Whore hex

Dear door guy, 

I hope you're not still mad at me for telling you to stop creeping out my female customers when we still worked together. Not only was that almost two years ago, but it was the best advice anyone has ever given you. No cute young girl having a cocktail in Back Bay wants to hear about your obsession with guns, how your penis is small from excessive steroid use, or how you can't come from sex. I know I didn't when I was your co-worker and a waitress hosing down the patio after last call. 

Trying to slander my name is hard: I do a pretty good job telling everyone about my fuckups before gossip-starved freakshows like yourself have the chance. Being hated by you is a compliment! I'm pretty sure you only cut up the girls you like into little pieces. Next time I have a beer at my old place of work, I'll warn the new waitresses not to let you walk them to the cab stand. Unless they want to wind up in your basement. 

Good luck getting laid! 

Crowds, cameras and ou est la swimming pool.

To all of the underage hipster-wannabes (yes, hipster wannabes) that attended La Roux last night...you're a disgrace to your generation and the entire music community.

Don't go to a concert if you don't know the band playing. It's not a social gathering, it's a fucking concert where artists are pouring their heart out on stage. It's normally not great decorum to make out with your girlfriends/boyfriends right in front of the stage the entire time - a glance towards the performance would be nice.

And to the rest of the over-excited, over-snappy audience members (particularly the couple in front of me): Is it really necessary to take over 5,263,119 pictures throughout the course of the evening? Having your arms flash up and obstruct my view every third second was GREAT. Really enhanced my experience. But it was definitely worth it because I'm sure it was completely imperative that you got a picture of Elly Jackson at every degree, with every movement she did. I suppose you'll be making a scrap book or a moving cartoon with that later. Sounds great.

And thanks again for turning around every 30 seconds to yell and point and aero-distance-dance with your friends sitting up in the balconies, over 70 feet away. Looking right into your faces was really the reason I bought the ticket in the first place.

Oh, and the miming and the yelling and the 45 degree leaning you were doing ALL TOWARDS THE BACK OF THE THEATRE was simply priceless.

Here's hoping you're not actually bulletproof.

And to the guys in the swimming pool or whatever/whoever...

Next time, how about wearing a full shirt instead of a half one? And how about acting a little less yuppie. You're not talented, clearly didn't want to be on stage, you made me nauseous and I hope you can't procreate. The world doesn't need more of you.

Congratulations on knowing all of the words to your own songs though. No, really. Seriously. Job very well done. You've climaxed now so you've got no where else to go except downhill.

Please stop.

Club soccer

Three guys sat down at the bar and told me they were "champions". I thought, this can only mean one thing. I was right. After shouting about how my martini was so good, he was going to call it a G-spot, the ringleader of the three called his buddy and told him to put his phone on vibrate and leave it next to his scrotum. Thank god somebody finally had the wit and insight to make a joke about vibrating phones and scrotums! Who would have thought. My co-bartender asked them to please be respectful and keep their voices down, as his wife and two year old daughter were dining four feet away from them at the bar. The ringleader, showing the other two how to "live it up", ordered a steak tartare, which his friends refused to eat. "You guys are crazy," he kept insisting. "Steak tartare is amazing! It's extravagant. It's a delicatessen!" 

Note: I am very obnoxious when I am drunk. I do, however, know how to pick my bars as well as separate my nouns from my adjectives. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Just saying

Dear guy at the bar who was hesitant to let me make his extra-dry Grey Goose martini because he wasn't sure I'd make a good one, 

There's only one ingredient.

Sincerely, 

Your literate bartender

How impotence influences the social behavior of overly-educated homo sapiens

Tonight I waited on a table of six physics professors. Much to my sincere delight this table included one man who gave his argyle sweater a good name by politely drinking three glasses of Black Label on the rocks, another who ate his burger rare and drank his coffee black (respectable), and three other nondescript human beings who babbled on about the department's publishing record. They belong on another blog. This blog is about people like the sixth man at the table, who talked over everyone in a high pitched voice, asked for bread when I first came over to the table with waters, and ordered an appetizer for an entree because it was "half the price". 

When I brought the food he asked for a drink. He did not order the glass of wine he wanted (pinot grigio) because it was eight dollars, but settled for a $7.50 chardonnay ("the driest one you have") (dumbass).  I diligently trotted back to the side station and put in the order, emerging only to find him on his feet, hovering near the bar. This is the conversation that ensued. 

Douche: "I'd like my wine please." 

