A Guide to Spotting the Idiots of Our Species: Males, Part I

Let’s face it, ladies. Telling the difference between some douchebag and a man of substance can be tricky. Or not.

And while some women don’t care, or even enjoy, being coupled with a dickhole of a man—either in dating or marriage—it’s my civic duty to help women who truly desire a decent fellow on their arm.

I’ve seen too many great women friends fall for the lowliest of men—and it’s both sad and frustrating to watch. Can’t they clearly see—as I can—that this guy is a dickhole?

(And before you get all pissy, I use the terms “dickhole” and “douchebag” freely here to refer to idiot men, and “skank” to refer to women who prefer, or like, dickholes and douchebags. If you’re offended, get a life and take a chill pill.)

Anyway, as a man myself, I have a lifetime of inside information to accompany the copious inferences listed below. You can trust the following tell-tale signs that show a man is a dickhole, or possibly a douchebag. But if you’re a woman and don’t agree, or find offense because I just outed your fellow, you’re probably a skank. And most of the men on this list love a skank, so don’t worry.

Let’s get to it, shall we? Any woman interested in finding a decent man should avoid:

1. Men who don’t look you in the eyes when speaking to you.This one should be easy, but too many women make excuses for such behavior. He’s deep. He’s troubled. His mind is too strong to merely exist in the “now” of the moment.

   No, he’s a shady fuck. If a man isn’t looking you in the eyes while speaking, he’s not deep or mysterious, he’s an asshole who is either lying or trying to hide the fact that he’s a dickhole.

   On the plus side for skanks, this fellow will try to maintain the “front” that he’s deep and meaningful for quite a while—until he’s outed, of course. Which always happens. And what do these fellows do once the world discovers they’re really shallow, lying sacks of shit? Look the other way…

2. Guys who wear Axe Body Spray.

   This stuff smells like rancid ass, and no man would ever dare to spray this substance on his person. And while any over-use of cologne is a sure-sign that a man is a douche (we should never be able to smell a man after he passes, or if we’re standing within ten feet) Axe Body Spray is the worst.Usually, Axe Body Spray is used to cover up “loser scent” that most douchebags produce naturally—an odor that is a combination of sweaty gym sock and cat piss.

   However, there are plenty of skanks who grew up near chemical plants, or have no sense of smell, and find Axe Body Spray attractive. But let’s face it… men who use this smell like the freshly mopped floor of a Mexican hotel. (Disclaimer: That last statement is not racist. I am fortunate enough to live in a mixed culture, and I love Mexico, even Mexican hotels. The floors of a Mexican hotel are always freshly mopped, and have an acrid, sweet chemical odor that is not unpleasant for hotel floors, but should not be associated with a living human being. That’s all I’m saying.)

3. Men who have a chain attached to their wallets.Nobody is going to steal your six dollars, you douchebag fuck.
4. A man with a tattoo on the neck or hand.Look, there are some really really stupid men out there, and I always wished that they just had a sign on their forehead that said “dickhole.” This is as good as you’re going to get.

   Usually narcissistic, aggressive, and confident without any logical reason to be confident, these are perhaps the most easy to spot.

   However, the incredible depth of their stupidity and douchebaggery can often work as a magnet for the skank who wants to stand out in a crowd.

5. The man who is a bona-fide Gym Rat.He’s got little outfits and special clothes, probably wafting Axe Body Spray while watching himself watch himself watch for hotties in the mirror while doing his “reps.”

   Look, a real man doesn’t need to work out, and will still have a manly body—not some model’s body that (in time and with scant neglect) will turn into roundness and soft lines. Kind of womanly, eventually.

   A real man can change his oil, lay a concrete footer for a retaining wall, and screw his lady—all in the time it takes a Gym Rat to do his “routine” for that marvelous, cut body. If you’ve got no scrapes or calluses on your hands from doing actual work, you’re likely a soft douche.

   Besides, real work is good for the mind. Lifting a weight for no logical reason over and over and over again? It’s boring, and that’s why Gym Rats are usually the most boring people in the world. Unless they’re looking into that mirror. Fortunately for Gym Rats, many women, like many men, are fooled by packaging.

6. Dickholes who replace their perfectly functioning headlights for those super-bright and annoying LED headlights.My god, you’re an asshole.

   6b. Douchebags who replace perfectly functioning tire rims for stupid-looking, expensive, giant and impractical rims.

   My god, you look like an idiot. Thank you for letting the rest of us know.

