Supposedly, Defenestration has found me so aspiring that they hired me to instruct you all on the wonderful world of fandom! This is going to be so feyzerbeam u guyz!!! After I heard the newz, i Got so excited I quit my job as a lobbyist and moved back home to live with my parents in Philly. Go Eagles!!!

My first job (other than to clean my room, whatever MOM), was to go to San Diego and report on ComicCon, which is the BEST EVAH OMG. But U guyz I was so Mad Daniel radcliffe was not there cuz he is my husband!!!!!

What I like best about ComicCon is THE COSTUMES!!!! There were stormtroopers and thor guys and women wearing duct tape–and CAPES! Check out my super-duper sofaisticated notes:

They also have this penned-off area with tables where the gamers live in a zoo, like they deserve. People were playing Magic, like with little cards!!! I tried to tell them that U can’t cast real magic from cardboard, cuz the two ARE NOT COMPATIBLE OMG SRSLY!!! But they’re total wizard n00bs and they just want to play pretend. Also, none of the cards were shiny enough! I would totally glitterize that stuff. Like FOR REAL WIZARDS!!!

There were vampires there, too!!! But scary ones. And they were lame bc they didn’t want to suck my blood. Not even on ice cream! Also? I TOTALLY SAW VOLTRON. He is liek, the hottest robot ever, because he’s made of kitties!

K, gtg! This Death Note/A Separate Peace crossover fic isn’t going 2 right itself!!!!!

–FAELUVER

*Editor’s note: Nope

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Faeluver, Defenestration’s Fancologist, is presently writing slash fiction featuring characters from Kellogg’s cereal or something. And they’re vampires. She occasionally falls asleep dreaming about being cradled in Tony the Tiger’s strong, muscular arms, and then he bites her and turns her into a weretiger so they can have babies.

You will recall that the wise men brought to the baby Jesus gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. What is not recorded is that Joseph and Mary were savvy investors. They sold the frankincense and myrrh for more gold and then invested that gold into bonds, which Jesus could cash in when he turned thirteen (the age of majority in ancient Israel). 

We know that when Jesus was still an infant, the family relocated to Egypt. Not so widely known is that, while there, Joseph and Mary got in on the ground floor of a pyramid scheme. Fortunately, on a tip-off from the archangel Gabriel they pulled out and returned to Israel before the whole thing collapsed. 

The gospels are silent about the next few years of Jesus’ life, but from biblical scholarship and archeological evidence we can surmise the family did quite well (Gabriel really was a first-rate financial advisor—better than Edward Jones and Chuck Schwab combined. His divine connections gave him an insider-trading edge). They enrolled young Jesus in a carpentry apprenticeship, a very lucrative market back in those days when not nearly as many things had been built yet. 

We have exactly one story of Jesus’ adolescence on record. The Gospel of Luke tells that when he was twelve, he wandered off and his frantic parents spent three days looking for him. They needn’t have worried: Jesus was already pounding the pavement (or the dirt, as the case may be) to “be about [his] Father’s business.” They found him in the temple, talking with doctors about short sales and high-yield commodities. 

After this incident, the Bible passes over Jesus’ teens and twenties. However, we can assert with some confidence that he established a thriving home furnishings business. Branching out, he also had some success with a winery that had incredibly low overhead. Around 28 A.D. there was a market downturn, but by this time Jesus was already semi-retired. He sold off his interest in the companies and embarked on a new career as motivational speaker/life planner/King of Kings. 

The rest is public record. He spent forty days in the desert planning his business model and getting to know the competition. One major competitor tried to sway him to come work for his well-established firm, but Jesus was nothing if not a rugged individualist and entrepreneur, and he flatly refused the tempting offer.

 After the forty-day cleansing retreat, Jesus pulled himself up by his bootstraps (or sandal straps, as the case may be) and set out to implement the first phase of his business plan. First he approached some independent contractors, saying “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”—thereby recruiting his marketing department. Within three years, his teachings were spreading throughout Judea faster than What Color is Your Camel and Who Moved My Goat Cheese. He preached the mustard-seed investment strategy; he applied compound-interest principles to the multiplication of loaves and fishes; he memorably demonstrated the power of being buoyed up by liquid assets.

