1. A small syringe for douching the vagina, esp. as a contraceptive measure.
2. Informal An obnoxious or contemptible person, typically a man.
So, it begs the question. Why would you want to be either version of a douche? Neither choice is particularly appealing. You could be a vaginal bathing unit where what comes out, based on common sense, is much more than what goes in. Or, you could be a complete asshole. Personally, I think if the second variety of douchebags were forced to become the first variety in human form, they might change their ways.
Let there be no mistake. Douchebags are taking over. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds. It’s time to join forces and teabag these jerks. Call them on their crap. Expose them. Use Minnie Mobley’s recipe and make them Mud Pie. Feed them vaginal soup.
So, without further adieu, I would like to introduce you to the first of what will certainly be many douchebags that follow.
I initially encountered Mr. Chucklehead about 6 weeks ago. I don’t know Mr. Chucklehead’s real name, and if I did, it would probably be really dumb on my part to post it, so let’s stick with Mr. Chucklehead.
First, let me paint a mental picture:
Our paths first crossed at the parents’ meeting for youth volleyball league. He was standing across the room. He stood there, rubbing his scraggly beard. Let me just say that beards are really no more than facial pubic hair. Please don’t make me watch you rub down your facial pubs. Otherwise, next time I shave myself bald, I’m going collect the wiry stubs and sprinkle them in your coffee.
Getting back on track. In the beginning, I focused on the coach, but I couldn’t ignore Mr. Chucklehead milling around the circle of parents – darting forward and backward like a psychotic hummingbird as he buzzed his way around the circumference of the circle. Then he came up behind me and stood so close to my backside that the toes of his muddy black leather work boots pinned the back of my rubber slippers to the floor. For a second, I stood still, thinking this really can’t be happening. The only person that should be that close to my backside is Mr. Gorman, and that’s only when it’s the third Thursday of every month that starts with “J.” Finally, I had no choice. I popped my shoes free. The country bumpkin looks at me and says, “Sorry,” but makes absolutely no attempt to back it up a notch.
Then came the coach’s rules:
“Our girls are to show class on the court and nothing less. No chants or cheers created to intimidate or degrade the other team will be tolerated. Parents have equal expectations. No yelling or shouting at any of the players, and absolutely no coaching of your kid or any other. Any questions?”
Mr. Chucklehead moves to the other side of the circle of adults. “Yeah, do you lead like a group prayer before each game?”
Let me stress, this league is NOT affiliated with any church or religion. As a matter of fact, any one of us parents could be an atheist, afflicted by Tourette’s syndrome, and into swinging with other couples and snorting a little crack when the time feels right. I’m not saying that I fall into that category, but at least I demonstrated enough self-restraint to not ask if we could all swap underwear before each game.
My point? I don’t impose my values upon you, Mr. Chucklehead. How dare you impose yours upon me? And I don’t want to wear your whitey tighties. Ever. You’re a skid mark kind of guy . . . I can tell.
Then came the first game. Some desperate mom pled with the crowd for a volunteer to be line judge. Mr. Chucklehead’s hand shot straight up.
Mr. Chucklehead gets a hold of the red flag. The whistle blows, the game starts, and so does his mouth.
“Geet dat ball girls!”
“Dive for eeet!”
“Come on, geet in the game!”
“You can dew it! Hit ‘er hard, over the net!”
“Girls, you got this. Put ‘em down. Geet on the board.”
It. Was. Relentless.
He yelled when our girls were serving, OUR GIRLS, effectively breaking their concentration and costing us points. He yelled when our girls during the time outs, making it impossible for them to concentrate on the coach’s guidance. He yelled when I silently prayed for a stray bolt of lightning to pierce through the ceiling and light his beard on fire.
Parents from the other team were cringing and rolling their eyes. I actually apologized to several of them for his behavior. Whatever class and sportsmanship our girls demonstrated on the court, he effectively abolished, and then some.
Next game . . . same classy performance. It felt like Groundhog Day on a really bad acid trip. I had two goals. Don’t strangle him, and don’t allow my skull to explode.
So, class, let’s get back to the lesson at hand. What makes a douche?
1. Pubic hair on your face. A well-trimmed beard is acceptable, but if a family of fleas is nesting in that patch of yours, you’re a douche.
2. Imposing your personal beliefs on others or attempting to do so in any way shape or form.
3. Invading personal space.
4. Seriously invading personal space.
5. Assuming very explicit and well-defined rules don’t apply to you.
6. Talking like a country bumpkin.
7. Personally coaching your kid at any sporting event.
8. Fucking up your own team’s performance because you are such a douche.