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Is It Just Me… Or Is It You?

I’ve found myself in a few situations recently that have made me stop and wonder, ‘Who’s the damned weirdo here? Me? Or that guy?‘ And frankly, there’s no way I can make that call. So I’m putting it to you, the impartial observer: who’s the douchebag here?

(Hey, hey, hey — no answering until after you read the scenarios, there, sparky. Don’t get ahead of yourself, calling ‘douchebag!’ all over the place. Keep it in your pants, sailor.)

Okay, here we go:

I played volleyball this week on a team with a couple of people I’d never met before. When I got there, the team was refereeing another game, and I swore an old friend of mine was working the net. Until he took the whistle out of his mouth, and it became clearly obvious that it wasn’t him. Whistle in, spitting image. (No pun intended, smartass.) Whistle out, some strange guy.

So does that reflect poorly on my friend, that he looks like random guys, but only when they’re blowing on little plastic doodads? Or am I the douchebag, for thinking about it in those terms? And using the terms ‘random guys’ and ‘blowing’ in the same sentence. And dropping ‘doodads’ in the middle of that description.

Damn. Score one for me. I kinda gave it away at the end there, huh? Bitches.

Next situation, then:

I was in the bathroom at work today, minding my own business on the toilet.

(No, not ‘minding my business’, either, jackhole — just minding my own business. Not everything is a euphemism around here, you know. Most things. But not all, dammit.)

After a couple of minutes, a guy walked into the bathroom and sat down in the stall next to mine. It was all right for a bit, but then he tried striking up a conversation! The nerve! The pervy nerve!

So, I ask you — was he the douchebag there, for interrupting my privacy with his attempt at small talk? Or somehow was I at fault, for keeping quiet and pretending not to hear his repeated attempts to chit chat?

I mean, honestly, what else could I have done? I’m not equipped to deal with that situation. And who starts freaking conversations with, ‘Hey, buddy, can I borrow some toilet paper?‘, anyway? Whatever happened to ‘Hello‘?

What? Oh. Right. That’s me again, isn’t it. Well, poop.

(Okay, that time I meant the pun. Ain’t I a stinker?

Heh. I could keep this up for hours.

But I won’t. A little dribble of bathroom humor goes a long way. And I think I’ve shaken it more than twice already. Proverbially speaking. Moving on.)

How ’bout this one:

There’s this girl in my office that I always thought was really tall.

But recently, I realized that she’s not really all that tall. She just has enormous boobs. Which I noticed a long time ago, of course — you’ve got to get up pretty damned early in the morning to sneak a pair of towering tatas past me, folks. But I always thought she was tall, too. Apparently, I’d been blinded by her breasticle bling, and imagined her with height she doesn’t really have.

So, the question is… aw, screw it. This one’s me. All me. I can’t even make a case for myself. I’m a douchebag. And Laetitia Casta* must be, like, nine feet tall. Next!

Okay, last one:

I just spent the better part of an hour working this crap into an entry, editing it, and posting it. For no good reason, and possibly at the expense of sweet, beautiful, pillow-drooling sleep that I could be having right now.

But you — you, now, we’re talking about — just read the whole damned thing. And that’s three minutes or so of your life that you’ll never have back, see?

So it begs the question — who’s worse off in this situation — me, for writing this nonsense, or you, for allowing it into your head like this? See, I ask you — who’s the real douchebag here?

Wha? Me?! Dammit! Why am I always the douchebag? Poopstain!

Screw this, then — I’m goin’ to bed. What kind of douchebag thought of this stupid game, anyway? Oh. Shit. Never mind. Good night, then. *sigh*

* (Image linked from the Laetitia Casta picture pages at SuperiorPics.com. In case you were wondering. Or horny. Or both.)