It is well documented how Jesus’ treasurer staged a hostile take-over and tried to oust Jesus from his own corporation. This is when the brilliant business acumen of Jesus really shined—of course he knew what his junior partner was up to, and miraculously turned the situation to his advantage. He arose stronger than ever. Even board members who had denied him or written him off for dead came around, more loyal than ever. Despite heavy death taxes, he was able to leave an inheritance to his followers. 

With the cross as Jesus’ new company logo, the rest is marketing history. The business that Jesus established is still going strong. Two thousand years on, people are writing out checks totaling billions to Christ Conglomerate’s innumerable subsidiaries around the globe. 

Initially some scratched their heads at his willingness to heal and perform other miracles for customers who obviously could not afford to pay for his services. In retrospect it was a stroke of genius—the first century equivalent of free content to draw in new followers. 

Perhaps, if we choose the right words and re-invest the scriptures with conservative, capitalistic meanings, we will then be able to appeal to the Bible to show that the Invisible Hand of the market is the hand of God. Everything, even grace, can be bought and traded and sold. And, according to this new interpretation, Jesus was, and is, and always will be Lord of Lords and CEO of CEOs.

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Nicholas Ozment’s work has appeared in Weird Tales, Mythic Delirium, Dreams & Nightmares, The Smoking Poet, and numerous other publications. He once sent a koala–Pow!–straight to the moon.

You are absolutely correct to think that this season’s Top Chef being set in Washington D.C. is simply orgasmic because eventually we’ll get to see head-judge and co-host, Tom Colicchio, in a red-white-and-blue speedo with eager contestants ready to slurp a puree out of his bellybutton. Did you all see the episode the other week where the contestants were getting all rustic by cooking on a farm? You couldn’t help but feel the anxiety for the chefs when you saw those decrepit outdoor grills and about fifty people walking up for food.  And this season’s ultra-sleazy villain, Angelo, was talking about making love to his duck entree, which also kind of adds to viewer distress – but all that melted away as Colicchio showed up.  He was looking quite rustic himself with his Virginia-cowboy jacket and plaid shirt underneath.  Now that just melts my butter.

Artist's depiction of Jonathan's butter, melted.

So, this show has been around for seven seasons and the competition just keeps getting more outlandish.  It’s easy to forget just how talented all these chefs are because almost every challenge is so improbable that people are just set up to fail. You might as well take a collection of non-athletic taste-testing chefs and throw them up against he American Gladiators obstacle course with some culinary judges barking criticisms at them. Pour wine, watch and enjoy.

Remember when Tom completely ripped into Amanda over her failed minestrone soup?

Tom:  When we cook, why do we cut uniformly?

Amanda: (sniveling) Oh God … so everything cooks the same?

Tom:  (while flexing his muscles and looking so stern and peppery) Then why didn’t you cut uniformly?

Amanda: (near tears) Because I’m not worthy?

Tom: I thought so.

Perhaps one of the biggest disappointments of this past episode was that Tom was not present to judge the Quick Fire challenge –but then, the dessert always comes at the end of the meal.  So, anyway, the chefs all had to work with really obscure ingredients and then, like ten minutes in, one of those other judges (I think she was married to Salman Rushdie at one point) announced that everybody had to switch ingredients mid-cooking.  Some people freaked out, someone won immunity, Angelo was acting like a total snob, and somewhere off camera, contestants Kenny and Colicchio were lathering each other up in olive oil.

As for the main challenge–it was the “Cold War Revisited” (probably alluding to the cold harsh terrain of Colicchio’s impenetrable heart).  Now this I found interesting, because the chefs were divided into two teams, each responsible for his/her own cold dish, and then each team judged the other team’s food to determine the winners and losers. So, yeah–everybody freaks out again and starts plotting and Angelo keeps talking about his sexy salmon.  (Note to self: never eat at Angelo’s restaurant…especially if the dish is cream-based.) 

Thankfully when the judging came, Colicchio and those other judges showed up. He, of course, was wearing this charming blue on darker blue suit, one that spoke of sumptuous arctic char drizzled with authority.  Of course, the actual judging was anything but objective, as the chefs just dished out sabotaging comment after sabotaging comment. Really, there is now way for any of us to know who the real winner of the challenge was. Even the technical winner, the highly likable Kevin, was criticized by his opponents for not having enough acidity on his surf and turf dish.