Me: "Yes, I am just waiting for the bartender to pour it."

Douche: "But I want my wine with my MEAL."

Me: "Yes -"

Douche: "I have my mussels now, so I'd like my wine now."

I know you have your mussels because I was putting them in front of you when you told me order you cheap pathetic ignorant fuck. I hope your PhD in physics will explain the trajectory of this "dry chardonnay" when I throw it in your face. 

As I am writing this, I am slowly realizing that maybe it's not that big of a deal. So what, he was impatient and stupid, it's no reason to entertain homicide as a feasible option. But then again, why question rage? It feels so nice. 

Unicorns

I bumped into a girl I used to work with yesterday. She is nineteen years old and fucking stupid. When it is December in Boston and you are waiting for a cab, she is one of the girls blocking your street access, shivering in a backless tank top, and talking in mouse decibels. You know, one of the girls that make you wish for an arctic wind to come along and knock their underage asses into a snow bank. There is only one reason I want to single her out from the masses of people like her that annoy me. She found out two weeks ago that unicorns don't actually exist. 

Ice is sacred

Last week, while drinking at Green St, I witnessed a woman yapping and flailing her arms so excessively that she smacked a chilled martini glass off the bar. It shattered in the ice bin. 

This is about all people who do bad things to ice: break glass in it, refuse to get it for bartenders when they are running low, fight over the best way to use it, etc. Ice is more special than you might realize. It makes your drinks cold. There is even a beautiful spoon designed in honor of ice: 

I have been drinking too much. 

(Please Don't) Put Your Hands Up... (the remix)

To the assholes who raise their hands and tap on the bar:

Yes, we fucking see you. You may have been waiting for your 42 Sex On The Beaches for ages but the fact that you're holding two full drinks in your hand and are tapping on the bar like it's a damn episode of Family Feud does NOT encourage us to fast-forward you to the top of the list.

Fuck off. Finish your drinks. And wait your damn turn. Flailing your hands in the air only makes us want to rip off our own arms so we have something to throw at you.

Facebook makes me sick/I am a hypocrite

People who quote themselves on the "quotes" section of their Facebook pages should be gathered up, unloaded on a small island, and forced to listen to "Language Is A Virus" over and over again. 

People who change their Facebook statuses more than three times a day should be on computer timeout, especially if they are uninteresting statuses like "at work and then the gym"/"is tired"/"hungover from last night!!!!!" which apply to everyone and are interesting to no one.

People who belong to Facebook groups like "Republicans are Better Looking Than Democrats", "American By Birth: Southern By The Grace of God", "I Support A Third Term For George Bush", and "you ain't shit unless you've pissed in jp's tub" really exist, in fact I went to high school with them. They should stay exactly where they are (Lowndes County) and keep doing exactly what they are doing (nothing important). 

People who make fun of people on Facebook but have blogs that are just as self-obsessed should be called out on their double standards.  

I am literally going to run over pedestrians from now on. Literally.

To the boob crossing the street yesterday who looked like he'd stepped out of a 1970s Lacoste ad:

I wasn't trying to run you, your mother or your fat wife over. I swear. In case your 6-inches-thick glasses were not up to par, you should be aware that I was more than 15 feet away from the pedestrian crossing you were about cross over.

Also, why don't you alert your rotund life partner that normally, it's not necessary to step out into oncoming traffic and put your hand up dramatically while mouthing the word "STOP". I know she's used to doing it for kids coming out of school, and I'm sure that one job that she's had her whole life comes with a lot of authority and respect. But, outside of school hours, that's really not needed and probably dangerous.

I saw you. All three of you. How couldn't I? And I stopped for you. For ages. When I flailed my hands in the air, it was out of sheer frustration at 1) the fact your wife kept mouthing "STOP" and 2) the amount of time it took you all to haul your asses from one side of the road to the other.

So, thanks you big f-ing douchebag, for flipping me off in the middle of the street...FOR ALLOWING YOU TO FUCKING CROSS.

I loved how you put your whole body weight into it, so much so that you nearly tripped. Awesome.

Please try and understand that it's not my problem if you and your overly large family don't know how to put one foot in front of the other.

Also, to the prick who left an open tin of cat food in the back of my car last night. Thanks very much for spilling it so decoratively across the rear mat. Congealed chicken in gravy smells wonderful after it's been cooking in the sun for five hours.

