The Sounds of Douchebag America

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (fourth edition) defines insightful as: “characterized by or displaying insight; perceptive.”  Need I say more?  One of the cornerstones of opinion journalism is perception, and one of the other cornerstones is insight.  So, I mean, I’m pretty insightful, basically.  Can you argue with the American Heritage Dictionary?  Of course not.  No one would do something that weird.  That’s why I use that trick all the time.

Back when I was writing for the college newspaper, campus politics gave me so many opportunities to totally neutralize complicated happenings.  For example, there was a controversial altercation involving a drunk freshman yelling epithets, threats, and ethnic slurs at a group of African-American students. I don’t remember the situation; they were probably having a dance party, but people accused the kid of racism.  Then some people said he was merely inebriated, and then some said the kid was racist.  Finally, I put a stop to that argument.  I wrote in my, ahem, weekly editorial column, and I think I can quote it verbatim, that “racism, defined by Dictionary.com, is ‘a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.’  On the other hand, inebriation is defined as ‘to make drunk.’  I think it’s safe to say, judging by the definitions of these words, and the things did and spoken, that the kid was inebriated.  But also racist.”  Well, that settled the score.  When I published that column six weeks after the incident, everyone ceased to mention it, as if I had silenced the discourse by making one simple decree.  Another columnists on the paper congratulated me for “reminding everyone what simple words meant,” and when I asked him if he was being facetious (I don’t say sarcastic anymore; sarcastic was replaced by facetious once I finished freshman year of college), he said, “Look it up.”  So I did.  After thorough speculation, I surmised that, yeah, he was being facetious.  Good thing I double-checked it with the dictionary, though; to be honest, I’m surprised I didn’t have one on my person at that moment.

After I graduated college (BA in English, Cum Laude…but not Summa or Magna, because of some absurd injustice most likely enacted by the school), I became an Information Age opinion journalism entrepreneur: I started a blog.  Faithful readers frequently commented with grievances regarding the blog’s inflated language, er, rather, its unjustified grandiloquence.  I replied that the dictionary defined grandiloquence as pompous or bombastic writing, thus I couldn’t be grandiloquent because I was too self-aware and thoughtful to fall into the “pomposity trap,” which, by the way, is my coinage.  My father read it and told me I needed a narrower theme in lieu of daily ruminations on the things around me.  He thought it was intellectually pedestrian.  I told him if he beat me at Scrabble, I would revise the blog as per his request.  He turned down the offer.  He said, “By this point, I’d say you memorized the dictionary.”

I was surprised by his reaction, I guess.  My parents are what gave me my gift for giving the last word, the final verdict, as it were.  They told me, as their only child, that I was inexhuastible.  I possessed so much energy, and I always demanded they purchase me books whether I would actually read them or not.  “You really have a love for words,” they said to me.  “You just can’t stop using them.”  Believe it or not, my parents are the people who bought me my first dictionary.  “Can’t say whether or not we regret that.”  Hahaha.  I wonder if they were ever oblivious to my penchant for language.  Oblivious, now there’s a word I can look up over and over again.  Seems appropriate at the moment; I’m not sure why.

Let me just give you a brief sampling, if you don’t mind: Christy Mathewson, in 1905 (at the age of 27, which isn’t important, but, you know, just thought I would throw it in there) got the most consecutive scoreless innings in a World Series, that Washington and Lee were the 2007 NCAA Division III national champions (that’s right, I got my college basketball covered), that Bobby Orr won a record eight Norris Trophies for his work as a defenseman for the Boston Bruins (oh, and that was from 1967-1975)…I could go on and on if you want.  I got beach volleyball, World Cup, even statistics from the Homestead Grays…they’re all up here in this little noggin of mine.

