This week was different. Thursday came and went with nary an idea. Friday flew by. Nothing. On Saturday morning, fueled by a Friday night trip to the Big A, and a weekend slate of football games on the tube, a few sports-centric column ideas popped up: Football in 2010 (boring, overdone), Fantasy Football and why I can't stop playing it even though my success rate would suggest I should have quit a long time ago (even more boring and overdone, and nobody wants to read about someone else's fantasy team, they want to talk about their fantasy team), the disappointment of this year's Los Angeles Angels team (so disappointing that they're not worth 2000+ words I'd need write to adequately describe the depth of their suckage , nor the 15 minutes it would take you to read those words. Also: really boring.)
1) The aggressive slathering of one's body with one of the many available flavors of douchesauce
I fully understand the desire to prevent oneself from smelling like a dead hobo with pockets full of chili in a dumpster behind a pet store, but the length that some men are willing to go to avoid this has swung so far in the other direction, I often find myself pining for some good old-fashioned B.O. The unnamed gentleman was so juiced up with eye-watering and cilia-burning levels of whatever flavor of AXE body spray he'd coated himself in that morning that I could taste it. I'm not sure what strain of douchesauce he'd chosen, but if I had to guess based on the sensory assault he was laying on everyone within a 50-yard radius of him, I'd say he had used no less than half a bottle of Dance Floor Rapist, Arctic Musk Chowder, or Uptown Spice Beast. Whatever it was, I think it gave me pink eye. Let's ease up on the bro-logne, gentlemen. Nobody likes a man that smells like someone dumped the contents of a spice rack into a bucket of Pine-Sol.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!
When I was in junior high, I used to gloop, glop, and spray my hair into a impervious (and ridiculous) Vanilla Ice-esque wave. You could have stuck me behind an engine of a 747 at full throttle and that thing wouldn't have budged. My excuse? I was 12, and an idiot. Thankfully, I realized the err of my ways (after a few years), gave up on the arsenal of styling products I'd become reliant on, and haven't looked back since. (I've been shaving my head for the better part of the last 15 years, and when I do actually have enough hair to require taming, I opt for something that allows my hair to be less like the the consistency of concrete and more like the consistency of, well...hair.) We all have phases. We grow out of them. We learn as we go. Most of us.
I suppose it's no surprise, based on the prior two hygiene-related muffs by the unnamed gentleman, that his hair was a train wreck as well. It was equal parts Jersey blowout, and nu-metal goon-crown. As if the stylistic catastrophe of his coif wasn't enough condemnation, the amount of gudge he had keeping his 'do in check was worse. It blew even the gunkiest of my teenage years out of the water. His spikes shone bright in the summer sun, like beacons of douchery, defying the elements. You could have skewered kabob on those things.
I'm gonna hazard a guess here, and say that women (and men, depending on your personal preference) probably prefer hair that they can run their fingers through, not hair that can make them lose an eye. And since all of this primping and preening is most likely done with the hopes of impressing a potential mate, it seems like turning your hair into a deadly weapon might be a bit counterproductive. Plus, when you're in the heat of passion, you're probably going to sweat that crap out and end up encrusting yourself and your significant other in a layer of Dep Extra Hold and Aqua Net. And we wouldn't want that to happen now, would we?