansas State Society Ball at the National Press Club, or the Meineke Care Care Ball at Bank of America Stadium.

Jordan: I’m not sure that’s a ball—

Chris G.: —I was reading about it today and it sounds pretty money…they typically invite the #6 seed from the ACC and the #3 seed from the Big East…so…s’gonna be a lot of people there.

Jordan: [fist pounding bar tender] I just picked up my tux today.

Chris G.: Yeah, I need to do that. What did you go with?

Jordan: Pretty standard…I got a midnight blue tux, matching bowtie, wing collar shirt…I read in GQ that you want to aim for something between T-Pain and George Clooney. Nothing too fancy, but nothing boring either. I’m having trouble finding a leopard-print top hat though…

Chris G.: I think I’m going to go with the shawl lapel, but with a solid-colored silk tie rather than a bowtie. I want something that says, “I’m spontaneous and nonchalant about my attire, even though I clearly know what a shawl lapel is and made a conscious decision to buy a jacket that has one.”

Jordan: Yeah, girls definitely dig shawl collars. I read in GQ that Megan Fox refuses to have sex with anyone who wears Sketchers or peaked lapels.

Chris G.: I found Transformers unrealistic and overly saturated with special effects.

Jordan: [texting on Blackberry Storm] God, Becky just won’t leave me alone…

Chris G.: Have you tried opening up to her? You should tell her that you’re at a point in your life where you don’t really want a relationship. I’m not sure stringing her along is the healthiest situation for either of you.

Jordan: Well, I was going to tell her that, but then she gave me a smoker in the car ride home from salsa lessons…so…

Chris G.: Maybe it was Shia Lebeouf in a lead male role that turned me off to the whole concept of the movie before I could buy into it.