I only mention all of this because I’m appalled by your notion of what constitutes being a fan of sports.  “Oh, I have season tickets to the Blackhawks,” blah blah blah.  I could watch every Blackhawks game there ever was, and not know a goddamn thing about sports.  Do you know who the best major league pitcher was in 1983?  Who won the gold in Nagano for the luge?  How do you even enjoy a hockey game if you don’t know your curling statistics?  God, these posers with their ESPN2 and their sporty paraphernalia.  This is why I’ve taken to, oh, what’s the word…liberate?…people from their mindless game-watching.  Whenever there are friends sitting around, drinking beer and watching a Red Sox game, I don’t get how they watch in ignorance.  They have to know Cinco Ocho (Papelbon, by the way) had a 1.85 ERA with 300 strikeouts, or that Tim Wakefield debuted in 1992 for the Pittsburgh Pirates.  That’s the real gold of the game, not the action.  Of course, my fun facts distract them from seeing a home run when it happens sometimes, and it’s probably harder for them to hear the announcers, but, hey, that’s what I like to call enhanced sports viewing.

Plus, all my co-workers got their fantasy baseball thing going on, and they just bicker and argue and ridicule each other for this or that decision, and then give goofy excuses for each other and themselves.  Ridiculous!  RBI this and WHIP that, as if they know what they’re talking about.  They’re always one-upping each other with what they know about whom, talking about how they appreciated Elvis Andrus’ talent before he was even a shortstop.  I don’t mind it that much, to be honest.  Not that much really bugs me, but what really drives me up a wall is when my hipster friends start talking about their music.  Ugh.  They’re always one-upping each other with what they know about whom, talking about how they appreciated this songwriter before he was even in this band.  God, it drives me up a wall.  It’s intolerable, having to take part in that kind of conversation.

People always ask, “But what’s the point of memorizing all this stuff?”  I don’t know, what’s the point of you being a dick about my lifestyle choices?  I’d be so good at bar trivia, at least in the three or four sports questions they throw in there, but I don’t usually go to bar trivia because there’s always a game on.  I mean, yeah, sometimes they show them at the bar during trivia, but I’d rather give my full attention and scribble notes if I get a chance.  I could rock those categories on Jeopardy, too, but I always have a game DVR’d.  Can you blame me?  Sometimes a guy has to catch up on his water polo.

I think I know what I’m doing, alright?  I’ve been walking unassisted since I was three years old, and I’ve been doing it in public since I was eleven.  You think that after doing something for fifteen years I would still be bad at it?  I can walk about like the best of them.  I can do it while chewing gum, while listening to music, while talking on the phone.  I can even do it while putting on a sweater.  I, for one, am very confident in my walking abilities, so why would I need to give it that much attention?

I don’t understand why people can’t be proud of my accomplishments.  I walk wherever I want whenever I want, and I have yet to sustain any major injuries.  Everyone always wants a big old “Congratulations” for all that they’ve done.  “Oh, I just released a record,” “Oh, I just got accepted to Harvard Law,” “Oh, I just had septuplets”…no one’s ever acknowledging my accomplishments.  This is all I got; I haven’t accomplished anything else.

Also, isn’t it supposed to be cool to have a carefree attitude?  To be a rebel, to question authority?  Maybe the flashing orange hand shouldn’t be some concrete rule.  Maybe it shouldn’t even be a suggestion.  People already agree that, if there are no cars on the road, then there’s no point standing there waiting for the lights to change.  So they just walk.  But why not take it one step further?  The point is: it’s a flashing orange hand of oppression.  I’m not going to let flashing lights tell me how I should move my feet (unless I’m in a nightclub, thank you very much).

Okay, to be honest, I haven’t thought about this that hard until people started asking me why I’m okay with running out in front of cars “like a dog.”  I don’t go out walking with that many people, but I didn’t know it would make people so nervous for me to jaywalk at night on a busy street without looking both ways.  And it was easier on my self-esteem to come up with crazy rationalizations than to adjust my conduct, so that’s what I did.  “Left then right then left,” they say.  “Didn’t you learn that in school?”  Forget looking to the sides.  I have my own vision.   I’m always looking forward.

