Friday, April 13, 2007

The Hollywood Bagtor


I suppose I should be used to the Actor ‘Bags. After all, I live in Los Angeles, swamp nest of what I like to call “Bagtors,” those hairy, muscely bartender wannabes who haunt every streetcorner from Trader Vics over to Hillhurst. But I’m not. Watching them smear hotties with their circa 2003 solid-color-shirt and jean-jacket look and oozing Grieco Virus from every clogged pore is enough to make me itch in uncomfortable and mostly psychosomatic ways.

Bagtors shouldn’t bother me by now.

But then again, I think we’ve safely established that I’m a bitter-ass douchebag myself. And so I dream happy thoughts of their eyebrows catching fire through the careful use of a butane cigarette lighter, and their hotties awakening from their slumber to realize the grease stains on their walls aren’t the latest exotic desert mold but where their Bagtor left a stain when he bumped into the wall after too many energy drinks and vodka shots.

Which leads us to this D-List choad. When not busy getting killed in the first ten minutes of “The Hills Have Scrote III,” he’s busy cleaning up the cocktail waitress hotties like a douche vacuum cleaner. For that alone he deserves our collective mock.

So since it’s Friday, and we’re all prepping for hoped for binge drinking and boobie grabbing filled evenings, lets take a moment to Zen ourselves and use our collective mental energy to simply perform that most ancient of social rituals, The Mocking of the Bagtor.

There. Don’t you feel better?

# posted by douchebag1

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