Hi guys! I’m back! I apologize, but even the most committed pr0-bono bloggers occasionally have to take a short break in favor of.. Proliferating their alcoholism? Field research? Luckily for us, New York provides both in abundance, offering a two-week plethora of holiday festivities that finally reached their cumulative peak this past Saturday, bringing alongside a Dbag Dating fairy-tale that truly captures the holiday spirit!
Some men speak only when spoken to. Others (the best kind) only speak when they have something valuable to say. And then there are the third kind, the ones who think that every trivial thought in their head is worth articulating. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet The Voice, a man who’s pretentious Queen’s English still rings in my head like an incessant buzzing bee, threatening to morph into a fragment of my paranoid nightmares.
As we step into the booze-fueled debachery that are the Holidays, I’m tempted to write you a cheesy post about being happy solo, wearing glittery Dries while hooking up with random strangers, cuffing it up with your tennis instructor, and generally having all the fun a human being can while consuming their weight in spiced eggnog. Except, you’ve heard it all before. And so, I propose that we take it one step further and start focusing on what is more beneficial to us in the long run:
Making space.
It’s no secret that Art Basel, or any other art fair for that matter, now attract not only the creative classes, but every Joe Shmo seeking a quick escape that masquerades as a cultural endeavor, equipped with a bustling social calendar and a built-in pickup scene to match. By Day 3 of these shenanigans, half of South Beach starts resembling (and smelling like) Saint Patty’s Day left for two days to fester, with a dbag smog so dense that its practically blinding. Luckily, I am here to help you decipher the different douches you may have met this past weekend, with an accompanying strategic recommendation!
Everybody has their area of expertise. While my friends work their way towards becoming functional members of society, real career paths included, I continue accumulating experience in douchebag analysis, tallying up those 10,000 hours to become an expert. As a result, I have garnered a rather keen understanding of the nature of the Dbag game, equipped with its own repugnant code of conduct!
When it comes to the land where K is the only letter of the alphabet, I have a very firm stance: ignore and pray that it goes away.
The only problem is, it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime in the foreseeable future. In fact, the Kardashian clusterfuck seems to be growing at expedited speed, as though pumped with the same chemicals as its members’ individual body parts. Everywhere you turn, a new KK Klone is talking about her latest divorce, minor health issue, or other strenuous ordeal that was written into her life by the masterminds that are the show’s scriptwriters. I get the brilliant businesswomen part, the fact that their net worth may be higher than the government budget of Malawi, and that their Momager is probably going to be next to nominate herself as governor of California or VP of America. (The worst part is that this may actually work.) Nonetheless, I find these people to be the direct projection of the overall mass stupidity of this county and fail to see anything positive in their existence.
