4 Great Reasons To Think Like A Douchebag
Snooki. Paris Hilton. The Kardashians. The list could go on. We love to bitch about how The Jersey Shore, Paris Hilton, and The Kardashians are destroying the very fabric of America.
You might think they’re famous for nothing or that they don’t deserve what they’ve got. You’ve probably found yourself wondering, “Why them and not me?” You might even be saying to yourself, “I’m intelligent, hardworking, creative…AND I have integrity!”
So, what REALLY sets us apart from the dumb-as-dirt and rich-as-shit douchebags you see on tv? I mean, besides the fact that The Situation’s weekly mani-pedis probably cost more than my monthly food budget?
Here’s one thing you might not want to hear about the people we love to hate. We can learn a thing (or four) from them. It’s true, co-opting (and slightly modifying) a few douchebaggy traits can actually help you get what you want and/or need out of life:
4. Douchebags don’t know when their ideas are idiotic
Every single idea a DB has is brilliant in their own mind, or at the very least, worth entertaining. And if it’s not, they’ll never let you know. How often do you overhear some vapid snatchmonster shrieking “Like, ohmifugginggawd Shelly, we should totally have our own tv show” or “Dude brah, my life is so awesome, it should totally be a book.”
And then…THEY ACTUALLY DO IT. You see examples of this everyday when you scoff at the latest crappy sitcom that got renewed, or the coloring book that made it onto the New York Times Bestseller List. Quit talking yourself out of pursuing new ideas or goals because you think someone else will think they’re stupid. They might, but it really doesn’t matter.
3. Douchebags aren’t afraid to jump out of a plane without a parachute
Risk-taking. It’s sort of a thing for the average DB. Skydiving, steroids, barfights, HPV.
I’ll bet that none of the Jersey Shore cast members ever thought, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this. It’s a dumb idea and I don’t possibly see how this experience can enhance my quality of living. I’m just gonna keep living my so-so life.”
It’s pretty rare that anyone has a huge success without a few significant failures. Don’t be afraid to ignore risk like a douchebag (minus the risk that gets you herpes and stuff).
2. Douchebags don’t understand the word “NO”
When douchebags hear “NO”, they interpret it as “you’re not trying hard enough”. Take that approach with life (except with sex, because that’s rape and it’s NOT okay to be rapey).
1. Douchebags don’t see the “T” in “can’t”.
The word’s just not in their vocabulary. Mostly because they don’t really read or own things like dictionaries and thesauruses, but that’s not the point. Douchebags believe in themselves to a fault. As long as you’re mentally and physically able to give it (whatever IT happens to be) another go, you’ve really got no excuses. Especially since you’re smarter than a douchebag.
Some of your pursuits might fail miserably. Or the complete opposite.
But you never know in which order that will happen. 98% of groundbreakingly successful ideas failed the first 5 times around. That’s a statistic that I just made up, but you get the point, right?
So, go ahead. Just for a moment, take it in full stride that when your mom tells you you’re the best-looking, smartest, most talented individual to ever walk this earth, that it’s 103% true.
And tackle your goals accordingly. Be douchebag strong. Just stay away from orange tans, sex tapes, and blacking out on camera.
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Spam Counterattack
Fun With Spam
I recently got another typo-ridden scammyspammy email (probably from Nigeria) offering me a high-profile administrative job for one of the largest companies in the world. With awesome pay. No application, no interview, no experience relevant to the position. That HAS to be legit, right? You’ve probably gotten hundreds of these, they trickle in with the fake Rolex, Viagra, Cialis, and “Facebook of Sex” ads.
As I read it I laughed out loud and wondered how many idiots actually respond to these. It has to be enough that the senders feel it’s not a waste of time to keep sending them. Soooo, I decided to call on my inner idiot, respond to this dbag, and see what comes of it.
HERE’S THE ORIGINAL EMAIL:
From: John Mendes
Subject: *** Pepsi Company ***Online Recruitment Proposal.***
Your Ref: 2810/04/TG-ATX
Pepsi Company offer you the position of an offshore financial manager
Your duty as the Payment Officer / Book Keeper is to collect payments from our numerous customers within your region, process the payments, deduct 10% of the amount issued to you as your personal bonus and transfer the Balance to our Account officer whose information will be provided to you in due time.
This Job will not affect your current Job and can combine these Job with your Current Job.
