The Douche Bag Handbook

Wildly American

2009-10-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-18T01:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-01-15T08:15:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-09T10:55:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-05T15:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Gifts

2008-12-17T10:15:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-25T15:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-18T13:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-25T08:59:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-13T12:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

“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

2008-07-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-11T15:28:00.000-07:00

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*

2008-06-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-05-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

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):

Brodie (193)
Prices (25)
Sidney Crosby (2)
Voldemort
European explorers
R. Kelly
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…
Snidely Whiplash
Karl Rove
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

2008-05-14T17:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-04T07:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

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:

Red Sox
Red Sox
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.

Dating

2008-03-17T18:53:00.000-07:00

There are few things more universal than man’s pursuit of a woman. The driving force behind this pursuit, however, varies greatly among different cultures and, within each culture, across socio-economic strata. Human males plod clumsily down the path towards love in search of affection, appreciation, intimacy and companionship—a soul mate, if you will. The douche bag, however, pursues the opposite sex only to satisfy the singular requirement of his emotional and temporal being:

Bombs.

Tits, fun bags, boobs, ta-tas, cans, the girls, the twins, the Ying-Yang Twins, Mary Kate and Ashley, Maggie Moos, Wilson Phillips, Laverne and Shirley, love pillows, sweater puppies, Las Chupacabras, The Little Mermaids, the other other other white meat, God’s Push-Pops, balloons, melons, bazookas, Smurfs, Snorks, jumblies, jigglers, chin bangers, warlocks, ski jumps, torpedoes, jugs, hooters, chesticles, the Doobie Brothers…The douche bag vocabulary for the female mammary glands is extensive and possibly more important than geometry.

To douche bags, the size and gravital defiance of a woman’s breasts is paramount to anything else a female can offer. After breasts, the prioritized list of desirable female features (from most desirable to least) is as follows:

Wealth (real or familial…measured in millions of dollars)
Breasts
Attractiveness
Absence of gag reflex
Emotional apathy
Shoe size
Culinary skill
Compatibility
Intelligence

Because douche bags do not waste their time with emotions or intellect, they are adept at finding inexplicably hot women with enormous breasts. To win over his quarry, a douche bag relies on such instinctual weapons as repetition, bold statements, and an ability to ignore pretty much everything women say. Take a look at this transcript of an actual conversation recorded at famed douche bag haunt Liberty Tavern in Arlington, Virginia:

DB: Sup? My name’s Brodie, what’s your names?

Girl 1: I’m Madison.

Girl 2: I work for a non-profit.

DB: (to Girl 1) My name’s Brodie. You look like you could use a Crantini.

Girl 1: Umm…ok…

Girl 2: I’ll have a Blue Moo--

DB: (turning his back on Girl 2) Have you heard of I-Banking? Those furry Ugg boots really make the rest of you look skinny by comparison! My name’s Brodie.

Girl 1: I like Crantinis because it’s like eating fruit which is healthy and I get drunk, too!

DB: I know, I have a big Con Law exam tomorrow, but I figured they didn’t give me that huge bonus so I could stay in and read books all night, right? My name’s Brodie.

Girl 1: Beer makes me fat, and I can’t drink vodka because I did once and I threw up all over my oversized designer purse.

DB: When I was in the Peace Corps in Moldova, they didn’t have any purses…but the hope in those children’s eyes finally showed me that there was some shred of decency in this world.

Girl 1: [texting her “gurlz”]

DB: Why don’t we go back to my high rise apartment and I’ll feel you up on my red Ikea couch? After that I’ll completely erode your self confidence while I string you along for the next eight weeks because of my acute fear of commitment after enduring my parents’ messy divorce as a small child.

Girl 1: Can I develop an eating disorder?

DB: Sure!

Yes, the douche bag is a crafty animal. After ensnaring his mate, the douche bag will go to great lengths not to let his significant other feel important. If the female gets a false sense of security, or the feeling that she’s in a relationship at all, the douche bag will immediately become distant and develop a sudden “Kickball/Flip Cup League” habit.

After all, a douche bag must keep his priorities in line. Remember, the only things more important in life than huge bombs are different huge bombs.

Genesis

2008-03-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

For thousands of years, douche bags roamed the earth unchecked, sucker-punching their way through history. Pontius Pilate…Napoleon Bonaparte…T-Rexes…Aaron Burr…Jared from the Subway commercials…These seminal figures ran roughshod over social mores and common manners. Until recently, they relied on short-lived trends, calculated language, and sheer numbers in their (often successful) attempts to influence the color and shape of the social fabric. But that was recently. This is now.

When peer pressure failed to keep hordes of flannelled twenty-somethings from throwing tiny rocks in the general direction of the World Trade Organization’s (WTO) 1999 ministerial meeting in Seattle, douche bags across America stood up and took notice. The preponderance of horned-rimmed, letter-writing, collared-shirt-under-sweater-wearing Metrosexuals in cities across the United States was beginning to threaten the livelihood of douches everywhere. Though notable exceptions existed (see: New Jersey), areas once teeming with distressed jeans and popped collars were found to be devoid of even one John Mayer fan.

A 2006 study conducted at 31 major universities confirmed this fact. High fives per hour (h5/h) plummeted 38 percent in the 10-month span between Super Bowl XXL (1,984) to the premiere of “Scary Movie 4” (753.4). In the same year, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) reported 46 percent fewer alcohol-related automobile accidents involving Nissan 350Zs, the largest decrease for any douche bag preferred vehicle (DBPV) since the Mercury Cougar was discontinued.

The precipitous decline of douche bags across America led to a national crisis. In early 2007, President George W. Bush signed a presidential directive creating the Center for the Preservation of the Socially Dominant (CPSD). The directive charged the CPSD with studying the apparent uncontrollable decline of douche bags in America. But the CPSD would not stop there. Awash in federal funding, the CPSD would go on the offensive. The group sought to develop a strategy to combat the trend leading douche bags on a collision course to complete extinction. The CPSD brought together in one room representatives from such preeminent douche bag organizations as Accenture, FOX News, the New York Yankees, and the Chevrolet marketing team that created the “Our Country, Our Truck” ad campaign.

Their goal was to combat emerging sociological trends. After countless hours of research, hundreds of surveys, and three shipping containers filled with sugar-free Red Bull, the CPSD published a treatise that would back-hand emerging sociological trends in the testes. That book will be reprinted here in its entirety.

This is The Douche Bag Handbook.