Mark Radcliffe highlights what it takes to be a world-class douchebag.
Got a moment?
My talent scouts have brought your fine skills to my attention, and I’ve got a proposition for you. I’d like to officially invite you to compete in the Douchebag Olympics.
I’ve seen ‘em come & go, but you’ve got real talent. I honestly think you could win it all.
Sure, you may just be an amateur now, but in time, you could go pro. MVP, even.
I’m curious, do you have representation? Lemme tell ya kid, you’re going to need a manager soon. And an agent.
How do I know you’re not just small time, you ask?
Simple. It wasn’t just the slick, gelled hair. I smelled your cologne from 50 feet away. Yessiree, takes some serious douchebag mitochondrions in the blood to keep pouring on the Davidoff Cool Water for that long. Or is that Axe Body Spray? Both? Excellent.
Plus I saw you take up two parking spaces when you parked. That’s when you had me.
But it takes more than that to go all the way. Let’s see what else you got. Shake my hand.
Sheesh! Yep. Just as I hoped! You shake hands like you’re trying to choke a Clydesdale?. Gotta be pretty insecure to be always trying to convey superiority at every chance.
But then, after the hand shake, what have you got? What’s your conversational style?
What’s that you say? You won’t let me… get a… single word in edgewise?! Because you’re too busy telling me about your flatscreen? Or your new Escalade? Or how much you can bench? Yes!! I knew it! You have no interest in the lives of others whatsoever! And you’re sure to speak twice as loud as them so you drown out their voice! This will really help us get through the early rounds. It’ll show the judges just what kind of savage disregard for your fellow man you really possess.
But before we get carried away, let’s just cover the basics, just to make sure we don’t get DQ’d for a stupid technicality:
You say “bro” a lot, right? Good. Wouldn’t want to leave that out.
Black leather sofa? Check.
How bout a huge-ass watch, like 50mm, minimum? A good pound of steel? Right on, kid. Knew I could count on you.
Now, let’s talk about your car. 20-inch rims, at least? 22, you say?! Nice. Tinted windows? 50%? That’s dedication. And what’s that? Monogrammed seats with your initials in the headrests? 500 watt stereo? Like it. Ok, moving on:
And–I’m sorry to even have to ask this, but I just have to be sure: you shave your chest, right? Phew. That’s a relief. I lost a kid last year to that one. Wait, what? Shaved sack, too? Tanning salon twice a week? Oh, I like you, kid.
But then, later, in the compulsories, we’re going to need to show them something special. Whadya got?
Whoa. You serious? You make sure you take nudie pix of all the girls you sleep with when they’re not looking? And keep ‘em all on your phone to show the bros?! Oh, that’s HUGE. I tell you, the Miami boys will never know what hit ‘em.
Keep it coming: you keep your cell phone ringer on all the time, right? So it’s always pissing people off, but still giving you the delusion that people are impressed with how many calls you get? Good. Because it also shows that, again, you know your needs are more important than anyone else’s.
But ok, let’s say we’re in the semi’s, and the heat is on. Some kid from Miami just showed the judges a tattoo of a cobra on his own cock! What are ya gonna come back with?
Boom! Really? You give a speech at your best friend’s wedding about how you both had a bet as to who could sleep with the most girls in college? You’ve got class. And by that I mean none, whatsoever.
But alright, it’s the finals, and we’re neck & neck with a bouncer from Vegas who moonlights as a bodybuilder. He’s just shown us a vid from his bachelor party where he’s pouring champagne over his own biceps while making out with a stripper the night before his wedding, but he’s wearing a necklace with a cross on it the whole time. It’s game on, kid. Gold is on the line—and I know how much you like the bling. Show us what you’re made of.
OhMyGod. No way! For your girlfriend’s birthday, you made her an appointment with a plastic surgeon?! Because you told her you think she needs to get a boob job?! But you’re willing to “help pay for it”? Oh, that’s hard to beat.
Congrats, kid. We’re headed to the show. In time, frat boys will all chant your name and mothers everywhere will hope their daughters never meet you in a bar. Might even be a restraining order or a double-homicide conviction in your future. The sky’s the limit!