The one thing that seems to get people the most is this: the red light’s about to change.  A lot of eager drivers waiting to get to work (this is my favorite time to walk: rush hour), or hoping to get their kids to daycare, or not to be late for their doctor’s appointment…you know, important stuff.  And then, wait for it–the millisecond before it turns green, my foot hits the pavement, and I cross the street.  They have to yield to me while the system tells them to go.  You got to admit: that’s pretty subversive.  Hopefully by the time I cross, the light turns red again, but, whatever, I’m not picky.  I used to just do it without mulling over the consequences, but now that friends of mine have called attention to it, it’s become kind of a thrill for me.  The looks on those people’s faces.  Just…the anger, you know?  Besides, drivers get mad at “obnoxious” pedestrians, pedestrians get mad at obnoxious drivers, and guess what?  People switch roles all the time.  One minute you’re mad at a pedestrian; next minute, you are that pedestrian.  I’m just trying to show the world its own hypocrisy.

All I have to say is, good thing my mother doesn’t see this.  She would probably have a heart attack if she saw how many buses I’ve managed to grind to a halt, or how many cabs lay on their horns until I’m done pretending to hail them and jump right in front of them.  On the other hand, maybe if I explain my reasoning to her, she might approve.  She might even be proud of me.  I don’t really know what she’ll think of anything I say or do, what with her dementia.  My father, though, bless his heart, he encourages it like there’s no tomorrow.  He’s an auto insurance salesman, so I guess that makes sense.

Yo, when I was studying abroad in Madrid, you wouldn’t believe how nice everyone was to me.  There was Alvaro, who kind of reminded me of your friend Jon, actually…he’s a clever guy, he likes the Decemberists and gets a kick out of Fawlty Towers…speaks really good English, too.  His girlfriend’s a totally sweet gal as well…I think her name’s Lucia, and, to be honest, she’s kind of like a mix of my girlfriend and  your friend Marla.  She’s kind of a combination of those two.  On one hand, she’s hot and has good taste like my girlfriend, but has the crippling self-esteem issues Marla has.  I don’t know, basically a lot of people I met over there reminded me a lot of our mutual friends, and I mean, I missed you, for sure, but for whatever reason, I feel like they just did it better than you guys.

Plus, they taught me so much about their culture.  I learned that they have McDonalds in Spain, that everyone goes to see all the American blockbusters (but with dubs and sub-titles!), and, most importantly, I learned how to toast.  You see, you don’t just click glasses and look the other person in the eye, or say something stupid and American like “Cheers” or “L’chaim”…you say, wait for it, wait for it…”Salud.”  See, that’s so much cooler than “To life” or “Cheers.”  It translates roughly as “Health,” in case you didn’t know that (probably because you’re a product of a grossly backwards American educational system).  They say that when people sneeze, too.  In fact, I like that more than “God bless you.”  I say that not because the notion of your soul escaping out of your nose is ridiculous, but because Spanish people do it, while Americans don’t.

Dude, all my friends over there were so much cooler than you!  I cannot stress that point enough.  And everyone sounded so funny.  Even when they weren’t making jokes or being awesomely witty, they sounded hilarious with their accented English and whatnot…I mean, most people I came across in Madrid spoke English anyway, but man, they add a little twist to it that kills me.  I never laughed that hard in America; I never will, either. I made up my mind, don’t even try me.  This one kid, Esteban, he came from Barcelona, but he had the accent so it kind of sounded like a lisp.  So cool.  I wish I knew people here who had hilarious half-lisps.

That’s the other thing, too.  Americans are so self-absorbed.  I was talking about how Esteban was like her friend Jeff only less of a drunk, and she says, “Well, maybe it’s not nice for you to constantly yammer on and on about how much we suck compared to your friends in Madrid.”  God, Marla!  This conversation isn’t about you.  Such a typical American: turning the conversation back to herself and her problems.  I guess she’s insecure as always, but why does she have to be such an American bitch?  No one in Madrid ever gave me a hard time when I talked about you guys.  I didn’t, to be honest, but still, Americans don’t even listen.  Probably because they were born with a brain defect or something, some weird American douche-gene.

