Douchebagism

Douchebag.

It's such a satisfying word, right?

The sound: a perfect, precise mix of both the soft and guttural typically found only in the purest forms of nature. The humor: the universal hilarity of human genitalia hygienics and early adolescent regression, tempered with a smidge of Summer's Eve early 80's advertising. It's the Darwin of modern day vernacular.

...And then, of course, there's the pin-point accuracy blunt labeling of someone being an absolute friggin' douchebag.

I find myself pondering this gem of the English language because of James. That's right, Adonis James: douchebag. He didn't used to be a douchebag; if anything, he has been a fun, engaging, likable guy. But my god, if there was ever anyone who could be called a douchebag, he was it on last night's episode.

But for a word so seemingly perfect and beautiful, there actually are many douchebag variations that, if used improperly, could cause severe embarrassment, danger of retribution, mislabeling, or worse: chafing.

Let's examine a few to ensure we've got James pegged properly:

1. Pure Douche. In its purest form, "douchebag" is simple, exact, quick and omniscient. We have all encountered these pure douchebags...unfortunately more often than we want to admit. Occasionally the word, "dick" may be substituted for males, but only when spoken aggressively, emphasizing the monosyllabic nature of the word, and typically with some spittle flecking the targeted douchebag's face. As a rule, just stick with "douchebag."

When I was 12 years old, my mom signed me up for a week-long kids cooking class over the summer; four of my oldest and closest friends would be going with me. When we arrived, the instructor asked the class to take seats at a ten or so four-person tables. Without thinking, we all grabbed seats...until we realized that, because there were five of us, one person, my friend Tom, was suddenly sitting alone at another table. Tom looked absolutely crestfallen at realizing that he would be all alone for the entire week while his four other friends laughed and worked together the entire time. My three friends could care less - but I felt his pain. I stood up and changed tables, joining Tom as his table of one, and glad to have helped him. But once I was seated, Tom immediately stood up, ran to my old table, and claimed my seat. Pure douchebag. There's nothing you can really do to counter pure douchebaggieness; they typically act without notice, and you have to find a way to get past them and move on with your life. I would also argue that the fact that I egged his brand new Mongoose the next day made me a dick rather than a douchebag, but perhaps that's now in Tom's hands to determine.

In my mind, James is not a pure douchebag - he has too much good history that invalidates this option.

2. Evil Douche. This is a scary one. First of all, there's a fine line between being an evil douchebag and simply being a f*cker...but the nuances are important. A f*cker is entirely intentional with a complete, consuming desire to inflict pain or hatred; an evil douchebag inflicts that pain or hatred, but they tend to be either misguided or basing their actions upon an alternate reality/justification in which they can claim that they're not being douchebags. Of course it's a ridiculous and irrelevant differentiation to the recipient of the douche nozzle, but intent is important.

One time when Paige and I needed a rickshaw in India at the train station, we met an evil douchebag.

“How much to the Grand Hotel?” I innocently asked the rickshaw driver, fully knowing it was around 7-10 rupees. We’d asked locals on the train how much it should cost and were prepared to share this information.

“20 rupees,” he replied as if we were already annoying him.

“How about 10,” I answered, figuring that this was his sign that we weren’t gaudy tourists willing to pay the first quoted price and yet we also understood that we shouldn’t necessarily expect to pay the locals’ price.

“No, 20.”

All we wanted was for him to work with us just a little, to show that he acknowledged that we weren’t complete idiots. So far no good.

“C’mon,” I replied, “15 at least.”

“20,” he nonchalantly said as he turned away from us, obviously tired of this conversation.

“OK, fine, how about you just use the meter then?”

This was a last resort tactic. Rickshaw drivers never want to use their meters (even though they all have them) because they believe they can make more with up front money. And they can. Meters must be present by law, even though almost no one used them. Although this was a legitimate attempt to find some middle ground, it was also an outright challenge that I knew he was trying to screw us and it was my way of saying, “You’re a dick.” He whirled back around and scowled at me; his anger his obvious answer.

Frustrated, but not in any mood whatsoever to get into any kind of argument or heated negotiation (all he had to do was come down a couple rupees – twenty wasn’t such a completely ridiculous price, but his tactic was only saying to us, “Because you’re foreigners, you will pay me x amount over the going rate, no ‘ifs,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts’ about it”), I noticed that there was a traffic policeman nearby and walked over to him for some insight.

“Is there some reason the rickshaw drivers in this town refuse to use their meters?” I asked in the most loaded-question sort of way. The policeman immediately was ticked off – thankfully not with us, but with the rickshaw guys.

“They absolutely will use the meters!” he angrily exclaimed, “just get in and he will use it!” he definitely told us with a wave of his finger. He stormed in front of us over to the rickshaw guys and the group proceeded to get in a heated conversation in full Hindu, waving their hands, pointing at us, pointing at the rickshaw, screaming, spewing venom…I was glad we were off to the side. Finally the policeman appeared to win and turned towards us, “OK fine, you get in now and he will use the meter.”

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s the best idea, that guy is probably pretty pissed at us,” I explained quietly to the policeman.

“NO!” he demanded to us, “YOU GET IN, HE WILL TAKE YOU AND HE WILL USE THE METER!” OK fine, no argument here.

Although this was an apparent victory, we couldn’t help but feel extremely hesitant as we crawled into the back of that rickshaw and watched as the defeated driver, red with fury, started it up and drove off, leaving the policeman to himself…and us to the driver.

He proceeded to drive off quickly - in the wrong direction - wind down a few alleys, making a quick turn there and a sudden yank here…and after about ten minutes in the middle of seemingly nowhere, he simply pulled over on the side of this deserted, disgusting alley, turned off the engine, and sat there. Paige and I looked at each other, dreading what we both knew was going to happen next. Finally he mustered up enough courage and turned around.

