There are 2 types of douche. First you have the open douche. This dude owns his douche and makes his asshole mode of operation public knowledge. There’s no question as to who he is and what he’s capable of, because you both know going in, he doesn’t care enough to even pretend to give a shit so brace yourself for the truth. I almost prefer this type of douche because I like to play God and ‘fix’ it and he always has an equally bitchy comment when I bring that girl’s camel toe to his attention. I've learned you can't fix asshole but you CAN use him to give you an honest opinion about your haircut or if your panty line is showing under that dress.
Then you have the guy who’s charming, respectful and cares then all of a sudden...BAM, you get hit with the douche! I like to call this treat the Ninja Douche. While I admire his stealthy ways and ability to reach such high levels of maturity, this trickster is always a wild card.
Case in point. I once dated a guy (I promised not to use names so I’ll just say his name rhymes with trent) who was really nice, annoyingly polite and seemed to think I was somewhat interesting. I wanted to have the same admiration for him but he seemed like the type of person to Lysol his couch, after I farted on it, as soon as I left and that wasn’t ok with me. Well one night Trent asked me to dinner. I was jazzed when he suggested Pasta House as I have an overpowering weakness towards fettuccine. We were talking and having a nice time…ok he was talking and I was racing myself to find all of the noodles on the kids mural before he finished his story, which I’m sure was smart and intellectually stimulating.
On the way there I probably should’ve picked up on a vibe but I was too drunk with the notion of unlimited salad. I’m 3 bites into my slimy noodle bowl of heaven when I happened to catch something he was saying about moving away. Luckily I had stopped eating in the attempt to get the waiters attention for a drink refill or else I might have missed his announcement of moving half way across the country. I would’ve pretended to be more upset about his news had I known he was going to make us leave immediately following his relocation plans. It’s rude to break up with a girl in a restaurant for several reasons 1. You’re in public and in the off chance she really likes you, you could have a scene on your hands 2. There’s always the plaguing argument you immediately have with yourself regarding whether or not you should quickly finish your meal because he’s paying for it or say you’re ‘too upset to eat.’ He could’ve at least waited until I found the last 2 noodles on my kid’s menu or had the chance to stuff 6 rolls in my handbag.
I excused myself to the restroom to ‘collect myself’ aka find our waiter and ask for a to-go box and to give ninj the bill before I got back. The ride back to his apartment probably would’ve been awkward had I not been slumped over the front seat ‘sobbing’ over this tragedy. Sobbing meaning my best acting impression of Jessie Spano on caffeine pills while sneaking noodles out of my to-go box sitting on the floorboard like some kind of animal. When we got back, I made him go upstairs and collect my phone charger and various items to stall time. Things didn’t get weird until I came up from the floorboard upon his return with Parmesan on my face. I wasn’t sure how to recover (a rarity for me) so I snatched the charger and ran.
Like every date or relationship, I learned something. Put rolls in your purse immediately, look off the little kid's menu next to you for the remaining 2 noodles (I don't like to leave things unfinished) and always carry an emergency fork in your purse.
Then you have the guy who’s charming, respectful and cares then all of a sudden...BAM, you get hit with the douche! I like to call this treat the Ninja Douche. While I admire his stealthy ways and ability to reach such high levels of maturity, this trickster is always a wild card.
Case in point. I once dated a guy (I promised not to use names so I’ll just say his name rhymes with trent) who was really nice, annoyingly polite and seemed to think I was somewhat interesting. I wanted to have the same admiration for him but he seemed like the type of person to Lysol his couch, after I farted on it, as soon as I left and that wasn’t ok with me. Well one night Trent asked me to dinner. I was jazzed when he suggested Pasta House as I have an overpowering weakness towards fettuccine. We were talking and having a nice time…ok he was talking and I was racing myself to find all of the noodles on the kids mural before he finished his story, which I’m sure was smart and intellectually stimulating.
On the way there I probably should’ve picked up on a vibe but I was too drunk with the notion of unlimited salad. I’m 3 bites into my slimy noodle bowl of heaven when I happened to catch something he was saying about moving away. Luckily I had stopped eating in the attempt to get the waiters attention for a drink refill or else I might have missed his announcement of moving half way across the country. I would’ve pretended to be more upset about his news had I known he was going to make us leave immediately following his relocation plans. It’s rude to break up with a girl in a restaurant for several reasons 1. You’re in public and in the off chance she really likes you, you could have a scene on your hands 2. There’s always the plaguing argument you immediately have with yourself regarding whether or not you should quickly finish your meal because he’s paying for it or say you’re ‘too upset to eat.’ He could’ve at least waited until I found the last 2 noodles on my kid’s menu or had the chance to stuff 6 rolls in my handbag.
I excused myself to the restroom to ‘collect myself’ aka find our waiter and ask for a to-go box and to give ninj the bill before I got back. The ride back to his apartment probably would’ve been awkward had I not been slumped over the front seat ‘sobbing’ over this tragedy. Sobbing meaning my best acting impression of Jessie Spano on caffeine pills while sneaking noodles out of my to-go box sitting on the floorboard like some kind of animal. When we got back, I made him go upstairs and collect my phone charger and various items to stall time. Things didn’t get weird until I came up from the floorboard upon his return with Parmesan on my face. I wasn’t sure how to recover (a rarity for me) so I snatched the charger and ran.
Like every date or relationship, I learned something. Put rolls in your purse immediately, look off the little kid's menu next to you for the remaining 2 noodles (I don't like to leave things unfinished) and always carry an emergency fork in your purse.