Well, that’s why Colicchio was there to monitor.  “What the hell are you all talking about? There’s no acidity from the tomatoes?!  You insolent little amateurs.”

Ohmygoodness–did I also mention that I totally saw regular guest judge, Eric Ripert, walking down the street when I was in Richmond a few weeks ago?  He was looking all sultry and French and shit.  It was amazing. You know if he had been there, he would have blurted out something like this to Angelo: “What the Hell is this?  It tastes like Velveeta and shame…”  Nice.
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Do you want Jonathan to hold you close at night and whisper comforting things about your MFA courses in your ear? Email him at jonathandefenestrates@gmail.com, to discover the answers to your deep philosophical questions–or at least to find out if there really is a pool on the top floor of your dorm.

But that’ll never happen. So you busy yourself with more mundane tasks before you go to your job, like a lamb to sausage (I’m a consultant, not a shaman at a Bible college, alright?).

If you drive to work, maybe you listen to NPR. I bet that’s soothing. But in my daily work, it’s all about multi-tasking! So when I’m driving I like to pretend I’m texting someone. Actually texting someone is dumb, because you can’t write a snappy comeback fast enough when you’re trying to turn the wheel with one knee (way harder than it looks!), but it’s fun to just tape a Blackberry to the top of your steering wheel and watch how much room people give you. Also it’s a good tip for shaving five minutes off your commute!

If you’re taking the bus or subway you might busy yourself with a crossword puzzle (I prefer the game “hangman” with my own picture, but maybe that’s too literal for others). But a fun game I like to play is “Bundy/Gacy/Manson.” That’s right. I like to stare at people and imagine which serial killer they would be, and then how they’d dispose of the body. What’s kick-ass about this game is that a long studious stare can result in a free seat! (Or a restraining order.)

Another favorite seems to be reading a book. I’m an adventurer, so I prefer reading when I’m walking. I feel that an elbow to the rib from a passerby prepares me for the metaphorical beating I’ll receive later in the office.

Sometimes, when I ride the subway, it’s pretty packed and I imagine that I’m a game piece in a mighty game of Tetris! Can I fit my professionally suited body, purse, emergency purse and satchel of Tupperware through the heaving waves of human misery?

Damn right I will, because I am the strongest of tetrominoes!!

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Alison Burke is a writer from the Washington D.C. area, and has been a past Defenestration contributor. She enjoys cake and male models. She wishes her life was more like a Baby Bash video — save she would be the douche wearing a sideways cap as bikini-clad men grooved comedically for her viewing pleasure.

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Thundercats was an awesome show. At least by 80s cartoon standards. Viewed today, the writing, particularly the dialogue, is clearly not up to the storytelling standards of modern cartoons. Not to say that all modern cartoons are written particularly well, but back in the 80s, cartoons were vehicles for selling action figures. They didn’t need to be well written.

The best way to keep your childhood memories of your favorite shows is to not watch them as an adult. My wife and I tried watching Voltron a few months ago, and we were so disgusted with how awful it was that it permanently tainted our memories of the show.

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Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

It’s called ‘i-dosing.” Thank you Steve Jobs for inspiring our society to come with yet another “witty” name based around a verb in gerund form starting with the vowel “i.” Sesame Street can rest easy now, knowing that they can focus on the other 25 characters in the English alphabet because in the future everything will begin with an ‘i’ (even words that already start with that letter), thus confusing non-English speakers even more, and making Issac Asimov spin in his grave when Apple’s i-Robot is finally revealed, and done so with a tribute to i-Issac himself.

For those of you who don’t know what i-dosing is, it’s apparently a new way for people to get “high” from listening to a monotonous sound for an extended period of time. I can relate, as the monotone voices of many professors and teachers used to give me strange hallucinations of euphoria, until they’d slam the ruler on the desk and wake me up from my in-class nap.

So without further ado, let me be the first to say: “Quick everyone! Let’s overreact!”

Now I’ll be the first to admit here that music is a wonderful and wondrous thing, whose crescendos can send goosebumps across the skin, and whose moods can reflect or alter your own moods. It’s the latter reason why dentist offices will play Enya over NIN. You need to be relaxed so they can easily get into your purse, and not wound up to the point that you’re strangling the secretary while screaming “YOU DID THIS TO ME.” As far as I’m aware though, that would be as close to any high off of a song alone as you will get.