This Job position is Temporary and does not require a specific work time frame. All payments will be mailed directly to you via your mailing /contact address. This position became necessary when lots of payments is being received from various customers from different regions / states within the United States and Canada per day and it became very tedious to process and sort, as a result of this, the search for representatives to sort / process payments on behalf of the company became highly necessary.If you are interested in this Job offer┘kindly get back with the following information written below as soon as possible:
** First & Last Name:
** Physical Address: ( NO P.O Boxes )
** Apt, Suite, Floor #:
** City:
** State:
** Zip Code:
** Cell Phone #: Home Phone #: , Work Phone #
** Age:
** Nationality:
** Current Job:
Thank you very much and we anticipate your working with The Pepsi Company.
Sincerely,
John Mendes
The Pepsi Bottling Jobs
Computer Systems Division.
www.pepsi.com
AND HERE IS MY RESPONSE:
Re: *** Pepsi Company ***Online Recruitment Proposal.***
To: msyteryworker73@aol.com
Dear Pepsi Bottling Jobs Computer Systems Division head honcho or honcha:
Damn your title is so long. That is crazy thats a real division. I would like to thank you very much so for your generous job offer. I am very excited that you have thus far made this offer, especialy because I have no job experience, no educations, and no skills, at least that’s what Blockbuster video store told me the last two or five times i have applied there. Also I have never traveled outside of **** California so thank you very much. This job will give me the opportunity to travel to new and exciteing places like Fresno and finally get my GED and buy all my baby mommas the studio apartments they have always dreamed of. Or at least pay rent for one month and buy some hungry man TV dinners.
I think I will make a good payment officer because when people owe me money for drugs they always pay up before i have to send my boys to their house. I assume you will provide me with weapons to collect the payments with. If not, it is totally cool. Because I know people. Now when you say I get 10%, that means you already know what the 10 percent is and that amount is what i take out? Or is it that i collect the funds and then I take out money and tell you that whatever I took out is 10 percent of what I say they gave me? And also like as, I am a very trustworthy person. And i assume I get a sick ass company car, preferably a range rover or an escalade. If i have to drive a car with pepsi stickers or paint on it, i only ask that you provide the bitchez because the ones i like will not ride in a whip with a pepsi paint job.
NOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW…that is cool that i can make my own hours. When does my company credit card arrive, and i will also need an account at the versace store, as i do not feel i can properly represent the pepsi company in lesser clothing. now my shoe size is 17 1/2. so you may need to order me custom dress shoes. of course they will match the versace in expensiveosity.
My name is Francis Deluca. And I look forward to drinking so much free Pepsi in my new car.
UPDATE: It’s been 48 hours since responding and I still haven’t heard back from them. Keep your fingers crossed, Francis really wants this job!
Unplugged: One Mom’s Crazy Anti-Tech Experiment
I read a story recently about a woman in Australia who “unplugged” her family for 6 months. A household devoid of cell phones, ipods, internet, etc. Apparently it led to her husband getting off his lazy ass and going back to music school (which was probably where he went to surf online for extracurricular entertainment of the naked lady variety). And the kids, they learned how to do things like play outside, and listen to mp3s without headphones. Or maybe it was records. Nope, I’m pretty sure it was mp3s by way of the computer in the family study, courtesy of a Boss surround sound system.
Then there’s the youngest daughter, who took advantage of the fact that the e-ban wasn’t effective outside of mom’s house. She moved in with her dad (mom’s ex husband) for the duration of the experiment. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure all the kids were having overnight “study dates” at friends’ places a few times a week. This was probably a common exchange over newspaper and coffee on weekday mornings:
“Holy cow, young lady! Did you just get home?”
“OMG mom, get over it!”
“Did you just say OMG? Oh no…please don’t tell me…you were online, weren’t you?”
“Um, nooooo! I was over at Tyler’s place getting pregnant.”
“Oh. Whew, that’s a relief.”
And yes, I’m absolutely certain this woman uses phrases like “holy cow”. Anyhow, mom wrote a book about the whole debacle, and time will tell how well it sells. It led me to consider what my life would be like without my smart phone, internet, Pandora radio, and the like. And then I realized it probably wouldn’t change that much. So I’d have to use paper maps, pen and paper, read newspapers, write letters, get a landline…essentially a lot of trees would die a horrible death, my phone calls would always be clear and I’d always be late.
