2010's douchebag of the universe!

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about egotism and vanity. I've realized lately that I don't personally find selfishness that offensive - but only if it's self-aware selfishness. Only if it's selfishness that someone owns and is very clear about. You want to abandon your roommates in the middle of the night without having paid rent for three months? Sleep with someone for a promotion? Do it. Just admit that you're a self-centered asshole. Deep down, we're all kind of terrible, but we're not self-disparaging enough to outwardly proclaim it. Thus, I have a lot of respect for people who know they're shitheads and have no problem letting the world know.

As such, I believe narcissism under the guise of charity is a capital sin. Let me introduce you to 2010's Douchebag of the Universe.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Or twenty-five, which is about the number of words in his vocabulary.

This guy, whom I'll call the Simian, is a self-proclaimed "social media superstar," a "model" and a "promoter." Technically, he might be all of these things. He has nearly 5000 Facebook friends, a collection of photographs in various states of undress, and he hosts nights at Boston clubs. But more than anything, he is a vain, superficial, greasy, deluded moron who sells makeup on the internet and thinks he has the right to tell other people that they're ugly.

On his website, he touts the e-book of his "rise to glory" from suburban upper-middle-class friendless loser to club rat that hangs out with walking piles of hair extensions. Since I don't want to subject you to the inanity (I read it and nearly lost my lunch as well as my will to live), I'll sum it up for you: He was fat. He didn't kiss anyone until he was 17. He worked at a bank. He went on MySpace.

"This is where I made a decision. I decided I wanted it all. I wanted the girls in the pictures, I wanted the abs, I wanted the money, the cars, the flashing lights, and I wanted to be right in the middle of all of it. This is where my world got flipped upside down."

What an existential crisis! Honda Civics and glitter graphics are so inspiring! So how was he going to achieve his dream of material satisfaction?

"I figured the most logical way to get something that I really wanted was to observe and mimic the people who already had it."

Brilliant plan of attack, troglodyte. Brilliant. I mean it. He was at the very least smart enough to realize that he will never have the insight or prowess to fashion himself as a unique person. Instead, he nicknamed himself "Hollywood," (though I doubt he'd ever been there by that time), bought a lot of vests, and has landed somewhere between being a juicehead and a motivational speaker. He hawks his brand with the panache of a satisfied client on a Hair Club for Men commercial; hurling epigrams about how feeling good is looking good and taking every available opportunity to compare women to cars.

He uses his internet presence to tell everyone what he's about, which is essentially nothing. Positivity! Hot chicks and money! You're not rich because you're not working hard enough!

Still, women kiss his ass. For every banal, shallow observation about how everything he does is right and everything everyone else does is wrong, there are eight bimbos cooing about funny and wise he is. It goes without saying that these are the kind of women who are the human personifications of herpes, and are guaranteed to have fake breasts, nails, hair, tans, or all of the above. They tend to have even less substance than the men who are so desperate to fuck them.

Have you ever noticed that the people who are always about having a "positive attitude" and "achieving their dreams" are the people who have absolutely nothing under the surface? They're also the same people who don't watch the news, don't care about political issues, and claim to like all kinds of music. I guess it's really easy to be positive all the time when you spend your time not reading or attempting to contribute anything to society.

I have the consolation of knowing that in 20 years, this dipshit will be wearing Sears suits and selling used cars, but it still unnerves me that there are legions of dumb broads in America, swarming around men like him and their giant heads. It irritates the absolute shit out of me that anybody in the world thinks he's an authority on ANYTHING. But what irks me most of all is that he has the nerve to claim that he's "helping people". Here's a recent Facebook comment, full of self-deprecation and modesty:

"Do you know about the countless hours I've spent helping hopeless teenagers actually have a social life, get attention from women, change their image, have FRIENDS? Without asking for ANYTHING in return?"

Oh yes, you are an endless foundation of philanthropy! The world thanks you for your generous donation of hypocritical comments on other people's lives! You're the front-runner to win the Nobel Prize; they just made a new category for being a fucking self-absorbed worthless piece of shit! Everybody knows you're only helping your dick and your bottom line; just get over yourself.

I watched Twilight and I didn't throw up (but my eyes almost rolled out of my head)

 Ten years from now, it won't be funny. Just sad.

I'm pretty slow on the uptake as far as pop culture goes. I probably haven't heard whatever popular song is on the radio, and I didn't even get into Gaga until somewhere around mid-November of last year. I'm the kind of person that has to Google discussion board acronyms. I read a lot of stuff, but I guess I just don't really retain it. Moreso, I guess I don't get the appeal. Pop music is unoriginal, rom-coms are formulaic and I couldn't care less which bachelor some bitch is going to pick for her fake engagement.

Given my aversion to things other people like, I have been morally opposed to the entire Twilight franchise since its inception, for two very simple reasons. One, it was written by a Mormon (see my problem with these precocious wholesome phonies). Two, it's about high schoolers. That's how I know it has to be bad. Teenagers are the most self-centered, histronic, and completely useless members of society. They're like babies who can drive and swear.