Leave it to general mass hysteria to claim that this is a gateway to real drugs, the same way they claimed that rock-n-roll, comic books, dungeons and dragons, and video games would be gateways to other illicit criminal behavior. Some schools are even overreacting to a point where they are forbidding cell phones and music players; not because the kids don’t really need them in a learning environment, but because they don’t want kids to get high off of Miley Cyrus (who should just be banned account of stupidity. I mean, really now: “Movin’ my hips like yeah” passes as a good lyric?? Way to use your adjectives and metaphors! I love doing things like–yeah!).

God forbid some of them should walk outside and see a rainbow…

Anyone with any kind of sound (pun!) reasoning and a solid head on their shoulders could easily tell you that what kids are doing is nothing more than a form sensory deprivation . Headphones on, lying still, and sometimes even blindfolded to cut out the light and other visual distractions.

And guess what! Being in an monochromatic environment can lead to the same thing! Hear that concerned parents?! Leaving your baby in a dark room for 15 minutes or more could get your babies “high!” You are essentially drugging your babies with darkness in the amount of time it’d take you to switch to Geico! Quick, call the social workers! Won’t somebody think of the children!?!

Yves Klein, pusher of highs through "art."

Perhaps the real question isn’t whether i-dosing is a gateway drug, but rather why have people resorted to using it. Maybe if people weren’t so mentally derelict and overreacting to kids boring themselves with white noise, we wouldn’t feel the need to shut others out, find new barriers to drown out the noise, and escape. Perhaps if reality weren’t such a bitch of an existence with Satre’s “Hell is other people” being played out live and in person, we wouldn’t need to find ways to get away.

As it is, perhaps the real problem isn’t these escape devices being used, but rather our inability to cope and therefore overusing them. Who wants some alcoholism? No? WoW addiction perhaps? No, not that either? Oh, how about hours of searching Youtube for cat videos! My point is, we all have our escapes, the only real problem is when we become captive to these devices and are unable to function in society (well, less so than some people are already unable to do).

Also, kids pretending to get high either to prove how cool they are, or to piss off their parents, is nothing new. Cum granis salis bitches!

———-
Stephen Elkham appeared in the Defenestration office one day when Amber forgot to shut a window after closing up. In a bizarre twist of irony, Stephen actually joined Defenestration through infenestration…and a ladder. Genevieve, Andrew, Eileen, and even Ben Franklin all tried to shoo him out with various methods (Ben tried logic and reason, Eileen tried magic wardings, Genevieve tried verbal lashings, and Andrew merely whacked at him with a rolled up newspaper) while Bigfoot stood back and laughed his ass off. However, Stephen barely acknowledged any of them while creepily staring at the wall and sipping coffee. Soon after, that room was converted into the “Creepy Staring Guy With Coffee” room, and was mostly used for storage. One day, while moving some old equipment back there, Haratron had serendipitously stored a typewriter in front of Stephen. It wasn’t until a few days later that Eileen noticed that the “CSGWC” room was suddenly alive with the ticking of typewriter activity, and suddenly full of papers (one of them was the complete version of Hamlet all in caps, another was hundreds of pages with nothing more than “All werk n no plai, mayks Jack a LOLboi kthx,” and yet another was a scathing review on Jane Austen and how the Bronte sisters should’ve ganged up and shanked her via a time machine). It was clear the creepy guy had some sapience… plus there was now a seemingly endless source of material that could be added to the website (Jersey Devil was charged with filtering though and scanning in all the documents). Stephen is still referred to as CSGWC though…

Beloved Papa, 

I am ever so delighted to find myself in Amsterdam at the dawn of the new age of floral wealth! Every person I greet in the city squares is aglow with the bright future of tulips and Dutch trade. I have heard stories in the salons that the Ottoman Sultan himself is investing most of his personal fortune in Dutch tulips! Although I intended only a short sojourn before beginning my studies at Leiden University, my plans have changed. I have become apprenticed to a merchant here in Amsterdam and shall represent him in his trade discussions with his British counterparts.  In return for his professional company, I have signed a contract pledging £10,000, which is the reason for my missive.  I am approximately £9,990 short on my commitment.  Please send a sealed note of guarantee for that amount to the address on this letter. I assure you it will be a wise investment. A month ago, a mere 40 bulbs sold for 100,000 Dutch guilders. There could be no safer investment than in tulips and your child’s future in commerce.