7. Loud men.One of my favorite African proverbs is: The louder the drum, the more hollow. I don’t know why some people think that volume is somehow associated with character or substance, but there are plenty of skanks out there who like to stand out in a crowd, to see all the heads turn in their direction.

   But people are really turning to wonder who the fucking loud douchebag is.

8. Men who wax any part of their body. 

   Let’s face it… They’re merely homosexual (and there’s nothing wrong with that). But really, it’s just a matter of time.

9. The tough guy.He’s so sexy! He doesn’t care what other people think (even you, his lady). He’ll say and do what he thinks when he feels like it, no matter who will suffer.

   Because he is so small on the inside (and possible “down there”) he must crush and stomp others to make himself feel like a man.These are the most dangerous douchebags out there, and skanks love them. Many regular women mistake the tough guy’s vapid posturing as character, but tough guys are shallow and prone to bringing females down to a prehistoric and guttural level. Domestic violence, anyone? Again, some skanks love it.

That’s all for now. Part two will come sometime later, but feel free to leave a comment on dickholes and douchebags I haven’t identified yet… or if you disagree.

And yes, I will cover women too in the coming days…

But ladies? Please do yourself a favor and steer clear of any of the above, or show this to a fellow who you think might be decent, but is showing evidence of douchebaggery. Maybe there’s still time (Hint: There isn’t. He’s always going to be a douchebag).

And fellas? If you made the list, consider changing your ways. You’ll still be a dickhole, but you might be able to hide it for a little while (Hint: Not for long. Settle down with a nice skank and get it over with).

Letters to New York, #11

Dear New York,Listen.

No, I mean REALLY listen.

You can’t expect me to be rational, to be sane, living under these conditions. The world is turning to shit like never before (or like it always has), and nobody, not even you, seems to care.

I am not a pig in a pen on antibiotics, awaiting slaughter. I’m a god-damned human being. And as such, I would have to be either insane, or full of rage, in order to live under these conditions.

Sometimes I look out at your figure cut against the sky, and can almost see the buildings quiver in the breeze, flat cardboard cut-outs of buildings ready to flop over, exposing their wood-framed facades.

But you are a reflection of those who made you, of those who you allow within. I feel no sorrow for your condition, except that you are not full of rage or insane. Apathy is death of the soul. Made of propped-up cardboard, quivering in the breeze and fragile as a teardrop, I hope you no harm, but I cannot protect you from yourself.

J

Letters to New York, #9

Dear New York,

So besides the filthy and insulting things you tend to throw at me, some of the most insulting are mere ideas. 

Like your insinuation that your noncommittal had nothing to do with me wanting to leave, with leaving. Why would I leave you if you allowed me into your arms? Tell me. Why. 

You can’t answer because there is none. I wouldn’t leave. But you never really gave me a chance, did you? No, you treated me like any other man in the gutter of your streets. You’re the type to kick a man when he’s down just because you can. 

Nevermind that I brought on all this sorrow myself… I can’t even remember things, that’s how insane I was. And you—selfish, petulant like a child, roaring with unfounded rage—have spent all this time hating me with ever cell of your being. 

Last night you spoke of lost chances. And yes, our chance is lost forever. You also spoke of never knowing what the future will bring. 

But you’ve designed this future, you’ve destroyed the chance.  

I love you, you know. 

J

Letters to New York, #7

Dear New York,

Yesterday was bad… how long will I have to go through this with you? Does it ever stop? Will there ever be a day when I can look up at the sky and sigh, knowing with every cell of my body that you are mine?

Do you understand how complicated I am, or are you as simple as you seem? It’s got to be one or the other. At first, I thought you were god-like in your understanding, your depth. But I’m afraid it might’ve been smoke and mirrors (my own doing).

I’m a human being, not an automaton. That’s why I don’t fit in here, or anywhere perhaps. I don’t give much weight to miscellaneous stimuli, which is what you’re all about, New York.

And you’re probably not getting these letters, even though when I let one go, I always watch it flutter down Broadway. Surely you get them. You must know how I feel.

I hope today is better.

Letters to New York, #6

Dear New York, 

I wonder if our constant bickering is good for us. You know, perhaps it’s not an indicator of emotional involvement as much as it is an indicator of emotional detachment. Hard to call. 

