Don't look at us like that

We thought our work here was done. We here at TDDL thought that we could rest on our douchey laurels. The whole purpose of TDDL was to promote and try and get people to understand our undying, burning lust for douchey males. At first, people thought our burning desire was nothing that a cream couldn’t fix. But post by post, they began to see what we had seen in parent’s basements, under the blacklights and leopard-print blankets all along. The mainstream embraced us like two sweaty, inked guns–and we liked it. How else could something like this exist and get so much attention? In short, we thought our mission complete. How mistaken we were.

Alas, a new trend looks ripe to emerge–and we see the hideous future of it in this story about John Mayer. As you may remember, the TDDL staff loves it some John Mayer. He grew to douchey awesomeness as the culture simultaneously learned to embrace our obsession.

Why, why John Mayer? Why this, why now?:

In the interview for Playboy’s March edition, some of which reportedly took place as Mayer downed malt whisky, the singer sought to refute the media image of him as a womanizer and “douchebag.”

Malt whiskey? Where oh where is the Jager, Mayer? That burns us more than the last 3 shots we did at Great Uncle Joey’s 80th birthday keg stand last week. And if you’re not womanizing, what the hell are you doing with your time? Listening? Being compassionate? This very thought makes us what to extrude our stomachs out our mouths.

“I’ve been trying to prove to people I’m not a douchebag by not dating, by keeping my name out of ‘Us Weekly’,” he said.
You can pretend, Johnny, but we here at TDDL know better. You can’t deny your roots. Okay, so that racist stuff is pretty bad–you might want to deny deny deny there, but let’s get something straight–you can’t stop being douchey. You can unpop that collar and start washing your hair, but we know the truth. You can’t run from it. And you need to stay true. As goes Mayer, so the world. So come back to us. We’ve got enough napalm in our hearts for you to ignite indefinitely.


Douchey Public Service Announcement

Sometimes more is just more.

Sometimes more is just more. Unless it's the above.

The staff here at TDDL is seriously concerned. No, not about this. It has come to our attention (ahem) by many of our loyal and aspiring-to-be-douchey readers, that the “mainstream media” has jumped on the douchey bandwagon (which is actually a hummer, by the way). No, we don’t mean this mainstream guy. Or this guy. As any douche-lover worth their sensual sea salt rub would tell you, the only thing sufficient to jump on is a douchey dude himself.

You all have been kind enough to inundate us with stories like this one, about “America’s 25 Douchiest Colleges,” or this more specialized version, about “The Douchiest Law School.” Perhaps the most visually impressive article would be this one, on “The 7 Douchiest Theme Parties.” And don’t forget the celebrity news and gossip sites, which often declare certain celebrities “douchebags.” Yes, admittedly we do eat up these articles as if they were animal style in-n-out burgers (that reminds us of his sweet whisper: “Hey baby, with me, it’s all animal style.”). But seriously people–if you want to know for sure, we should be your verification. Think of us as the scrabble dictionary of douche-baggery.

While the TDDL staff (don’t forget, staffs are important, if you know what we mean) appreciates this growing awareness, the latent hostility towards a douchey lifestyle (and those who admire it) contained in each article is palpable. Well, TDDL says let the mainstream have their opinions. (More of this for us!) Readers, we ask you–will anyone else understand your need to hear him say “I want to Smack That more than Akon,” or to take you by the hand and proudly, yet shyly, show you his collection of condom wrappers (“This one was four days expired at the time, but I still ain’t no baby daddy!”)? No, we didn’t think so. Word. TDDL, out.


Anatomy of a Douche: John Mayer

Some of you doucher-uppers out there might be daunted by the task of expanding the horizons of your doucheyness, and rightly so: certain gentlemen have already set the bar almost impossibly high.  How exactly does one progress from the innocence of youth to the full flower of douchey manhood?  Fear not, gentle readers.  John Mayer is here to demonstrate how even the most wholesome among you can attain undreamed-of heights of douchebaggery.

Figure 1

Figure 1

As you can see from Figure 1, our John’s doucheyness is still latent.  Hair is combed but not styled into oblivion; pants are clean but not pressed; and the all-important undershirt conceals exuberant chest hair or sculpted pectorals, as the case may be.  The musical instrument is safely off to the side, hinting that whoever he’s looking at has his full attention.  Most significantly, his facial expression suggests both alertness and sincerity, mental states that the true douche avoids at all costs.  Clearly our grasshopper has much to learn.