My point is, I’m not so much of a tool that I have to deprive myself of life’s conveniences in order to understand how lucky I am to have them, or to know that I could live without them if need be. I don’t need to fast for a month to know that there are starving children all over the fucking place and I ALWAYS eat all my vegetables. As a kid I never had a computer, cell phone, or internet until I could afford to buy it all by myself, so I spent more than the first half of my life “unplugged”. I’ve survived “real” camping (even if I hated every minute of it). I work out several times a week. Yep, I’d manage a digital apocalypse pretty well, and if worse comes to worse I can even outrun or fight a zombie army. They can eat the guy tethered to his MacBook Pro. And then I’ll steal it from him. Man, those things are gorgeous.
An exercise in lofty literary pretention
The Monster Called
A post-modern biblical fairy tale
Mindmeldcollaboration with Joy Crouch
PART I
I awoke, and in the oven the pre-Raphaelite psychotic abandoned did wait, with it’s hands of blood and mouth of cottoncandy laden deceit, did speak of the grand master plan, premiering exclusively at Disneyland.
The shopping carts of spam spoon fed to the masses so warmed and satisfied their hunger, that those bound could not tell that foul horrific meal fed to them would soon lead to death by severed eye balls and bleeding spleens, brought on by the pounding bassline of exploded eardrums. Such death was relief for the fools.
As well, the elves rampantly bake cross-hatched cookies under the light of the subwoofer calendar roses. The monster did call, and the cackling howl of his apprentice spoke of the candor that lay ahead with the rotten recalled beef. The giddy horsefly roamed mercilessly over hills of fire and spoke of days of shoehorn butter queens, seething with porous shackled lumber wolves.
The monster spoke of a time of old where bulldogs did scamper with their gray beards, being cherished by sounds of slumber, fostered in the false trust of the golden time of gayeity. Simple sugar prom sweethearts ate scolding quantities of sodomized roast peace, while strolling barefoot over broken juniper trails, as the leaden calf bawled helplessly over spiced spaghetti-o’s and green basketball rice patties, afraid it might soon discover the meaning of veiled emotion. The monster did call.
The happenstance assault transported me within seconds to a hellish land known only as Banana Republic, where I was made to feel as though my brain was coming to an end. A letter in my hand, I read its contents “No cash refund will be granted!” in red bold letters.
Someone wished me ill in sending me such a correspondence, as reading its intent made the bile flow forth and stain my newly tanned feet. (Tanned by the sun, and not by the White Man. I believe the Man is an associate of the White Man.) And so I fled. Cuban cigarettes lined the streets, and as I glided past them, and at one point Castro himself, I ran into the Chancellor of the BBC as he sat and had tea and daffodils with the Queen of the Oppression, with whom he was in bed the same morning warring over the tainted menstrual blood of the circus. I wept at the sight of it all, knowing in my heart that by sundown they’d be dead, and the masses would come skipping through the streets with milk bones in their teeth and a song in their heart.
A cul de sac, reminiscent of the demons of the County of Orange. “I have to get out of here at once, ” I spoke incoherently to the uncanny DJ with snack biscuits in his bag, and he smote the Queen and the Chancellor with his whimsical boombox, and just as he did the sky turned purple and it was 5AM. “Why did you take them in such a way?” I prayed the DJ. “Because the blood of the savages was upon them, and the world could not bear me if I did not free them of their crimes.” …“I’m with the DJ!” I screamed. And the monster did call.
As the Man who lacks Pigment did creep, and crack over the lack of season fall leaves on Sunset Blvd, a violent clash was heard, that could only be interpreted as a missed phone call on the virgin mobile hotline, on one of the thousands of frantic search engines.
PART II
Trip tramp, creepeth the snake, who since the beginning of time had begrudged the common man of a grilled rib-eye steak.
This wisdom he spoke:
Platform shoes are inspiring, while tennis shoes are worn by the ignorant who enjoy farmer boys, jumping jacks and rusty staples. Books can be burned and gender learned. Running down the Hollywood mystic hallway, Man learns that his heart is broken by the wasting away of the landfills that will result only in the sickness of the cab drivers, and the staleness of the sky, and the foulness of the Blockbuster.