It Must Be True - It Says So On Wikipedia

To anyone who fills out their own Wikipedia page - come on, admit it - it's douchy. I know we live in a day and age where self-propaganda is necessary and compelling to a degree, but where is the line that divides a little shameless plug into total, outright narcissism? It's a blurry one methinks.

How would my page go? Hmmm...

DEEDEE (pronounced [deedee]; born January 28, 1982) is an Anglo-American journalist/writer most commonly known for her analytical work in films. Her wit, charm, and general ability to put all people (including herself) into their place is expressed through her humorous and mildly popular blogsite, Daily Douche, which she co-writes with Alle Santiago. Deedee, who is not, by any means, a negative person in her personal life, utilizes the blogosphere to channel out her rage on things that she typically would keep to herself. She is a champion of free-speech and noble critic of the many douchebags of the world.

See? I've literally just jumped into a bag of douche as I typed that. Not on. Don't like it. Not for me, thank you.

I think if you're amazing enough to warrant a Wikipedia page, the rule should be, someone else besides yourself, should agree. And they should write it. So, that's not coming down too hard on people is it? All I'm suggesting is that there be ONE other person IN THE WORLD who agrees with any narcissism you have. Yeah. Then it's ok. I guess.

Plus, this kid is a Goddamn legend. Thank you VERY much for calling out the journo-douches of the world. Amazing.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a very thorough shower.

Two things

PART ONE: This is an unsanctioned honorary post from a male friend of mine, dedicated to all girls who don't put the condoms on the guy themselves, but instead make him fumble around awkwardly alone while the mood evaporates. "I am sick of running the show all the time." Come on, girls, get on it!

PART TWO: To anyone who has ever posted anything negative on Yelp.com, there is a possibility that you are a douche. You might be justified or have good intentions, but you are still at risk for cockiness, stupidity, oblivious self-entitled unreasonable expectations, etc. Get tested, ask your friends. This does not apply to you if you have ever told a fellow yelper that he "sucks dick for quarters", in which case you are not only not a douche, but also my personal hero. 

I have no words...

The 50-year old Brat

To the old prima donna that came into the bar last night with a look like a slapped ass on his face:

You seemed really hard done by when I told you that we didn't have WD40 for your bike outside. This is a fucking bar you jackass. We serve beer and liquor. We oil people, not machines. Go across the street to the damn hardware store for that.

You continued to express your perma I-look-constipated-but-I'm-just-a-spoiled-midget-trapped-in-an-old-man's-body look even when you were sitting with your buddies, sipping on a Sierra. The look didn't leave your face the entire night. Even while you were eating. It was remarkable.

Oh, and thanks also for tapping me on the shoulder every 4 to 6 minutes to ask me where your food was. In case you didn't notice, hockey playoffs were on, we were slammed and 40 plus people had ordered before you. Sit the fuck down and wait like everyone else.

One more thing...your snarly request for the check was awesome. It especially made it worthwhile with your 4% tip. Awesome.

Please don't fall off your bike on the way home.

Agents of douche

To the other band that played on Friday: even though Union St. was your first show ever, your band's sound could have had a shred of 1988-imported charm if it weren't for the off-key wail of your snotty lead singer and her horrible attitude. We asked to use her stool and her "sure, whatever" was so frosty we may as well have been asking if we could sit at the cool picnic table for middle school recess. After we played and started taking our stuff off the stage, not a single member of your band so much as smiled at us. We didn't expect a "good job" since you weren't even there to hear us play, but came in during our last song. We sat and listened to your set, even though your songs made me feel like I was listening to a sixteen year old band practice in suburban Olympia. We were impressed with the Zendrum your "drummer" used and, thinking our missing member could use a great birthday present, approached you guys after your set to ask how much it cost and where it was purchased. Your drummer rolled his eyes and said "uh, can I hug my girlfriend first?" Go the fuck ahead. Don't you have to be really good to be that lame? Or is the attitude enough? 

This Is What She Said:

From Miss M:

"dear semi-sexy painter guy that i've been trying to make-out with for the past two weeks,

thank you very much for being such a wonderful host last night. i am so glad that i decided to leave my two amazing friends and the hot irish guy who was hitting on me to go over to your place.

after driving 30 minutes at 3 am to see you, i really appreciated the fact that you were inordinately wasted when i arrived. i loved how you could barely get off your ass to open the door for me. the tantalizing aroma of cheap wine, burning plastic and weed that seeped out of your pores was mesmerizing. god you're hot. i particularly enjoyed how your two friends didn't talk to me at all, and how the girl gave me the death stare when i said that i like disney movies. it was just great meeting your friends.

oh and the farting, how charming! you really know how to turn a girl on.

but i think what made the night absolutely perfect was your complete lack of balls. it is so refreshing to find a guy who is too apathetic about everything in his life to realize that a chick just wants to fuck him. i'm really glad we didn't have sex.

thanks for a fantastic night, asshole.

love,
the chick who definitely does not want to fuck you anymore."

