As I approach my third year as a resident of the Mid-Atlantic, I realize that I have learned much. Coming here, I met a LOT of good folks that really went out of their way to make me feel at home. (I rarely see them, but that's only because I'm also part hermit. Much love to them.) That being said, one of the things that I realized about this place is that it is the Mecca of The Douchebag (hereinafter sometimes referred to as "The Douche"). The amount of douchebaggery that takes place is so concentrated, I firmly believe that there is an association with dues, meetings and of course, a handbook. I believe this book's unofficial title is The Douchebag's Guide to the Galaxy. I offer to you a few rules that I am sure appear in said handbook, as well as my take on them:
1. Sunglasses are to be worn at all times.
Now, some normal folks feel that sunglasses are meant to shield your eyes from excessive glare, and protect them from the UV rays of the sun. Not so for The Douche. They wear their sunshades in the house. They wear their sunshades with a mouse. They wear their sunshades underground. They wear their sunshades at night on the town. They wear their sunshades here and there. They wear their sunshades EVERYWHERE. They wear them eating green eggs and ham. They look like dipshits Sam I Am!
2. The hairline should be given no consideration whatsoever when choosing a hair style.
I am elated that we live in a time where more black people embrace their natural hair by releasing themselves from relaxers or wearing locs. HOWEVER: a) if your hair requires a sign that says "next cornrow 7 miles"; or, b) if your hairline is so far back, you only have two rows of locs, you need to stop in your tracks, reevaluate the entire path of your life, from conception to this...very...moment...starting...now, as something has gone horribly awry. Granny always used to say, "Just because they made it, that doesn't mean they made it for you."
3. Wear designer clothing only if the designer's name is displayed - PROMINENTLY and OFTEN.
Baby Phat and Apple Bottom aficionados unite! Now, I know a lot of us have been eating the good chicken, and these people cater to the Reubenesque lady; that's fine and dandy. However, remember Peaches (Jada then-Pinkett-without-the-Smith) from "A Low Down Dirty Shame?" When she bought her "classy" designer outfit? Yeah. That's you. (Keep in mind, I am aware that not all of their designs look like this, but that shit is almost invariably mad gaudy. Plus, as an aside, I don't expect anyone to take me seriously when I have a pussy stitched on my ass.) Por ejemplo:
Notice the plethora of "BPs"? Not. Celebrated.
4. Failure to knock over at least one elderly individual renders you delinquent in your duties.
When a guy offers me a seat on the bus, typically, I almost shit myself from shock; however, I know about the cyclical reasoning behind the death of chivalry and such. I also know that some people will not accept seats on the bus, because they don't want to be thought of as/admit to being old. That being said, if I had a nickel for every time some overgrown clumsy ass male - BLACK AND WHITE - bowls over an elderly and/or infirm person to get on the damned metro, I'd be backstroking in brown and gold Baby Phat pumps. Were you raised in a barn? Locked in a closet as a young'n? What is your damned problem? I tell you what, regardless of my health, I'm going to start carrying a cane at 65 and consider myself licensed to correct a sucka. And if that don't work, I am not adverse to carrying a "peace keeper." Try me.
5. Disregard all traffic laws.
Red lights. Stop signs. Cross walks. Speed limits. Turning signals. None of this concerns The Douche. They will run you over, cut you off, ride your bumper because they can't be bothered with the speed limit. Personally, I stay within a 5-7 mph range. I can't afford what a moving violation will do to my insurance premium. If this annoys you, go fuck yourself and drive in another lane. On Twinbrook Parkway in Rockville, there are two major crosswalks without traffic signals. In an abundance of caution, there is actually a signal for a pedestrian to notify oncoming traffic that they need to cross. I have seen people sit there like they're waiting for Aragorn before they can cross the street. Whenever I stop, they give me this traumatized look trying to figure out if I'm for real. (Think Tina Turner on her first post-Ike date.)
6. Observe the Pilgrammage. Purchase a T-Shirt that says "FBI." Attempt to be robbed and assaulted at all costs.
Of course, not every Douche lives here. However, they are mandated by Decree of the Supreme Douche to visit DC. They get on the train - at a separate end from the rest of their party - and scream inappropriate shit. Things like, "I have no idea where we're going," and "Yes, I'm keeping all my money in my pocket!" or "Is this even the right train Jebediah!?" They stand very close to the door, because they are perpetually three seconds from being lost, and dangle their iPods from their fingertips. This is because every Douche has a secret longing to be robbed. They LOVE telling stories of their troubles, as they believe this validates their subsequent acts of douchebaggery. Like some sort of Douchebag PTSD.
7. Every story told within a 25 foot radius of your person directly relates to you. It is incumbent upon you to interject your thoughts in a boisterous and frequent manner.
It is one thing to be sympathetic, and when a friend is telling a story of some difficulty, offer words of wisdom to encourage and show that they can get through this. I'm not talking about this. That's a positive activity, and The Douche wants no part of anything positive. Any topic, from childbirth, to death in the family, to walking on the moon. The Douche will relate it to themselves. Not only that, but they will go on for such a long time, that they (AND YOU) will forget how the conversation started in teh first place. Because it's not about you. It's NEVER been about you. They are The Douche dammit, and THEY WILL NOT BE DENIED!