As always, I remain your loving son,

James Worthington 

— 

August 1, 1720 

Dearest Father, 

What a thrill it is to be in London – the center of commerce – at the beginning of a new world built by the buyers and sellers of stock!  In every corner of the city, from the noblest Duke to the lowliest stable boy, every person is seized by the prospect of wealth and ownership.  From what I have heard, King George himself has invested most of his personal fortune in the stock of the South Sea Company.  Although I intended only a short day trip to London while taking a break from my studies at Cambridge, my plans have changed.  I have become apprenticed to a stockbroker here in London and shall assist him in investing in the multitude of new corporations blooming in this age of wealth.  In return for his professional favor, I have signed a contract pledging him £25,000, which is the reason for this letter.  I am approximately £24,990 short on my commitment.  Please send a letter guaranteeing this amount to the return address on my envelope.  I promise you it is a wise investment.  Just yesterday, the price of a share of South Sea stock sold for £1,000. I have it on good authority that the price will only go up! And I shall have access to even more profitable ventures. I am exploring a purchase of a very exciting corporation, which advertises itself as “a company for carrying out an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is.”  Such opportunties are ours for the taking, Father, if you will but trust me today. 

Your grateful and respectful son,

George Worthington

— 

October 10, 2005 

Dear Dad,

Greetings from Las Vegas – the center of the new world of cash!  The real estate in this place is skyrocketing.  I’m telling you, Dad, every card shark, loan shark, show girl, playgirl, pole dancer, exotic dancer, hooker, stripper, waiter, and teenager has purchased an interest in land.  It doesn’t matter if it’s for casinos or condos, that’s where the money is.  I heard that Bill Gates has sold all his Microsoft stock to invest in Vegas real estate.  Now, I know that I was only supposed to stay for Columbus Day weekend before heading back to Stanford, but this place is exploding. I have already signed a letter of intent with a real estate developer to assist with his newest project on the Strip, pledging $80,000, which is the reason for my letter.  I’m currently $79,500 short.  Please send me the $80,000 you would have spent on my schooling as one lump sum now.  I guarantee I can give it back to you in six months, plus interest.  This is the new economy, and we can take advantage of it! 

Peace,

Jon Worthington

— 

July 22, 2030 

Hey Pops, 

A big “What up!” from Beijing, the epicenter of global money and power.  Everyone here is talking about the foundation of the world’s economy for the next thirty years: Peking duck.  As I’m sure you know, the world has embraced a new food revolution that will change the way we eat and live.  Peking duck is at the forefront of that.  From the littlest Communist Party member in elementary school to the most influential government official, everyone here is pouring their life savings into Peking duck exports.  I’ve even heard that Chinese President Yao has invested most of the country’s cash reserves into duck.  And, Pops, we can invest in it too.  I’ve decided to drop out of Beijing University and work for a firm founded by a chef/exporter.  I have signed a contract with him agreeing that, in return for a share of his profits, I will give him $1 million up front, which is the reason for this written message.  I am $999,000 short of my commitment.  Please deposit $1 million into my Sino-American Bank of Asia account.  I promise that I’ll pay you back double – you won’t be sorry! 

Your loving son,

Tre Worthington

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Before he became the Boy from Nowhere – the One Who Walked In, the First and Last and Only, who lived a thousand years – he was just a little boy in New Hampshire, named John. John Frank Weaver. You can follow his plans to introduce his unborn child to culture at Content Based Dad. His right hand writes about life as a sock puppet on Twitter.

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Seriously, guys, I don’t even know. These characters are all pretty damn phallic, which I swear was unintentional. They all started as stick figures once upon a time. Some people might think that when I start making penis jokes, I’m running out of ideas. In actuality, it means I’m just getting started. ;)

Also? Winslow’s apparently a Brigadier General in some capacity. Probably Brigadier General of the Grand Army of Ben and Winslow’s House, which makes me wonder why he didn’t elevate himself to a higher rank. That star is all alone up there.