9pm Watershed

In England, any evening after 9pm, naked men/women, the words "fuck" and "shit" and really violent scenes are typically permitted on all television programs.

In Boston, you can't drink alcohol at a concert on a Friday night after that time.

So, thanks Agannis Arena. Thanks very much for letting me and my friend know this. Especially after you made us each, separately, purchase our one drink (because two for one is not allowed - God forbid one of you still stay in your seats and enjoy the show) at an extortionate price. The cashier's snarly comment - "Enjoy the stupid show" - really made my beer taste a lot better too.

Thanks a lot. You're fucking awesome.

And good luck with your Kings Of Leons fans tonight. I hope they smoke weed, inject heroin and Caleb throws buckets into the audience and chaos ensues.

Thanks a lot.

It's not what it looks like, we've actually known each other for months

Robert Benchley, you are not funny. That essay you wrote about "How To Get Work Done" which turned out to be SARCASTICALLY about procrastination is totally predictable and boring. I laughed more when I got my W2 in the mail. 

Speaking of humor, I have to give a daily douche shout out to myself this morning, sitting in the sunlight of the C line above ground amid the fresh-faced and office-employed, looking like I belong in a rehabilitation facility and feeling like Hester Prynne with a Fanueil Hall hangover.

Bananas

This morning I picked up breakfast on my way to work and there was this woman who literally FREAKED OUT on the poor cashier because her blueberry pancakes had a banana on the plate.

Mind you, the banana wasn't touching the pancakes, nor was it peeled. Nor was this woman even allergic to bananas. She just didn't like them and she demanded that an entire new set of pancakes be made for her because she "just couldn't get the image out of her head". She needed a new plate and everything.

(NB: This lady looked like she probably should be choosing bananas over pancakes anyway.)

Now, I know certain people have phobias and what not but this, I could tell, wasn't a phobia. She was just being a total spoiled piece of horse excrement.

All the people starving in the world and this glutton goes gaga over a damn banana.

Get real.

Public service message

In case the English language is confusing sometimes: 

"right behind you" = "fucking move because I am carrying something hot/heavy"

Livers For A Dollar

This morning, in a CVS parking lot, a guy asked me for a dollar so he could "get some gas".

I probably would have given it to him but seeing as this same guy, on at least five different occasions, has asked me asked me the same exact question, I gathered that we're not talking about the same kind of gas so I told him no.

He then told me to fuck off and that he was going to "eat my liver".

Really? Fine. Take it.

I need a new one anyway.

Iowa Has Corn Fields

For Mary:

The guy decked in a Harley Davidson jacket, Harley Davidson shoes, Harley Davidson pants, Harley Davidson gloves and a Harley Davidson helmet, who was driving a motorcycle. But NOT a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Weird.

Thought

This blog is going to get me in big trouble. 

Some pretentious writers, a drunk gay guy and a God-fearing midget walk into a bar...

I literally have so much that I could ramble about on this post, that I'm already fearing that I may lose the plot and go off into jagged, feverish tangents. So, I'm purposefully going to be succinct and try to salvage any remnants of sanity I have left after these encounters:

1) Writers who aren't writers so much as PRETENTIOUS SHOCK ENGINES. You suck. Using excessive foul language (I'm talking every other word), cliquish diction, purposeful bad punctuation that confuses even you, and multi-colored/sized/fonted typeface should not be mistaken for intelligence nor wit. Of course it's your prerogative to do whatever the hell you want on your website/blog, but please, PLEASE don't call it writing. It's not if people don't understand what you're even saying. Perhaps consider a career in foreign languages. Or graphic design.

2) Obliterated homosexual who enters blatant testosteroney sports bar after last call. Don't try and flirt with the hairiest guy at the bar, who happens to be drinking a Miller Lite and wearing a Sox hat. He may just kick your ass. Luckily, he didn't and found you massaging his shoulder while singing Aerosmith into his ear mildly amusing.

3) Self-obsessed Barbie Doll who likes to steal and then go to Church. Why aren't you going to one of your oldest friends weddings? Just because it's not all about you? A little envious perhaps that you're not walking down the aisle? Stupid. People like you exist only for people like us to laugh at you. That is your one and only purpose in this life. Remember that.

