August 16th, 2009
The details of my last long term relationship (and the demise of it) provoked a lot more self reflection than usual. Yikes. Alas, in the last few months I have been open to (I hate this phrase) “getting myself back out there." Some of my friends have set me up. They suck at it. One of my girls wanted me to meet a guy in a band. That’s pretty hot. A mariachi band. OK. There really are only are a few careers in the arts that aren’t sexy and that’s pretty much at the top of the list..closely followed by ventriloquist and Revolutionary War reenactment actor. Second set up. The guy shows up in a black turtleneck and black pants. Guys. The only time you can get away with this look is if you’re a stagehand, mime or Phil Collins about to be photographed for “The No Jacket Required Album Cover.”
But none is more “not my type” than the douche bag.
Urban Dictionary has 201 definitions for douche bag. One of them is “Someone who has surpassed the levels of jerk and asshole, however not yet reached fucker or motherfucker.”
How about we use the word in a very short scene for further clarification?
Me: So yeah, this unjustifiably pompous gold necklace wearing Guido wouldn’t stop hitting on me.
You: God, what a douche bag.
So it seems that I have crossed paths with a lot of McDouches in the last few months. Let me preface this with the reality that I am not a man hating lady of the 2000’s. I LOVE you men. A lot. These douche bags are a very particular breed of men with over-inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intelligence. They’re running rampant in our bars, restaurants and my personal space. Definition # 16 poetically explains that they’re “basically bastards who flaunt their apparent status, when the status is an example of total bullshit.” Those of you that "get me" know that I quickly assess my potential suitor’s humility and sense of self. I’ve reached my limit. The next time I have a douche encounter I’m just going to tell him flat out that he’s not my type. Why? Because my type is Jesus.
I'll simply explain that J of Naz has an amazing amount of sex appeal. I dig the hair, the scruff, the sandals… he throws dinner parties.I fantasize about meeting him. I picture him working at a health food store in Seattle. I’d ask him where the Echinacea is. He’d glide me over to the aisle. We immediately feel an energy between us so we go out for a green tea and a gluten free muffin. He really opens up to me. He tells me that being able to walk on water prevented him from fulfilling his true dream of becoming a professional scuba diver. He finally reveals to me who his father is... but he wants to make it on his own. I'm in love.
We get married and we’re as happy as that overzealous idiot that was able to finagle a one night stand with a drunk sorority girl. What a douche.
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