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Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

“It’s extremely perplexing,” said JPMorgan Senior Analyst Roger Newman. “Every time we feel like we have a good grasp of what the Dao Jones really is, it turns out that we really don’t know it at all. Quite frankly, I’m not even certain we’ve correctly named it.”

Despite the confusion experienced by most traders, one analyst, Lou Zu, has thrived on the current market conditions. When asked for the secret behind his success, he informed reporters, “Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear.” Before he could be pressed to explain his comments, he disappeared to the West atop a water buffalo.

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David Snyder is a graduate student at Emerson College in Boston. His work has appeared in Coal City Review and Meeting House. When not writing humor, he seeks out the most godawful movies Netflix has to offer.

Back in the final month of the Vernal Equinox (new word for me), some friends and I decided to visit the City of Sin…no, no… not Sodom (but close!),  Las Vegas. Ahh, Vegas, a land where day laborers stand along the strip and hand out cards and pamphlets advertising illicit affairs with various women to anyone who passes by. By slapping these cards on their wrist, the innocent bystander will glance around to discover the noise, then, when their eyes lock with the flesh peddler’s, they have no choice to either take the boobie card or awkwardly pretend like they were looking at something behind the human version of a pop-up ad.

Based on the way the ground looked 20-30ft past these gentle souls, it becomes obvious that people opted for the former, probably hoping to partake…were it not for their significant other glaring at them, forcing the holder to comment on how crude it is that they hand those out with children present, as they toss it to the ground, longingly looking back at it. It’s a place where your cab  drivers will tell you where you can go to get a “little extra” for “a little more” from various clubs in the area. Sadly, he wouldn’t elaborate if any of these ladies would accept my challenge to a game of Connect Four (the curse still remains!).

In our group’s 3 ½ day adventure, I came to the conclusion that Las Vegas had a very high DoD  (that’s Density of Douchebags for those following along at home),more so than I have ever seen in my life. It’s a place where any sort of common sense and courtesy can be likened to that of sound in space, unable to penetrate the vacuum of complete douchery and asshattery. It’s because of that, that I fear the vacuum in Vegas is so great, that it’ll eventually be sucked up its own asshole, and rob humanity of such wonders as the $25 Surf & Turf buffet, the Pinball Museum, and lycra.

People watching is a national past time, and, if it were an Olympic event, I’d be disqualified for taking performance enhancing drugs and my life would then spiral out of control. I’d be forced to rob Good Will stores to make ends meet, be involved in a police stand-off at a local Chic-Fil-A, jailed, interviewed by 60 Minutes, and have Ving Rhames  play me in a “Made for TV” movie..yes, I am indeed that damn good. As I said earlier, Vegas has an extremely high DoD, and with the variety of douchebag flavors, it hit me that I could turn this into a game. Thus, on Las Vegas Boulevard, outside of “The Flamingo” Douchebag Bingo was born.

Rules:

1. First rule of Douchebag Bingo…you don’t talk about Douchebag Bingo. Okay, I got that cliche, overused phrase out of the way

The one and only rule of Douchebag Bingo is that, upon completion of a row, the winner MUST yell out “Douchebag!” The purpose of this is for those passing by to think the comment is about them, this will trigger their inner monologue where they question a doucebaggey trait they have, how a perfect stranger was able to pick up on this trait. As a result, they will strive to cleanse of the douchebag taint, or the victor will just be punched in the face, but, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“But Chris? How will I know when I see a douchebag??” Oh, it’s quite simple my dear friend, I use this quote when people were getting all riled up after seeing boobies and other dangly parts in their art and likened it to “pornography. Amongst this, someone was asked to explain the difference between the two, the response? “I can’t explain what pornography is, but I know it when I see it.” It’s impossible to explain why “risque” art isn’t necessarily porn, but when one spots porn, they KNOW it’s porn, same with spotting douchebags. Douchebags just have this aura about them, something about them that screams to the world “I’m a monumental tool and women wish to bear my children!” Now, while it’s impossible to categorize every type of douchebag in existence, there are some rather common traits that are easily distinguishably between them and the common rabble. Here are a few examples, but remember, these are just the tip of the doucheberg:

• Sunglasses in the club-douchebag. It’s dark, and the place has the same amount of light as a basement whose only light source is the 2x2ft window, the catch being that in the club it’s randomly swirled about the room. Why the hell would you need to wear sunglasses? Now, it’s quite possible he has a severe sensitivity to light, but we all know the sunglasses are in play so he can ogle young women without giving away the fact he’s moved out of the realm of “douchebag” into straight into “creep-ass”. Pro-tip for these gentlemen: You aren’t fooling anyone.
• Shirt is two sizes too small-douchebag. Hey, you go to the gym, that’s phenomenal, good for you, really, but is it written somewhere that you have to do your clothes shopping in the Young Boys section? This type of bag is in serious effect when the guy DOESN’T work out and still parades around as if he has to beat women off of him with an $1,500 Louis Vuitton stick. Here’s a self-check, raise your arms over your head, if your shirt just ripped at the shoulders, it’s too f@$%ing small! It’s time to make the switch to adult clothing, check out the women’s section; I just suggest you stay away from blouses unless you wish to look like an effeminate pirate.
• Spear tipped hair-douchebag. These types of douchebags can and usually do fall under the “Shirt is two sizes too small-douchebag” as both traits are apparently inherent of each other. My optimistic side is hoping that the hair is used a self-defense mechanism akin to that of the Stegosaurus*.  Possibly even used in courtship when two males take a fancy to the same female, the situation could be resolved by ramming their heads together, winner being determined by either who’s still conscious, or who’s hair maintained its hold and fabulous sheen.
• Wearing a cowboy hat and/or boots in the city-douchebag. Really…do I actually have to explain WHY this is a douchebaggy move? Seriously? If you don’t understand why it is, you’re probably the type of douchebag who does this. Let me fill you in here cowpoke, this is Washington DC, there are no cattle drives nor rustlers to rustle. If you walk into any establishment within a 50 mile radius, people are first going to check to see if it October really did sneak up them. When they realize it’s June, they’re going to either laugh in your face, or ask if you’re part of a Village People Tribute band. I suggest you hitch up your leather chaps and mosey your ass down to the nearest Foot Locker and pick up a pair of Nikes.
• Talking incredibly loud on the cell in a crowded area-douchebag. Being a douchebag isn’t just relegated to one’s physical appearance, there are also actions to take into account. We’ve all seen these bags walking the streets, their loud, obnoxious voice cutting through the peace and quiet just so they can tell their friend that the chick they bedded last night gave them a serious case of crabs. Nobody gives a flying f@#& what your conversation is, however, these douchenozzles’ egos are so inflated; they feel that everyone within a 30-foot radius is dying to know every insignificant detail about their amazingly lame life. It takes every ounce of self restraint I have to stop myself from ripping the phone out of their hands, pushing the offender into oncoming traffic, then apologizing to the person on the other end, stating that their friend had to “catch a bus” (queue up 7:50 of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” here).

I could go on, and on about the different types of douchebags, as I’m the type of person who hates all people equally, and will make it my business to find something about them that bugs me and harp on that, but I’m  extremely lazy. I’m sure sometime in the distant future I’ll petition for a federal grant under the guise of “Detrimental Human Behavior”, then using my findings to justify their eradication.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Ee3xemyQjI

* Science be damned! I don’t care if it’s come out that the plates on their back were used for body cooling or courtship, from now, until the end of time, I say they were always used for stabbing T-Rexes in the face….ALWAYS! I still haven’t forgiven the Scientific community for stripping away Pluto’s planet status…I won’t let them tarnish the glorious Stegosaurus legacy.
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Chris hates anyone or anything which goes against how he feels a sentient being with more than three brain cells should act. He hopes to use his “Encyclopedia Douchebag…ica”  as a springboard into becoming a full-fledged, tax exempt religion complete with holidays and greeting cards, mainly so he can steal from its coffers. His hopes are…not that high, knowing that those who needs his guidance  most, are unable to read his words… what with the extra flesh from their sloped, ape-like foreheads blinding their eyes from the truth.

When not acting like a complete bastard (which is not very often), Chris offers his services as a freelancer for Beckett’s Massive Online Gamer. Yep, he’s a neeeeeerd.