So my husband, the one who likes flowers and candles and romance - I'm not really cut out for that whole thing - urged me to watch New Moon with him on Saturday. I've never seen the first Twilight movie, but he described the plot to me in painstaking detail. Girl moves to town, falls in love with school hearthrob, he takes her for a nice little tree-to-tree jumping session in the forest. Standard fare, if you like things that are stupid and make no fucking sense.

From the minute the opening credits rolled, I was about ready to shoot up antifreeze. The melodrama is RIDICULOUS. It pretty much takes a whole movie to say that Jacob likes Bella, and Edward is a stupid martyr, and Bella is overdramatic and unstable and completely unlikeable. There is no reason why every guy in this backwards-ass town should be in love with her. She really brings nothing to the table. Standing there with your mouth agape is not a personality. Not to mention the fact that these 'vampires' who are supposed to hundreds of years old act like they're all fucking twelve. AND THEY SPARKLE IN THE SUN. No. Real vampires die. I'll gladly take Eric Northman over Carlisle Cullen and his terrible dye job any day.

I did a little research, and the rest of the saga would indicate that it was written by someone who is certifiable psychotic. Hybrid babies? Clawing their way out of stomachs? Implied romantic feelings between said babies and seventeen-year-olds? This is what happens when you go to a church that makes you wear sacred underwear. Bram Stoker (or what's left of his eyeballs) is no doubt rolling in his grave.

I think what this really is all about is this absolute batshit insane idea of love in the Western Judeo-Christian world. It perpetuates the notion that even if you are nothing special, which, (kind of) sadly, most people are, it is possible that someone with substantial power, beauty, intelligence or influence will fall in love with you. Heart-wrenching, overwhelming, unconditional love with you. It's the love of fourteen-year-olds who think they'll meet someone who is dashingly handsome and they'll be together forever. It's the wish and hope that a man exists who wants nothing more to take you as his wife and take your panties off with the most delicate of touches. It's the dream of someone who will take no liberties with you, afraid to bruise your petals. Girls as flowers. Men as bees. Your Prince fucking Charming who will rescue you from mediocrity and make you beautiful and immortal and never let you go.

Why are we so desperate for these fantasies, for these means of escape? Why do we numb ourselves with antidepressants and dreams that will never be actualized? Have our lives become so painful that we cannot accept nor embrace the people that exist within them, the genuine bonds that inspire both sadness and joy? Are we so hungry for Hollywood's notion of 'real love' that we are unwilling to be satisfied with an honest smile, a whisper in the dark, and an occasional shouting match? When did we as a culture decide that we can't handle the reality of pain? Why is no one willing to experience palpable, substantial emotional anguish that makes us question who we are, what we believe in? Why are people so fucking terrified of feeling things? 

I remember a long time ago, when I was sadder than I'd ever been in my life. I was in counseling and it was recommended that I go on antidepressants. I flat-out refused. I'd rather be myself and miserable than someone else and happy, I decided. I'd rather embrace the fucked-up, complicated, unfeigned world than buy into the bullshit fantasy and spend my days longing for imaginary characters and impossible situations.

"The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me, to sell nylons. You're born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts. But I never forget. I'm living like there's no tomorrow, because there isn't one." - Don Draper

what women spend half their lives panicking about.

Being a woman is tough. Not only are we underpaid, overworked, objectified, stifled and otherwise made to feel like pieces of shit on a daily basis, we also are responsible for propagating the species. As such, our minds and bodies are never totally in sync. Even if the thought of reproducing makes us want to wretch, sometimes our uteri have other plans. There's a reason they're called "pregnancy scares." Women live in constant fear of being knocked up.

Even if you've been very careful, warning bells start to go off every time something in your body is out of wack. Tender breasts? You're up the duff. Fatigue? Absolutely preggo. Heartburn? Even if you ate Taco Bell that day, you can convince yourself that it's the result of a burrowing embryo. You assume the condom broke and you never noticed, or there was a pinprick you somehow overlooked. You rehash the day you took your birth control two hours late. You gasp in horror as you remember the moment you accidentally put on semen-stained underwear. You annoy the crap out of yourself with your obsessive thinking. The only time you're ever free of your neuroses is menopause (I've got about 25 years to go), or a month you don't have sex - which, if you're me, is non-existent. I think I've only gone intercourse-free for two menstrual cycles in eight years.

I remember having my first fertilization fright at the tender age of 16. I had unprotected sex with a much older man (brilliant, I know), and I remember my paranoia intensifying as my period remained in absentia for over a week. How was I going to explain this to my parents? Hadn't I learned my lesson from taking home that fake baby that cries in the middle of the night? The only thing I was able to glean from that experiment was that I could probably lie down next to a foghorn and sleep soundly. I'm immune to obnoxious baby cries! I don't know how to change a diaper! I'd be a terrible mother! I have to get an abortion! I don't have any money! My dad will cry because I'm a failure!

