Click here to read Volume 1: Dickheads and Assholes
Douchebags and Scrotes:
Certainly, much has been said about Douchebags. But like the terms “hero” and “genius,” the Douchebag title is bestowed all to readily - and irresponsibly - these days. Which is not to say the world isn’t full of Douchebags. Popularity of the word is partly due to its unprecedented applicability. Ironically, the misuse of the word is a prime example of Douchebag behavior, as the defining characteristic of a Douchebag is a pathological ignorance, be it linguistic or otherwise. True Douchebags possess a certain tone-deafness to the world at large, which accounts for everything from their misguided fashion sense to their appreciation of extra-large vehicles and wearable technology. Much of the misuse and mislabeling associated with the term Douchebag can be explained thusly: First, the word has tremendous aesthetic appeal. It rolls poetically off the tongue, and lends itself to vocal fluctuations and emphatic variations. Secondly, there is inherent ironic humor in the use of the term when one considers its literal definition. Much of the labeling of unsavory persons draws humor from this juxtapositioning (see Dickheads and Assholes). And finally, misuse of the word Douchebag, and its less potent offspring “Douche” and “DBag”, comes from its PG-13 nature. Douchebag is not a curse word, nor does it make direct reference to genitalia or a sex act, though it dances perilously close.
So, then, what exactly is a Douchebag? Well, primarily, a Douchebag is not an Asshole or a Dickhead (or a Fuckface, Jerkoff, or Jackass, but that’s getting way ahead of myself). Douchebags do not know they are Douchebags, or at the very least, their Douchbagginess is unintentional. Douchebags famously unplug things accidentally. Things like powerstrips connecting an array of office or classroom computers. Douchebags make things worse in an effort to make them better. Things like software glitches, copy machine jams, soup, and bad hair dye jobs. Douchebags get caught copying your homework and the teacher rips only yours up to send a message. (that teacher, by the way, is an Asshole). Douchebags, thinking they have some special connection to all living things, get bit by dogs and make babies cry. Unlike certain other unsavory persons, Douchebags are not without friends. In fact, it is common for a person to feel surrounded by Douchebags, at parties or bars or family reunions. One’s Douchebag nature can be transitory (unless it is connected to the permanence of a bad or misspelled tattoo). You can grow into or out of your Douchebagginess. Treatments and interventions are effective. Often times a Douchebag can be cured with a simple item, like a mirror or a credit card statement. Generally speaking, a Douchebag’s antics are harmless. A Douchebag will absolutely make you late for an important meeting – by insisting on driving you, and then running out of gas – but they will rarely hurt you. Women do not make very good Douchebags, as an essential ingredient in Douchebag behavior is an imbalance of testosterone. Birds are nature’s Douchebags, for their reliance on elaborate posturing and vanity, as well as their unique ability to fly into things while trying to move gracefully. Women continue to befuddle the world with their attraction to Douchebags. And certainly, using a pseudointellectual highbrow tone when writing about things like Assholes, Dickheads, and Douchebags in an attempt to entertain people on your blog so they will buy your novel, is Douchebag behavior at its finest (or is it? See below).
Scrotes (or Scroats) and Douchebags are mortal enemies, at least from the Douchebag point of view. The two distinct groups are frequently mistaken for one another. Douchebags think Scrotes are pussies. Scrotes think they themselves are Douchebags. A true Douchebag would never possess the self-awareness required to self-identify. Anyone who refers to themselves as a Douchebag is probably a Scrote or a Dickhead, depending on their nature. A Scrote is like a benevolent Dickhead, generally fun-loving and utterly harmless. Scrotes lack ambition, either through laziness, or an over-intellectualized, college-based understanding that ambition can get you assassinated. A Scrote will absolutely use Shakespeare as an excuse to sit on a couch and take bonghits and watch Judge Judy. Woman make terrific Scrotes. Male and female Scrotes are exceptionally compatible. In fact, Scotes get along exceedingly well with other Scrotes. Entire Scrote armies can be found on tour with Phish, in churches, and at GameStop. A Scrote’s unsavory nature stems from the fact that they are generally forgetful, irresponsible, and sensitive to a fault. Scrotes cannot handle criticism, which, coupled with drug use, can result in a toxic atmosphere of self-doubt and depression. “I’m such a fucking Douchebag!” is the classic mantra of a certifiable Scrote.
Example # 1 of Scrote behavior: A pack of Scrotes move into a furnished apartment. The dryer venting tube is disconnected from the wall outet. Rather than simply connecting the tube to the outlet, the pack of Scrotes determine the dryer venting mechanism is defective. For one year the dryer simply vents into the small room where the appliances are kept. The paint peels off the walls. Lint on the floor is four inches deep. There is a toilet in this room, and when the pack of Scrotes girlfriends (not Girlfriends) comes over and use the toilet they don’t tell the Scrotes to fix the room (because these girls themselves are Scrotes). The Scrotes are sued by the landlord. They ignore the lawsuit and it “goes away.” For years afterwards, none of the Scotes can understand why they have such a hard time getting approved to rent apartments.
Example #2 of Scrote behavior: This same pack of Scrotes purchase a newspaper subscription. The newspaper is stolen off their porch three or four days a week. Rather than notify the newspaper company or the police, the Scrotes decide instead to wake up early, on a rotating schedule, and collect the paper before the thief has arrived. A Scrote then defecates into the paper, refolds it, and returns it to the porch. The shit-filled paper is then stolen, not by a thief, but instead by an autistic neighbor who is trying to save himself fifty cents and a walk to the corner market. He gives the paper to his bedridden grandmother, who then finds herself covered in Scrote feces. The police are notified. Nervous and repentant Scrotes are questioned. Police are granted access into the Scote lair, where they discover an extensive marijuana growing operation.
Coming up in Volume 3: Fuckfaces, Jerkoffs, and Jackasses