“Why in the world must we be alone, if one is to be entertained by a corresponding partner in the worlds of misgivings and gestures?” the Man asked.
I cried, “Because with it, the infliction of the merriment, that is to be learned can no longer be efficient, without your very own muse to murder yet comfort you, silly BitchBoy. Now take off those hot pants, shake that ass, and work it for the cub master with the polaroid hoisted over his shoulders.” But he had left his hotpants at home.
Leave the fishnets, dear boy, and work it like you need that acid for your morning supper.” I said, as I tipped my beret, and kicked off my fur, mermaid coat. And so he shook it, made the acid, and in turn put in his contacts, and slept like a baby on a timber wolf farm. In my lap he slept and and I curled his hair, made of needles and corn husks, and when he awoke, he announced that I was to be his built in machine of flesh. I declined, faring him well, and confiscated my curling iron that had by now burned his poor needle crown. I did not esteem him, and neglected his scorn, deeming me a machine, and not a mound of DNA.
The pig laughed as I left the wolverine garden, but when I genuflected toward the sun of my dream, the Man had come round to my back, seizing my iron, and rendering me slothful and steamy. “This is to be the harold of my houndstooth trousers, and all the white horses will gather round the bank to rescue me from the harbor, as this hot little number shall rull the base class.” My pearls fell from the sky, I caught them and strangled the Man.
At times it seems as though green nickels and dimes can indeed be changed into black dollars, but such is not the case when the cackling of the Texans carries on into the night.
“No cash refunds will be granted!” Screamed the Man from the apex of the Walmart superstructure. The base was chained, and laughed in false merriment, and manufactured folly, while the 13 year old harlot saved the day with a chili dog and a frown. She waited at Starbucks with the CEO, smothered by her Black side, and put down by the caucasionoid DNA that bled and tainted her SAT score. Gremlins accosted her, and demons attempted in vain to cut her Indian steed, but in the end the CEO had her in a vice, fit only for the likes of a chocolate mondrian who loves mushroom gravy.
The response rendered was one of self-loathing, combined with the true spirit of shallow, sugar coated shit being injected into the masses of “sheep”. The herd questions not what is being given, but instead what kind of hot dogs are being simmered, and what time Mother calls for dinner…”with onions please!” they cried. And the beat went on… thumping one by one the panthers and the clowns of old fought over the remote control,
Yes, as always, Father Knows Best and Mother sleeps and tumbles while still the biscuits burn and the gravy is not yet made.
The monster called on the day of old when the new ones had come out and seen the horror of the world being swallowed up with ranch on the side. Such horrible events need not be recorded when the masses indulge themselves in such muck daily. The pigs cry, the man screams, the baby chuckles maniacally.
As well, still, the elves rampantly baked cross hatched cookies under the light of the subwoofer calendar roses.
No cash refunds will be granted
Even in exchange
Even in exchange
A W4W Guide To Creepy Craigslist F*cktards – Vintage FC
by Faith Choyce
I occasionally surf Cragslist for fun. Because my life is that productive. I have that much free time on my hands. Actually I don’t usually have any free time. My affair with CL occurs in short, brutal stolen bursts of craziness, like sex in a bathroom stall when a very large woman wearing leather from 1987 really has to pee and keeps pounding on the door. It’s fun while it lasts, and often amusing, but when it ends you feel like you really should have kept a mini bottle of Purel hand sanitizer in your pocket for the afterglow.
CL is a very guilty pleasure of sorts and a source of amusement in the “man, are people really THAT stupid/ignorant/desperate/horny/angry/illiterate/insert unflattering adjective here” sort of a vein.
So we come to the W4W section, and…daaaaaang!! Whooooda thunk it? Not a W4W in sight. Lotsa guys looking for a “surprise” for their girlfriend/wife/unwilling-chained-in-the-basement captive who doesn’t know that she is bisexual. But mostly, losta creepers pretending to be hot desperate coeds looking for a great time. Followed by frantic warnings from gals who thought their ad sounded sexay and ended up responding, only to find out during the inevitable “for some reason I like you despite the fact that you type like a 13-year old girl who has somehow been reading poorly-written erotica from back when the internet was only two colors and we really should get to know each other better” phone call, that the original poster is indeed a creepy-to-the-hilt and possibly escaped death row inmate of a straight guy.
