Honorary Douchebag of the Month: Quentin Tarantino
Quentin Tarantino is a douche.
I can’t deny it any longer.
I looked the other way for years. I made excuses when he launched his Broadway “acting” career. I chalked up his self-reflexive babbling and guest directing gigs on E.R. to the indulgence of creative eccentricity.
But then he showed up as a guest judge on American Idol.
Verdict: Douche.
When you choose to be that close to The Seacrest, your essence is transformed into mass culture backwash.
Yes, Dogs was a seminal movement. A rupture event of self referencing filmic pastiche, Hong Kong coolness writ large. But that was long ago. Today, douchedom surrounds the Q.T. like a glowing ball of rectal itch.
So we need to face facts. Q.T., ass kicking filmic revolutionary of the 1990s, is now tool. Lets not get a taco.
It’s like trying to convince yourself that that girl you had a crush on in high school didn’t gain sixty pounds, pop out some kids, and is sitting in a trailer somewhere, reading In-Style while watching TMZ and living off disability checks. Sometimes all you’re clinging to is the faded memory of former glory. The perfect ripe cleavage of long ago. Boobies that exist only in recollection. In nostalgic hues long past.
But the past is the past. It has to be said. Quentin Tarantino is an inglorious douchetard.
And Fergie, I know the masses mock you as not that hott, but to me, you’re still a juicy little boob eyed pea.