But when you stormed off last night, leaving me standing on a corner in Hell’s Kitchen, I didn’t run after you like I always do. Instead, I sat on the filthy curb and watched your retreating figure get smaller and smaller. You never even turned around. And what did I say? That sometimes, only sometimes, you seem shabby in certain light, down certain streets. Is it not true? And didn’t I admit that I too am shabby in certain light, down certain alleyways of the mind?  

You are so impertinent, so rash. I hope you had as good a time as I did, New York. Next time, let’s not play truth or dare. Some things are just too much to ever be said. 

J

Letters to New York, #5

New York,

I’m glad we got together last night after work. It was so nice to see you waiting for me…when the stale air pushed me out into the night, the doors closed behind me and there you were. You smelled like rain, and you shivered slightly in the cold. Taking my arm, we walked the glistening streets with their hissing cars to the subway.

It was the first time you ever went out of your way for me, the first time you waited just for me. And I know. I’m just saying. Sometimes, you may not realize the extent to which I am constantly at your feet, forever yours. It’s easy to feel used by you, I guess.

But feeling you lean into me for warmth, your voice asking me to stay through the summer (temptress!) to see your blossoms. The quietness of our steps in the moments of thought.

Once at the subway, we parted wordlessly, everything said or left unsaid. Pulling away, your lips brushed my cheek, like the flutter of a eyelash, and I feel them still.

Today, I will come to you.

J

Letters to New York, #3

New York,

I can’t believe that you would be so petulant, so self-absorbed. It seems that it happens to everyone who comes into contact with you… as if merely living in you makes a person more important.

It doesn’t.

And what’s more, just because a person lives with you, New York, doesn’t make them smarter either. I’ve seen them all. There are fancy-college grads that can’t negotiate a guard-rail, homeless people with the wisdom of Homer, and so many people composed of nothing but gas and vapor… all more concerned with their own shittings and pissings so that they’re oblivious to the actual world.

Living with you is like an alternate reality, like Disneyland for the common American adult who, having quashed their capacity for true elation and surprise, finds comfort in your false mirror.

You make me sick sometimes, New York. But I still miss you. I’m sorry for what I said before you left my apartment.

Call me.

J

Letters to New York, #2

Dear New York,

You’re really being quite unreasonable. All I said is that I’m leaving, that I have to leave, and you stormed away, trailing leaves and fluttering bits of trash in the wake of your cold air. I find it strange because there are 15 million others here, thrashing out a living, so why so belligerent with me?

After you left, I sat and wondered over you. Your smell of mold and exhaust and stale wetness lingered in my apartment. Not a bad smell. After living with you for so long, I find it comforting. But still…

So I looked at a couple of photos of us, earlier times when we were happier, when you were less hard and demanding, when I wasn’t so scattered and tattered.

Are there two of you, or more? What happened to that City that calmed my nerves so long ago, that kept me from madness? Now, you are the source of madness, New York. You.

I hope we can have a more rational discussion later… and when you come, bring all of the yous within you.

J

Letters to New York, #1

Dear New York,

Waking up this morning, I turned over and you were there, looking lovely and a bit chilly. I threw my arm around you. You smelled funny, like you always do.

But in my dreams, you were very different than you are when awake. We laughed and skipped our way along clean streets, with shopkeepers coming out of their doors, and strangers stopping to smile and wave at us as we went gamboling by.

I bought you a hot dog and you pecked at it like a pigeon. You weren’t so hard and rigid as you normally are, but pliant, yeilding beneath my hands as I reached first base, then second, and you hissed for me to “stop” even though the old man wasn’t looking at us. I don’t know how I knew, but the old man had cataracts and couldn’t see, but you didn’t believe me. So I was left on second.

But, awake now, I can’t shake the dream of you, New York, the simplicity. You look hard again, and too cold for me alone to help with the warmth. I will be here though, waiting for the night.

J

Letters to New York, #4

New York,

I can’t believe that you would be so petulant, so self-absorbed. It seems that it happens to everyone who comes into contact with you… as if merely living in you makes a person more important.

It doesn’t.

And what’s more, just because a person lives with you, New York, doesn’t make them smarter either. I’ve seen them all. There are fancy-college grads that can’t negotiate a guard-rail, homeless people with the wisdom of Homer, and so many people composed of nothing but gas and vapor… all more concerned with their own shittings and pissings that they’re oblivious to the actual world.

Living with you is like an alternate reality, like Disneyland for the common American adult who, having quashed their capacity for true elation and surprise, finds comfort in your false mirror.

You make me sick sometimes, New York. But I still miss you. I’m sorry for what I said before you left my apartment.

Call me.

J