James Blunt

Rambling, crowd of douches, the hour between my classes

A woman made me (and about 40 other people) leave the public lounge in the Boylston building so that she can hold a "private meeting, by invitation only." I thought about asking her for identification. 

Now, seated on a windowsill by the door of the building so I can charge my computer, I have been lucky enough to see these gems of humanity in action: 

A man in a three piece suit, iPod buds in his ears, a briefcase and a Starbucks coffee cup walked towards the door and then noticed that it was already raining. Apparently, this was the worst thing he could imagine. He stopped, sighed, threw his coffee cup in the trash and ripped out his earphones. "REALLY? Already? You can't fucking predict anything these days. It wasn't supposed to start for three hours, it's ridiculous. Why even look at the weather?" Thank you, kind sir, for verbalizing your internal monologue. Can I have a hundred dollars? 

A twenty year old sat on the bench and ate a burrito with his mouth open. 

The stream of people from classes trying to exit the building is hilarious to watch. Everyone is "eager" to get outside and annoyed that people are stopping in the doorway. Then, when the annoyed person gets to the doorway, he stops to get his umbrella out. Cause and effect, etc.  

I fucking hate umbrellas. 

The only difference between me and internal monologue guy is that I am blogging and he was talking out loud. We are both anxious. He had nice shoes. I am aware that sometimes my rage is projected self-loathing. It is still raining. I might dedicate my next douche post to the month of April in Massachusetts. 

A girl on the phone next to me: "Hi, I have a reservation for this afternoon and I just found out that someone joining us is vegan. I was wondering, are any vegan options on your menu?" 

"_________________________________."

"There's no possibility of preparing a pasta without butter or something?"

"_________________________________." 

Big Brother Sucks Ass

Ted,

Your job is immoral and spineless. You are a casting director for Big Brother and I can't imagine how you can wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror.

Especially when you seek out girls in seedy bars for your much more seedy show. How can you possibly think that any girl, who looks relatively put together, would ever want to partake in "fifteen minutes of fame" simply because you throw a CBS card out at them and then proceed to tell them that you think they're a bitch.

Just because you have a "job" with a network, pimping out face time via a ridiculous show that is directly responsible for the dumbing down of society, does not ingratiate you with the role of top dog.

You're an asshole. No, you're a douche.

Let it be known that having a California drivers license, and flaunting your "LA-ness" does not entitle you to respect.

Your show sucks. And so do you.

Leave us alone.

Tax season nostalgia

This entry is an anniversary shout-out to the Massachusetts Department of Revenue, all 241 employees, every cubicle, every bagged lunch, every wasted fax paper and manila folder.  

I haven't filed my taxes yet, but the TurboTax emails that arrive in my inbox every day remind me constantly of the bad news last April brought me. I can smell it in the rainy air: negative 2,000 dollars.

I love paying a few grand in taxes when I made 33,000 dollars all year waiting tables. Especially when the city I live in looks like shit and the Arlington T stop station's scheduled construction end date is sometime in 2015. I like to fantasize about what that two thousand dollars went towards. Vegan options for the Mass Dept. of Revenue cafeteria? Color-coded parking passes? 

My favorite: you fined me for not having health insurance. Do you know why I didn't have health insurance? BECAUSE I COULDN'T AFFORD IT. 

Audit me, I dare you

British Bulldog

(NB: This blog has no boundaries - it CAN and WILL cross continental borders. Douchebags are rife everywhere in the world.)

My mother told me an interesting story yesterday. She was driving down a street in London (for those unfamiliar with UK city side roads, they're essentially two-way streets that only have room for one car to go down at a time because cars are parked on both sides) and was two-thirds of the way down the street when this big, white van came sailing down from the other end.

My mother continued, seeing as she was well past the halfway mark and there was no visible empty street parking spot for her to slide into. The white van also continued at an alarming speed before screeching to an abrupt halt (because the fucker was about to hit her).

The toothless wonder then signals at my mother to move HER car back. Yes, dipshit here wanted a woman to back more than two-thirds of the way down a street when she already had the right of way.

Typical protocol would have been for the lazy, common piece of horse excrement to back his shitmobile out and let the lady through.

But NOOOOOOO. Instead, after a few moments of signaling for the other to move, this deranged guy puts his car into park, pulls out a book and begins to read.

