Sunday Musings
As I sit on my floor and scratch myself, I contemplate the collective hangover. The alcoholic fueled stomach churn that defines Sunday in ways the Puritans would weep over.
As I ruminate, one image returns to my musings.
The douche-face.
The punch-worthy ode to a culture gone wrong. The mask of courage displayed with false macho bravura while hiding the greasy underbelly. The performative smirk covering the insecurities that accompany any temporary possession of the hott.
But isn’t the douche-face also a metaphor for the universal struggle? The desire for a guy to rise above the herd and conquer the boobie prize by acting like a tool? Perhaps.
Because the douche-face embodies the eternal struggle within male-female pursuit. It speaks to the chaos that has fueled all of the great art, literature, and Skinemax soft-glo porn of historical record. Competitive, aggressive and insecure horny young wanks desperately grabbing at suckle worthy thighs. Confused hotties struggling to make sense of the entire world coming at them in a burst of collective mount.
Sure the cultural dress-up may change the forms and variations of expression. But every culture has their hott prizes, and annoying douches flip flopping like grease fires trying to catch those prizes. Like Napoleon. Total douchebag. Or Caesar. What a punk.
And yet today’s douche/hott combos are also unique. We face a plague unprecedented in their smack worthy grease faces.
So what does all of this mean?
I find no conclusions at the bottom of my bowl of Lucky Charms this morning. Only pink milk.