Figure 2

Figure 2

Oh, what a difference a couple of years makes.  Mr. Mayer has clearly learned the fine art of affecting complete disdain for personal grooming, which is a major step forward.  But it’s not enough to simply appear rumpled and unwashed — any dork can do that.  The true douche combines his dishevelment with a facial expression that says, “Hey ladies, if you think all guys need things like soap and water to be sexy, you haven’t met me yet.”  If you were lucky enough to be near enough to smell our John, you would no doubt detect the Holy Trinity of Doucheyness: Axe Body Spray, sweat socks, and weed.  Speaking of axes, the placement of his guitar is also crucial.  Instead of lounging next to him on the sofa, it’s now firmly bolted in place over his pelvic region.  We can only hope it stays there through any serenading and/or sexy time that might occur…

Figure 3

Figure 3

No analysis of Mr. Mayer’s doucheyness would be complete without a nod to his enlightened attitude towards ladyfolk.  First, one must affect an air of sensitivity.  Everyone knows sensitivity makes all the panties drop, right?  Also, no matter how hot your girlfriend is, always act as if you’re only with her until someone hotter comes along (after all, it’s probably true).  And most importantly, after the Hotter Someone does come along, be utterly and publicly disgusted with your now-ex, preferably via Myspace or a blog.  After all, it’s better to be honest with her (and several thousand of your closest friends).




You know I try my hardest to please you (did that romantic evening of keg standing mean nothing to you?). Friends say I’m not worthy of your affection–and maybe they’re right. Lord knows I am hopeless in comparison to your deep sense of responsibility and foresight. There are a million examples: the way you held my hair back right after that keg stand, that superman blanket you keep in the back of your parents’ van, those road flares you use as candles in your bedroom, that spare change you kept under your couch that you lovingly scooped up and threw my way while moaning, “you go around the corner to buy those love gloves, baby.” But the most stark memory I have of your sexy, sexy foresight was that time at the football game. It was just like a beer commercial. Your old high school team was going for the touchdown, and you and your buddies were going crazy, jumping up and down, throwing beer up in the air and onto my shirt, as if you instinctively knew it would help keep the fire of my passion for you at a slow, controlled burn. You were wearing sunglasses, and they made you look A-Maze-Ing. But did they fall off and break in the midst of your raucous celebration?  No, sir. You had croakies–and they did their job, snugly keeping those frames over your baby blues. You smiled debonairly and I thought: “if only there was a croakie I could attach to your hips, permanently–our love would never break those logo-ed, elastic bonds.”


Doucher Uppers


 As any lady worth her douchey-dude-loving salt will tell you, a good douche is hard to find. The quality is ofttimes lackluster and the douchebag spirit, which we’re all so enamored of, well, is as unattainable as the holy pimp cup. Some douches are so easy to spot, but are yet so out of reach. Alas, if only you could change a man … But maybe you can? Perhaps, with certain stimuli, a man, teetering on the fence can be pushed over the edge onto the grassy knoll of douchedom we so desire.

All you dudes can be douchey–you’re just supressing it! Don’t hide that in the closet! We know you’re out there, you studs–you’ve got it in you (or just maybe, you’re lookin’ to get it in me). Please, go strum that guitar in the park, and ignore all the passersby by appearing deep and affected. Wear that pastel shirt with pride to the frat bar. We’re understanding–we’ll give you time to learn how to casually ignore our text messages and name our ladybits after nascar drivers (“Baby, I want to Bobby LaBonte your Kurt Busch”). Rip off that t-shirt with pride and flex like there’s no tomorrow. Let’s hop on that vespa and drive away on the fumes of your overpowering cologne. You’ll take us there on the puttering, bumpy ride we crave. Oh hells yes.


Ultimate Frisbee.image-20080506-rn74etnnekbh2ovwm6z4_t_w618_h300

Whoosh. You warned  me, but did I heed your advice? You told me as you adjusted the hot-pink sweatband underneath your fuzzy puffs of half-dread-locked curls, that I couldn’t handle the game.   Not only couldn’t I handle playing the game, but even spectating would push me over some toe-curling edge. I laughed in the face of your ignoble jest. Surely, a simple game of disc throwing would ne’er effect me. But little did I realize that floating saucer was a neon-yellow projectile of my stop-and-go lust. Oh, please do catch it! From the very first, when you grabbed that plate out of the sky, I wished the “change of possession” was between you and me, and not that hairy man you bumped chests with to catch it. Something about orange hot-pants, extreme athleticism, and a soft plastic shield turns me on—it’s much more macho than my last boyfriend’s sport. When you pretended to be the Hulk and ripped your tie-dyed shirt to reveal your pasty-white torso, I was all a dither. I wanted you more than these dudes on the opposing team. As you caught the Frisbee in the end-zone, you winked and stammered between quick breaths: “I’m ALL Ultimate, baby. You want my regulation Wham-O?” It was like you flung me, spinning and swirling, into a sweaty whirligig of pleasure. I didn’t think my circular passion could soar any higher, until you showed me Intense Midnight Street Ultimate played with Illuminated Frisbees, under the romantic Gowanus Expressway. You asked me to adorn your glow stick. Always, my love.



