An Open Letter to Douchebags

Hey guys,

I know we've had a longstanding agreement: we look the other way on your obnoxious repetition of played-out catch phrases, your unwarranted, unjustifiable arrogance, your "my job is so sick I can afford to dress like an eight-year-old on his way to church camp" fashion sense, your ceaseless misogyny, and your penchant for failing so miserably in your business endeavors that, eventually, the entire economy is impacted massively by the arrogance and irresponsibility of you and your cadre of asshat frat brothers. In exchange, you treat women so poorly that, eventually, even the bumbling ineptitude of the everyman seems somehow quaint and charming by comparison. Anything's better than Tucker Max, right ladies?

Well, I hate to break it to you fellas, but it's getting harder and harder to look the other way. We've been holding up our end of the bargain, piecing back together the broken lives of the women you've humiliated, but your behavior has grown exponentially worse as, inexplicably, you continue to land great jobs and date gorgeous women. The appeal of the Douchebag is perhaps the most mystifying development of the 21st century. But I digress.

If we're going to keep cleaning up your mess, some things are going to have to change.

Flip-Flops in the Fall
We get it. They're less complicated than shoes that require lacing and tying, and wearing flip-flops in a public, non-beach, non-communal-dorm-shower situation says, "hey man, I'm just a guy who likes to chill. The fuck. Out!" That's fine. If you want to dress those bad boys up with a pair of fashionably worn ("Hand-frayed by real Chinese children!") jeans and an almost-but-not-quite-ironic pink shirt, go bananas. But, once the temperature drops from 75 to 45, would you mind joining the rest of us in employing footwear that protects our feet from the elements? I'm not saying you've got to wear something as mind-boggling as a pair of boots. God no. Throw on your yellow topsiders and call it a day. Just, for the love of all that is holy, stop displaying your dirt-encrusted feet while the rest of us are preparing for Thanksgiving. There's a time and a place for everything, boys. Learn it.

Uncomfortable Public Displays of Homophobia and/or Homoeroticism
By now, we understand that anyone who doesn't want to take "Tough Man Tequila Shots" with you and your boys is a flaming homo and, of course, should be ridiculed mercilessly, and in public. Here's the thing though, guys: the only thing more gay than an actual gay is a man who is too insecure to admit he's gay and instead relegates himself to moronic epithets, followed almost immediately by a game of Texas Grab-ass with a few of his fellow bigots. That shit is soooo gay.

The Catch Phrase Corollary
A committed Douchebag will stick with a catch phrase for up to seven years after its cultural shelf life has expired. This is not an estimation, this is a mathematically proven fact. The equation is as follows: DB = CP-7, with DB and CP representing Douchebag and catch phrase, respectively. So, I'm just going to cut it to you straight, fellas. You're not Rick James, bitch. Nobody is anymore. Hell, even Rick James isn't Rick James these days. He's Rick James' corpse. David Chappelle's television show was hilarious, groundbreaking, and intelligent. Your repeated beating of a very, very dead horse is none of the above. If you really want to dig deep into the annals of played-out cultural phenomena, start screaming "WWHAAAZZZZSSZZUUUPPPP!!!" at your bros every time you enter a room. At least then you won't be desecrating the memory of something that was, at one point, legitimately entertaining.

Goatees
I've got to wrap this up, as I've got a very important sandwich to make, but before I go I'd like to make a simple statement about goatees. Goatees work (and I'm using "work" in the most generous sense of the word) on the following individuals: minor league baseball players, Anton Chekhov, Ming the Merciless. That's it. That's the list. So next time you're trimming your tickler, ask yourself, are you currently a member of the San Diego Padres farm system, the greatest short fiction writer in the history of literature, or a diabolical intergalactic warlord? If not, go ahead and run that Mach Three all along your adorable little face and step outside into a new world; a world where you're slightly less an abomination to everything decent and honorable about manhood.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled viewing of How I Met Your Mother.