“It is broken, get out.”

Bile erupted in every space in my body. I was livid. Who knew where we were or whether we were even safe? I couldn’t believe that this guy would take us off in the middle of nowhere and dump us when all we’d tried to do was get a fair price. He was pissed at the policeman for being honest, and making us suffer, and that pissed me off. No way was he expecting that we’d be stupid enough to buy his “broken rickshaw” b.s.; this was evil, straight up.

Of course there was the expected cursing, threats of bodily harm, flying pustules of venomous spit, yada yada yada, I stormed off, having a hard time shaking my rage, and it wasn’t until a good couple hundred yards until I realized that Paige was having a hard time keeping up with me, hurrying along but still way behind. Somehow we made it back to the station a half hour later and saw the same policeman patrolling the parking lot. I wasn’t prepared to let it end like it did.

As I emotionally retold the story, trying my hardest to leave the severe cursing out – and nearly succeeding – a small crowd of other rickshaw drivers and locals crowded around to watch the big guy waving his arms and getting red in the face. Paige had had a clear enough mind to get the rickshaw’s license number and the policeman avidly promised to “take care of it.” Then, fuming himself, he led us by the arms to another rickshaw guy and told us that everything would be all right and “taken care of,” whatever that meant.

“You take these people to the Grand Hotel,” he heatedly explained to the new rickshaw guy, “and you will use your meter!” No argument from the new rickshaw guy, he’d been watching the whole escapade unfold. “The trip should be about seven rupees, no more,” he explained to us as the rickshaw driver burst the vehicle into a loud roar. “I will take care of the other guy, you don’t worry. I am sorry about this, but everything is OK now.”

I was all for everything being OK now. We cautiously settled in for the short ride.

As we pulled up to the Grand Hotel and into their mini-parking lot, the driver killed the motor and I strained to see what the meter said, but it was pointed away from me. The driver noticed my intentions.

“Meter is broken, twenty rupees.”

The first rickshaw driver: evil douchebag. The second one: idiot douchebag. James is neither.

(A side note here, there is actually a subset of the evil douchebag called the "endearing evil douchebag." An example here would be someone who sends me an email at work with a sound file that indicates it's something important, but it ends up being a file that locks my computer, turns the volume up to max and screams, "I LOVE GAY SEX! I WANT TO HAVE GAY SEX RIGHT NOW!" ...over and over again as my employees all stop what they're doing as the noise can be heard from halfway across the building. Hil-A-rious. ...Oh, I'm not saying that happened to me...it's just an example...)

3. Endearing Douche. Polar opposite from the Endearing Evil Douchebag, the Endearing Douchebag is a mix of a sad but sweet loser, naive but well-intentioned...and desperately needing someone to call them a "douchebag." We've all been here at some point in our lives. In college once after a particularly bad breakup with a girlfriend, I became exceptionally shy around women and didn't have a date for months. Finally, working at a shop in Westwood and having seen the super cute, young co-ed from next door come into our store repeatedly and offer smiles and short bits of attention to me, I finally mustered up enough courage to awkwardly ask her out, fumbling all over myself and nervous as hell. Her response? "Awwwwwwww! How cute!"(I was smart enough even then to instantly realize that "aw, how cute!" was the polar opposite of, "my undies are getting humid, will you please be so kind enough to help me out of them?") But she wasn't done - she could see that I knew she was patronizing me, and she lamely tried to end it quickly. "Uh, I'm sorry, I already have a boyfriend." Ugh. I could hear my friend Anthony in my head snickering, then knocking me to my senses, "Douchebag!"

Nothing about James's tirade last night was endearing.

4. Unintended Douche. The most common of all the bags, we all personify this - frequently too. Reflecting upon an unintended douchebag experience can inflict lifelong discomfort and pain...more to the person who was the douche than to those originally on the receiving end. At my same friend Anthony's wedding, I was giving the best man speech (I know - it's so cliche - but I promise I have made other best man speeches and have since redeemed myself!) and made fun of Anthony's LonG-eyeland accent, and how he calls a pizza a "pie..." It was then that for the first time I realized the room was filled with Anthony's extremely offended, unsmiling, Italian, Goodfellas-resembling extended family... Gasping for air, I quickly transitioned into a story that I was sure would personify how special Anthony was to everyone whose life he touched...in which a random hot chick once pulled up in a convertible to Anthony standing on the corner, lowered her sunglasses, and said in a sultry voice, "Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most sensual eyes...?" It was then that I glanced over and saw Michelle, Anthony's new bride, mouthing "douchebag" to me.

James's douchebag was fully intentional.

5. Angry Douche. Emotion, reaction, spewing, in the moment, unthinking, an anomaly from their usual disposition...this is James. It started in pure response to the Immunity challenge loss, and needing someone to blame. Unfortunately that someone was the heroic Stephanie. But then for James to continue filling his douchebag with more and more piss and vinegar, actually lambasting her for being the last one left on her tribe in seasons past - one of the greatest accomplishments in Survivor history - and using that as evidence to her lack of value to the team...?!

Douchebag, please.

Kudos to Colby and Tom for stepping up and supporting Steph at tribal council, but Cirie and Candice? I hope you both get the life of you squeezed out slowly, and then get mindlessly tossed away, tucked away in the bottom of the garbage can so that nobody will see that you've been used...

OK, so I have an ulterior motive...I picked Stephanie to win it all... Perhaps I need to be less of a Bitter Douchebag and more of what John and Yoko stood for...

Until next week,

PB