The douchey-dude editorial board doesn’t want its readers to think for one second we’re being sexist. We here on the TDDL staff want to embrace doucheyness in all genders, shapes, colors, and sizes. (And when we say embrace, we mean embrace–someone’s staff or otherwise). So we will throw caution and our love for dudes to the wind, and utilize this post to celebrate douchebaguettes, those elusive creatures of the night, that look as though they’ve spent all day tanning two feet from the sun. If only we could radiate, or sparkle with such vampish, melanomic-power. The kind of power that’s also fueled by midnight lattes and 4 AM skinny bitch drinks. All our male douchey friends and lovers (of which there are too many to count) are intrigued by you, Douchebaguette. Just what are you thinking behind those enormous sunglasses? What mystery of mystery is your true hair-color, underneath those hydrogen-infused flaxen tresses? But more importantly, you have perfected the most notorious fashion manuever to ensnare your douchey male counterparts: the reverse oreo. That black bra, which begs men to stare at your bazongas under a tight, crisp white shirt–well, TDDL salutes you in a similar fashion to the pant-salutes you receive from said  staring men–you are a credit to your superior fembot race. If we could understand your inebriated dialect of awesome, we’d ask you to say a few words–but the dribble coming out the side of your mouth as you nosh on that gum is more than a “you’re welcome” to us.


Your correspondent had the privilege recently of interviewing the President of the American Society for Doucheyness, who for the sake of anonymity asked that we refer to him only by his nickname, V-Dawg.  Read on to find out how an ordinary guy worked his way up the douchey ladder.

Things Douchey Dudes Like: It’s an honor to have you here, V-Dawg.
V-Dawg: *snort* No, it’s an honor to have you
: Oh V-Dawg, you’re so witty!
V: Heh, yeah… wait, did you just call me gay?  I’m not gay!  You’re not going to print that I’m gay, are you?
: Of course not!  Moving on, V-Dawg, why are you so concerned about keeping your identity a secret?
V: Isn’t it obvious?  The lady types can’t stay away from me.  They stake out my house and leave me cookies and panties and video games and shit, with little girly love notes attached to them.
: That doesn’t sound so bad.
V: Dude, I’m not just talking about hot girls like you.  Ugly ones too.  Old, fat, skinny, you name it.  They all come out of the woodwork.  They just don’t get it.
: Get what?
V: That I would never bang them!  Duh!
: How sad for them.
V: Don’t feel bad, baby.  I’d bang you.
: That’s so sweet!  V-Dawg, let’s talk about you for a minute.
V: Good idea.
: What sort of responsibilities do you have as the president of the American Society for Doucheyness?
V: Dude.  So many.
: Could you tell us about them?
V: I have to keep the whole show running.  It all falls apart without me.  I meet with my Doucheyness advisory board every day to talk about ways to get doucheyness out to the people.  We have super secret meetings in Doug’s — I mean the Vice-President’s parents’ basement.
: Every day?
V: Oh yeah, sometimes a couple of times a day… Wait, you’re not trying to make me sound gay again, are you?  Dammit!  Anything you may have heard about me liking dudes is totally untrue.  I’ve never even been to that club!
TDDL: Of course!  My mistake.
V: Let me tell you something.  Doucheyness is a way of life.  These dudes think they can just be douchey on the weekends and that’s enough, but it’s not!  Being a douchebag is a commitment!  It’s a full-time job!  Look, you’re a nice chick, so take my advice: don’t settle for one of these half-assed douchey dudes.  You want someone who really means business.  Someone who bathes in Axe every day and takes the time to gel his hair back before he leaves the house.  It’s the little things, baby.
TDDL: V-Dawg, where would I find such a demigod?
V: Demi-what?  Is that more gay shit?  I’m outta here.


Flip Flops (usually paired with jeans)

I’m so excited! It’s getting warmer out around here, and finally, yes finally, it’s about that time. No, not this time. You know what I speak of–that magical season when dudes can throw caution to the wind and bare all their phalanges at once: flip flop season! The clap-clop of those rubber soles sync with the beating of my heart, every time dudes in torn jeans and flops pass me. I said once to a real beaut in bright orange rubbers and cut-offs: “My, what big flops you have!” He pivoted so I could eye his calf-implants, and replied, “All the better to strip off my pants and show you my big flopper, my dear.” I nearly fainted with bipedal glee. You’re always so conscious of the little things that make me want to stick to you like the toe jam around your Old Navy thongs. Maybe you’ve never stepped on a pop top, or blown out a flip flop, but I know which Jimmy Buffet tune will be our wedding song.


Tribal Tattoos

You know what, you’ve really helped me get over my last crush. I used to be so obsessed with a certain lispy someone. But all that changed when I saw you in debate class, and you foisted that shirt over your head. Let no one say you don’t have the strength and brutish physique of a vicious Celtic warrior–that tattoo may look more like your mother’s reaction to eating horseradish than an ancient ancestor’s burial-mask, but  the pure force of your inky utopia blinds me. When you bend to the side at a certain angle, I swear your back-tat takes the shape of the Holy Mother, and boy have I come to worship. You mumbled something about showing me your tribal spear, and assured me that protection was unnecessary–your tribe’s totem protects you from impregnating and transmitting diseases–like a spiritual love-glove. I dig it.