Of course, all this worry was for naught. I got my period. I made it through high school and college and a myriad of sex partners without a single positive pregnancy test. Now, I'm on a precipice. After two weeks of waiting patiently for my tardy menses, I'm preparing to take a test to confirm or deny the existence of a bun in the oven. Despite the fact that I have decent health insurance and a supportive spouse, I am freaking out.

Now that I'm married, everyone says it's not a big deal. I disagree. It's not an occasion to celebrate. It's not a blessing in disguise. It's a pain in the ass. Just because I actually intend on spending the rest of my life with the person who potentially impregnated me doesn't mean I'm thrilled about gestating. My husband is currently unemployed and my car doesn't even have air conditioning. I can't be responsible for another human being. My ovaries should know better.

Can't guess? It's the international symbol for a worst nightmare.

If I am pregnant, I know what I will do. I have the money to deal with it. It still doesn't allay the anxiety. Even women I know who already have children still get nervous whenever that time of the month rolls around. It's one of those things they never tell you about womanhood, like period diarrhea and those stray hairs that you have to pluck out of your chin. Our only consolation is that moment in which we divulge to our female friends our predicament... and they know exactly how we feel. At least we all suffer together.

UPDATE: Well, I got a visit from the crimson typhoon. But it took almost eight weeks - and you better believe I'll be in full-on panic mode in another five. Welcome to womanhood.

the post in which I make fun of abstinence-only sex education and die a little on the inside.

I was your run-of-the-mill suburban WASP type. I grew up in a house where sex was NOT discussed, save for a conversation with my mother at age 19 when she confessed that she found oral sex disgusting. Needless to say, everything I learned before having sex, I learned from inept, conservative, middle-aged sex education teachers. 

I didn't go to school during the era of abstinence-only education, though, and I thank the non-existent higher power for that. I was given enough of an education to know that condoms are effective, all chlamydia requires is some penicillin and the nearest abortion clinic was 35 miles away. I didn't learn about female orgasms (naturally, the discourse of desire fails women), but that what was my trusty $12 novelty vibrator from Spencer's that my boyfriend stole for me was for.

So I'm frustrated to see the outright lies that these government-funded "educational" groups lay thick on kids nowadays. A sampling:

- You can get HIV from sweat and tears

- 40-day old fetuses are "thinking people"

- Condoms are effective less than 70% of the time

- Abortion causes breast cancer and sterility  

Not to mention the fact that they either stigmatize queer youth or leave the LGBT experience out of teachings entirely, and perpetuate ridiculous gender stereotypes that are designed to boost the patriarchy and keep women devalued.

Apparently, as part of the curriculum in many states, they make kids in junior high draw (I use the term liberally) posters depicting the ills of sex and the joys of retaining your hymen. Note, of course, the onus is on girls to stop boys before they go too far - and if they get knocked up, it's their fault. I'm not criticizing the kids that make these posters - how are they to know better? I'm just furious that moralistic assholes who want to spread their bullshit gospel put young people's lives in jeopardy because they refuse to acknowledge reality and give teens the tools to protect themselves.

Let's read the inanity and weep, shall we?

 

I think this is probably the best advertisement for the rhythm method that I've ever heard.

I really like how this one throws in a "but," like, getting STDs is wicked awesome, but, then you might have to blow all your after-school job money on some offspring. Bummer, dude.

WHO GETS PERMS ANYMORE?! I'd much prefer a sticky white substance over an hour of burnt hair smell and months of poodle hair.

This bitch makes it sound like "intimate affection" is a bad thing. I bet her mother makes her douche with Lysol.

Reach for the stars! 

Intercourse: a one way ticket to quadruple-bypassville.

Uh, kiddo? Nobody told you about how propagating the species actually works, did they? Awkward.

Sex kills! So wait until you're married! So you don't die alone! I'm going to go kill myself now.

I'm not a candy. I also do my Kegel's. Nobody knows the difference.

I'm pretty quick to refute this one. Talking is dangerous. Talking is where your heart gets broken, not when someone's between your legs. It's pretty hard to tell someone their grandmother died mid-coitus.

It terrifies and saddens me that we're making junior high school students submit anti-abortion propaganda for a school project. The "mother" emphasis also really blows my mind. No wonder she aborted you - that's fucking obnoxious.

This is a great message, but it negates itself. First of all, if I'm using condoms, the implication is that I will not have a baby to feed. (That's what condoms are for, FYI, you adorable little undereducated tweens). And all I gotta do is put some Alpo in a bowl labeled "BABY," plop it down on the floor and we're good to go. Like pets, only you birth them!

There will be someone who will come along in your life. Someone incredibly attractive who you will think about from time and wish that you had bedded. And trust me, until you masturbate to someone you haven't seen in five years, you don't know the meaning of "too late."