I miss it so much.  Studying abroad there totally changed my life.  All the good times watching Hollywood movies, watching American television shows on Hulu, going out to international fast food chains for a quick snack…see, that’s the stuff.  Americans doesn’t know diversity.  They don’t know genuine culture.  That’s not my problem, though.  That’s your problem.  Maybe you should try studying abroad or leaving the country, if your parents have enough money to throw at you.  Seriously.  It’s so important to me, I’m thinking of writing my graduate school essay about it.  I think it will totally catch their attention.

What a twat she was.  What a beautiful, smart, and cutely awkward twat.  It’s funny; back when we were both vacationing with our families in Louisiana about four years ago, I would rent a car and drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge just to see her.  An eighty-mile drive, took about ninety minutes.  She wouldn’t let me sleep over because she said it was “too humid” for another body in the bed.  I took the drive nearly everyday, and I was supposed to be visiting family.  We had a cataclysmic fight, and then the next day, BAM, Hurricane Katrina hit.  How appropriate.  She looked gorgeous, though, with the wet T-shirt and her hair blowing in those violent gusts of wind.  I asked her to drive out of the city with me.  “Run away with me,” I said.  She refused.  “I need to stay with my family; they’re important to me, after all,” she said.  Family.  Pssh.  That stupid, stupid bitch.

Did you know that she had some kind of emergency or whatever for our third anniversary?  Of course you didn’t.  I was pretty excited about it because I had remembered it was our anniversary (for once), and I was all like, “Dude, let’s go out or something; it’s a pretty big deal.”  “I can’t,” she says.  Why?  “I think I need to go to the hospital.”  Fuck her.  That’s what she decides to get me for our anniversary: a hepatitis C episode.  I bitched her out all the way to the doctor’s office.  Then she got mad when I told her she looked hot with jaundice-eyes.  I looked it up on the Internet later that disease transmission most commonly comes from the blood of an infected person.  She probably cheated on me with one of her constantly-bleeding druggie friends.  I told her she should make it up to me, so, out of the goodness of her heart, she baked me an apology cake.  I mean, I freaked out and didn’t eat it, because what if she got her period-blood all over the cake?  She was raggin’ all the time.  I mean, all the time.  We rarely had sex.  And it was strawberry shortcake, after all.  I don’t even like strawberries.  Not anymore, anyway.

She totally started getting weird on me in the last days of the relationship too.  All she wanted to do was sit around, drink, and watch television, so we watched a lot of television.  I can’t even watch Discovery Channel or House anymore without thinking about all the fights we had about how she owes me money for scotch and beer.  They really turned me on because they ended with her being like, “I’m broke; I’ll pay you back later” and me being like “Bitch, pay me back now,” and then she’d get this weird, half-grimace, half-smile on her face, and then I would pin her down and I would hit it.  I would hit that shit so hard.  That shit was so hot for me; I really get off on girls with, like…with that much self-respect, you know?  Too bad her self-respect didn’t amount to much more than her being a hepatitis-ridden waste of time.

I mean, it didn’t get violent or anything.  We would yell at each other, of course, or even better, leave each other angry messages.  I texted her “Fuck you you stupid bitch rot in hell,” but I had T-9 and was too enraged to proofread so it said, “Dual you you stupid citag.”  What is a citag, anyway?  I love that story.  Hilarious.  See, those were the good times.  Right before we forced our mutual friends to pick sides during our more drawn-out arguments, or when I tried to silence her umpteenth “you’re a misogynist” rant by jamming my boner in her mouth…but it didn’t reach the point where I would call it “unhealthy.”  I still look back on the times fondly, I guess, at least the times where she wasn’t a gigantic, blubbering cunt.  Which doesn’t amount to much, but still, I liked when she was quiet and didn’t drink and smoke all the time, which happened as we dated more and more.  As we got closer with each other.

The point is that I just de-friended her on Facebook and MySpace.  Can’t wait to see the look on her face when she discovers that.  I probably won’t, but man, she had a beautiful face.  Such a beautiful face, smile…man, I miss her sometimes.  Oh well, why cry over spilt milk?  I could probably do better.  In fact, I think I will.  I can only go up from here, the bitch.