Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

You are convinced that you’ve seen her before, in various lounges and parlors but only when you and your friends go out to the nicer neighborhoods. When you see her, she floats across a crowded floor, glowing, diffracting light at a wavelength different than the people around her as they just vibrate into the wallpaper with the beat of the background music.

No one seems to know who she is. You’ve seen her talk to dozens of people though you’ve never heard her voice. Is she an apparition; does she even exist? You fall back into the bassinet of your mind and daydream about her under the blacklight. She must exist, you think to yourself. In essence, she is the most complete depiction of what a meaningful life contains. If existence precedes essence, then she MUST be real… right?

You look up from the back of your eyelids to realize that she has just ordered a drink next to you at the bar. You forget who and where you are. Your identity and self-concept are in tatters. You fail to generate thoughts let alone words, and it is only because of your ingrained male reflex that you offer to buy that drink. She politely thanks you and begins a well-rehearsed recital accounting why she is here and how her weekend plans just fell through.

Every word she speaks fits in its place, every delicate expression she emotes finds warm reception in your ears. It’s as if she is reading your screenplay for a part in the story which she, herself, inspired. Soon enough you secure her number and plans for a rendezvous the next evening. You exit gracefully and immediately begin planning the over-the-top gestures you will make in an attempt to stimulate someone whom you are still not fully certain inhabits your plane.

You pick her up and take her to a place where the two of you can be seen together. Her radiant beauty is actually overshadowed by a trained aloofness, and this begins to bother you. You compensate through a deliberate diminishment of your conversation in the hopes that she will relate to it. The exchange has a regular flow to it; she is polite and sends fitting ripostes with appropriate timing. You have an overwhelming feeling, however, that she will not allow you to determine anything of significance about her. She is taking everything from you and giving nothing in return.

The fog of her spell lifts as she click-clacks her heels in a perfect line to the ladies room, leaving you to question why you’re acting this way. Why are you letting her dictate the pace of this date? You are an amazing person with funny and insightful anecdotes. You come from a good family and have nothing but estimable years ahead of you. Why are you allowing this sick, ill-advised act of self-reassurance to continue?

On the ride home, you discuss the remaining superficial topics and, even though you seem to have similar interests, you realize that this engagement has a rapidly-approaching expiration date. She thanks you for the evening as you exchange niceties at the door. You kiss her on the cheek and say goodbye. You will never see her again. You call her a couple of times, but no one ever answers. This comes as no real surprise, though, because after all, she never existed in the first place.

A significant part of you was lost that night and you will never get it back. She was not an apparition. She was a drug. She was a mistake. She was a test with no lesson. She was the most painful two-and-a-half hours of your life. You fail to explain yourself even to yourself and begin to fall into masochistic deprecation. You poison yourself with consumption and delusion, lying about how you never cared about her that much in the first place.

You’d do it all over again if she asked you to.

First Runner-Up goes to Moaz’s Stacey

Stacy’s youth allows her to feign inexperience in the game, but do not be fooled. Her eyes produce the stare of a professional which has the effect of a laser-induced plasma channel. One look at her and you realize that she will have nothing less than the 2001 Caymus Cabernet, nothing less than the off-menu foie gras cinnamon puff dessert, and nothing less than Italian leather cupping her dainty turd-cutter on the ride home. You will spend nothing less than five years telling your friends how you didn’t mind overdrafting your account to stare into those eyes for an hour.

Second Runner-Up goes to Vinnie’s Monique/Alyssa

Monique is a popular piece. She can be seen plenty of times and goes by multiple names. The hair coloring, anorexic eye-bags and after-market snack trays indicate that, though she does not like very many things about herself, Alyssa is keenly aware that other people very much like parts, er… things about her. She might let you play with the Pointer Sisters, but you’d better OWN the silver mine that bore the spoons in your mouth.

Third Runner-Up goes to Jeff’s Angie

A Moby Dick of European stature was very hard to find in this year of austerity and strikes. The economic crises of the Old World (no respect) has led to an exodus of Mulattoes (respect and boner) flocking to North America like so many Hungarian gypsies claiming refugee status in Canada and hiding in boats to cross the mighty St. Lawrence river to the promised land of America. Eurobags are out of cash and they habe no flash my honkies.

British people attended a ridiculous spectacle of Olympic proportions this past summer with those f@cking teeth, f@cking duck I hate those f@ckers. Kenneth Branagh is a world class homo-sucking banger- eating wuss douchebag. Camilla’s face haunts me from a nether world of creepy knights in armour and tales of Belgian soldiers hopped up on poppy dust and dark warm beer-like beverages.

Germany will rise against Holy Israel as these end times approach my brothers. Har’ Mageddeon is near in the festive time of Christian rituals and Yamaha wearing Jews eating their poached and stuffed carp and shit. We will wage war against the Eurobags and win the war against pigs feet and souvlaki platters.

The winner of the coveted and Greek-hating Peloponnesian “Most Euro Eurobag” comes from way back last January on the same day I resumed my studies of higher economics and ‘tang. The one, the only, the ripped jean spectacular of craptastic Polish sausage and schnitzel enema’d European excess and f@cking douchebaggery is The Brobot.

There are no runners up this year. Austerity reminds me of a girl I knew who had herpes of the vag, but she still sucked c@#k with a clean mouth. Oh, to be ten again, Son.