That being said, I decided to do my “good deed for the day without leaving my chair” and came up with a way to help those poor, misguided souls who fall for these understudied imposters and their ever-so-wittily worded pleas for close encounters of the lady kind. I called it:
How to spot a creepy guy who may also be a serial killer in w4w postings:
1. OP includes an EXTREME close-up freshly-waxed dripping vajay shot, and the picture was taken with remarkable, almost photography studio-like lighting with a 10 megapixel camera with a telephoto lens.
I mean, seriously, is that how I’m supposed to recognize you when we meet for the first time at Starbucks after we email and talk on the phone and I decide you’re worth my time? Well maybe on the phone you’ll say, “I’ll be the one ass-up on the table by the window with my pants on the floor, spread-eagled with my cut-off cardigan pulled over my head. OKAY? TTYL!!! 
” By the way, did anyone tell you the curtains don’t match the carpet?
2. OP uses an inordinate amount of exclamation points, cheesy innuendo, numbers to stand for letters,and has forgotten that their CAPS LOCK key is on. For example: “HEY!!!!! MY NAME IS SSSSINDY AND IM LOOKING FOR A HOT, STR8, SEXY YOUNG COLLEGE GIRL TO CUMmmm OVER AND PLAY WITH ME BECAUSE I LOVE LOVE LOVE GIRLS!!! NOW!! OKAY??? I NEED IT BAD! yummmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!!! L8ERS!!!! ”
Guy, guys, guys. Stop taking your clues from the Playboy Channel’s, “Diaries of a Naughty Schoolgirl”. No vagina-owning individual actually types this way, not unless they’ve suffered multiple concussions or they’re in junior high and they’re pretending to be older to pick up on balding, overweight loser older men who hang out online pretending to be 20-something, attractive Miami-Beach personal trainers. Oh wait, so THAT’s where you guys have been.
3. OP emphasizes again and again, “NO GUYS, NO MEN, NO DUDES, NO DICKS, COCK-A-DOODLE-NO”. Not to mention the grammatical atrocities and horrific typos. Oh, gods save me. Like in this one:
HELLO GIRLS,
I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE SEX AND ENJOY TONIGHT AT MY PLACE FOR ONE NIGHT. I’M HISPANIC, 23, 120, 5’8. I HAVE BEAUITFUL BODY SLIM & SLENDER. I HAVE 4 TATTOS AND ONE TONGUS PIERCE.I’M VERY SWEETIE, FRIENDLY, SMILE AS BEAUITFUL. I’M STILL WAITING STAY UP. I’M NOT PLAYING GAME I’M SERIOUS I’M 100% LESBIANS! I WILL SEND U MY PICS AFTER U SEND ME UR PICS.PLEASEEEEEEEEEEE NOOOO MENNNNNN!!!!!!!! PLEASEEE ONNNNLLLYYY WWWOOOMMMEEEN!!! THANKS XOXO PRINCESS!
OK, we get it. You’re a dude, and you’re sick of dudes responding to your ad with dick pics. Just know that’s what you’re gonna get, because you think alike and that’s ALL you’re gonna get when you post a billboard-sized dripping snatch shot or pancake-y areolas.
4. OP uses words like “quiver”, “juicy”, “succulent”, and “shiver” in a post that begins, “Looking for A Friend”.
Bad erotica does not an interesting post make. Sorry guys, it’s true.
6. OP describes themselves as any combination of three or more of the following: hot, young, blonde, bored, college student, size 0 waist and 36 DD, “slime” and slender (again the obvious typos are often a dead giveaway).
If you really are that HOT, YOUNG, BLONDE, and in college then you have no shortage of fellow HOT, YOUNG, BLONDE girls and guys to bang it out with.
What we learned from all this:
In short, it was a hit. Surprisingly, I even got a few responses from hetero bio-dudes, who claimed that they were lurkers but never posters in W4W and got a kick out of it. Though I’m pretty sure they were lying and used it to collect a few tips.
Yes, there were the angry women who claimed that I was letting men in on secrets and making them better at deception (who may have been angry men pissed at being exposed who were pretending to be angry women who are too stupid to sort out the truth from the lies).
Either way, I say I’m just contributing to the intellectual well-being and integrity of CL, no matter how minuscule that change might be. Because fake ads will be there whether you like it or not.
Wouldn’t you rather they weren’t nauseating to read?