My mother doesn't have the best eyesight in the world, so she probably failed to see that he had the book, most likely Ryan Giggs' autobiography or something of that ilk, upside down. We all know that most people in white vans who behave like this are illiterate, right? That's a given.

Thankfully, another car came up behind my mother, now putting the jerk-off into a predicament - it was now 2 against 1. And the car behind my mother had a man in it, who was less patient than my sweet mother. The bloke got out, yelled a few obscenities, and then Man-In-A-Van-Who-Can't-Read was forced to back out.

The icing on the cake is that my mother flipped him off and called him an asshole on her way out.

Good for you mom. What a big sack of douche.

I am mentally flipping through my douche catalog, 542 entries for 2009 so far

SO, since I am in the library reading "Maus II" by Art Spiegelman, this entry goes out to Nazis. 

And also the guy who sat behind me in the class I am reading it for and jiggled his knee the whole time with so much force my chair was knocking into the one next to it. Thanks for continuing to do it, even when I turned all the way around and stared at you. Your nervous energy is fucking charming. 

Champguy

This one goes out to the douchebag who came into the bar last night:

Thank you very much for asking me a series of inane questions when I was clearly slammed and other customers were waiting patiently for their drinks.

When you asked me, "Ahem, yes, at what temperature do you serve your champagne?", I can't tell you how sorry I was that I didn't know the exact degree offhand. I had hoped my answer of "Cold" would have sufficed, but it didn't.

I thoroughly enjoyed how you continued to press me on various finicky aspects of the only three types of champagne we have on the menu, as if some kind of bubbly connoisseur and then proceeded to pronounce Veuve as "vooove". Idiot.

I can't tell you how happy I was when you then, some three minutes later (practically three hours in bar time) finally ordered a glass of the cheapest sparkling wine. Simply splendid.

And when the crowds dispersed, you really showed your true comedic side when you whipped out a copy of Debbie Does Dallas and asked me to put it on our televisions because "hardly anyone was left in the bar".

When I declined your brilliant suggestion of watching pornography in my place of work, the joke you cracked, which I didn't get, must obviously have been a funny one had it not gone over my head.

And I'm glad that you caught my puzzled expression and remarked, "You wouldn't get it. You're not a Harvard grad."

No, I'm not. Shrewd observation from you.

Shrewd observation from me: you're a big douchebag.

Dear Roommates,

Thus far, in 2009, there has been an influx of unscrupulous roommates. And to them, I would like to formally dedicate this first post in reflection of all of your douchiness.

Please let it be known that despite your immoral and deceitful ways, the people on the "normal" moral train are well aware of your hideous and revolting patterns of life and it is not accepted, nor encouraged for future human interaction.

Everything you do and every walk of life you trespass, people will recoil from you and you will never amount to anything worthwhile ever unless you change your ways. You are, in all forms of the word, complete douchebags. Here are a few tips of what is NOT acceptable in forthcoming roommate/social situations:

1) Having people pay your rent entirely, with the false intention of paying them back, is not cool. Learn to make your own way. Perhaps think about getting another job. Or don't spend so much on Daddy's credit card.

2) Do not steal from anyone you live with. This includes cutlery, pictures, mugs, shower curtains, clothes AND money.

3) If you're going to move out, give your roommates longer than 4 days or two weeks. Anything under a month renders you an f-ing douche.

4) Do not make roommates feel guilty for being in their own home just because you are a high-maintenance weirdo.

5) Do not yell at roommates for eating your leftover pizza one night when it is something that never happens. People get drunk and they feel bad anyway the next day. Making them feel worse over something you were definitely going to throw away anyway is ridiculous.

6) If you have pets, please consider your other roommates in all instances. Allowing cats to shit on their own couches without any kind of apology is rude. As is washing dogs in the one communal bathroom without cleaning up. Just because you own an animal doesn't give you the right to act like one.

7) Don't think that just because you go to Church every day that it makes you a good person. Receiving the sacrament and then being a total bitch to your friend/roommate for no good reason cancels out any good religious sentiment.

8) Learn the words "please" and "thank you". Very important for future advancement in any social environment.

9) Don't forget that however hard you think WE are to live with, we think you're MUCH harder to live with. Hence, why we're never home.

10) Pull the pole out of your ass - it really makes your facial expressions hard to read.

So, current and former douchebag roommates (you know who you are), congratulations. We already think you are big, fat bags of douche. May you abide by these commandments in hopes that your douchiness will eventually subside. For your sake and for all of humanity.