I am pretty ignorant about Superhero inventors, but I would bet on this amazing slice of Johnny’s Pizza I’m eating right now that men invented the majority of them. How could they know the ultimate sexy fighting warrior in spandex did not fight crime with her wrists and big tits? It is pretty clear Wonder Woman can’t get shit done because all her superhuman powers are being used to fight off the Douche Bags, that’s right.
Maybe a gay Superhero, Mr. Awesome could show up as her sidekick, but they tend to get sidetracked with shiny materials, a shame, gay Superheros are so a century overdue.
Spiders, Jokers, Gigantic Green Men called Hulks, so what.
I would rather be caged with an Avatar not on my side smoking a crack pipe in a teeny wrestling ring then be spotted by the common Douche.
Even my poor mom, a NANA, got cornered by Grandpa Douche, telling her at the bus stop he can pick up 40 year old women. Get real people, we need more than blue elastic skin, lightning eyes, and pointy tits to fight off the common Douche. You could put a paper bag on Wonder Woman’s head, wrap her in a Snuggie, and the Douche will still find a way, so back to the drawing board Superhero writers, Douche Baggies need Wayyy more than a belt and a push up bra to be kept at bay. This is not my first rodeo and I have had some fine tuning in Douche determining and eliminating school, and I still find myself throwing my hands up in the air, DOUCHED again, this weekend a perfect crime fighting fail.
I had a lovely night on Friday with Harpua, discussing with a bad ass chick on his balcony her infuriating encounter with the pool Douche, a man who was NO LIE, on the DR. PHIL Show about DOUCHE BAGS, a guy who went to an Ivy league school, who can’t find anyone smart enough to hang out by the pool with, a statement he yells over at her, which by the way, he also mentions he has his own modeling agency, of course.
I laughed till my sides hurt at little Miss Cowgirl from Auburn describe these models with track marks down their arms, her disgust over his constant harassment finally coming to confrontation. She said she lifted her self right off the pool chair, her top forgotten not on, to wave her pretty little finger in the air, her Southern drawl in full effect.
“Hey honey, you really don’t think girls from Auburn can be smart, do you?”
She took a long sip of her beer for dramatic effect. He called her sweetie, said that Auburn was fine for people who loved football, that he had a Marketing degree and this is my favorite part. I made her tell me three times.
“Sweetheart, I am a Nuclear Fuckin’ Chemist,” she says with fire, flipping her long brown hair, her lip gloss shining as bright as her infuriated eyes, and she is, in fact, a brilliant scientist with brains and nice breasts.
She loves getting in the elevator with him, her husband giving her a look, which she doesn’t care, glancing over at him, her eyes saying, “Your penis is absolutely teeny.” Instead she says rolls her eyes asking him, “How is the pool?”
We need more of her, and I don’t have nuclear chemist brains, but I do have big boobs, so I have to fight with what God gave me, which is sadly, a lot of experience. I met up with Mr. Confident after he sent me a message on face book that said, “You are way too beautiful to be single.”
Now, I know this is total grounds for Doucheness but I remember him to be sweet and completely harmless in high school, now writing me about my blog, the impact of losing a loved one, and so, my heart strings rattled for of course, just one drink.
Little did I know the man was twice the size of my bedroom door, and had just came off the set of the 80’s sitcom, no lie, Joey Lawrence, down to the chin drop and signature, WHOAH, breathing God’s fresh air with his mouth dropped open while his eyes lost in space. At least, I thought, until I saw it was the GA game behind me.
Honestly, he reminds me of Joey from “Friends” now that I think of it, his Doucheness was especially skillful, so I was on red alert, aware his mental handicaps could appear adorable if not watched carefully, and he had in fact a real head injury, so I needed some Super Woman help here. She must have been at Auburn, cause she sure as hell didn’t show up at Taco Mac.
He began by asking me if I knew across the street from his house there was this place that was a bar that had a lot of, wait for it, good wine. He said it again, much slower.
I pointed out to him we were at a bar with wine right then, my head cocked in my own, “Really?” a signature head cock of the Super Woman Douche Bag Destroyer.
He hit his leg, laughed, showing dimples as enormous as his pecs. He then told me this unbelievable story. His last relationship had been going great, an Australian woman he picked up in a t-shirt shop, and said that they had gone out and had some fantastic sex.
He said I wasn’t going to believe this next part.
He got drunk, sent a text to come over for a hundred dollars, and she actually ripped him a new one, said he had treated her like a prostitute! He took a sip of his beer, shaking his head, signaling the “Crazy Woman” head shake.
Bat Mobile Back UP.
Say what? I then asked the two lovely women at the bar next to me to hear a story about my friend, one who had taken a girl out, had sex with her, who then preceded to text her later to come over for a hundred bucks. Then, that same man told the story to a woman on their first date.
Oh, Super Douche Bag Fighters, it was a win, a hilarious win, and he got an earful, a glorious earful, not to mention the Braves were on, not the Georgia game.
I gave him the short list on our way out, which he laughed, saying this is why everyone tells him he is single.
His “STORIES” about receiving and sending texts while receiving a blow job, one about being broken up with after on a “break,” he sent a text saying how hot this chick looked that morning. His girlfriend replied saying, “You didn’t see me this morning.”
He is a HUGE fan of my blog, but has never heard of Rob Dyrdek, but my favorite was him asking me, “What did you think when you saw me, sitting over here, on the bar?”
I told him he looked like a man sitting on the bar.
He asked me what I was looking for in a man, and I was almost about to answer, but he either got excited or had a nervous tick, waving at the hostess, calling her over to tell her she was doing a great job.
“Confidence,” I was saying, as he turned to me, his eyes on the big screen.
“I don’t have that,” he said, his hands cutting across his throat to signal no way, not at all.
I am still not sure if he was being serious.
It was kind of funny and authentic, a word I love so much I said enough for him to comment, something I have been told before, a quirk of mine, being I do love the dang word.
“You love saying, what is it, Authentic?” He must have asked six times.
It was then when he was driving me back to my car, the beers in my system, that my fine tuned skills appeared from either experience, DNA, or just being a smart ass.
“You are hot, baby,” pointing to the curve of my neck with his finger.
“Really?” I said it sweetly, pulling my shirt off the side of my neck with one finger, letting one bra strap fall down, and then the next, “I will give you three chances to see this if you can answer one question,” I said leaning in, his face locked. He suddenly got serious.
“What is my favorite word?”
He beat his head against the steering wheel, thought of Awesome, Intuitive, and Awesome, again.
“Authentic.” My straps felt tight back around my shoulders, and in spite of it all, I laughed at his reaction, telling me it had to have been the brain injury from his coma.
Maybe I am not a chemist, but I think I did okay.
I used my breasts and big words, the only material they clearly gave Super Woman, and she wasn’t even around to save me.
- Douchebags (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
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- Sex And The City: 4 Women You Don’t Want To Emulate In Relationships (urbanbellemag.com)