Douche Cologne/Ten things I hate about U-haul

Before we delve deeper into the brotherhood of the traveling douche, I would like to proclaim that I hate U-haul. And no, it's not just some trivial dislike of mine blown out of proportion due to a fit of frivolity. Nay, kind reader. I repeat: nay.

After many years of hijinx ($19.95 vans turning into $369.82 vans, pick up locations in Chilliwack, drop off locations in hell, etc), the shit teeth collective at U-haul command-control-centre (perhaps located in U-tah?) sent my sister and I to an abandoned, boarded up building in the middle of Nowheresville, Vancouver Island to pick up a truck.

Here's a surprise: there was no truck there.

Here's another surprise: Client Relations Manager "Zariak" (no surname, which means he more akin to Jesus and Cher, than mere mortals like you and I) told me a real zinger on the phone after I called 1-800-NO-BALLS. He told me, "There's nothing I can do for you."

Well, "Zariak", why the fuck do you have a job then?

"There's nothing I can do for you" is something I would expect from:

1) Celine Dion (who also has no balls)

2) Lamb-Chop (who has neither balls nor a spine)

3) Bad jokes about spousal abuse (which take balls and often involve not the fun kind, but that other kind of beating)

Anyway, I won't get into the other things I hate about U-haul (the name, the hyphen in the name, the shorthand convenience of the name, the font, its u-move monopoly here in Canada, the vehicle checks, the orange everything...you get the idea)

Okay so I did get into it, but here's the real blog for today:

You may have noticed the resurgence of douchebag in popular culture. Sure, when John Mayer wears a douchebag shirt, it's whimsical and poignant and delightful in all the ways it should be. However, when you actually meet a douchebag, they are none of these things.

Don't know what a douchebag is and are too lazy to click on the hyperlinks above? You're my kind of people. Watch this instead!

Douche Cologne Spoof on male cologne such as Axe body spray.

Manorexia...this summer's hottest trend?

From Marc Anthony to Carson Daly, this year's new masculine couture is taking a page from the women's fashions of yesteryear. I personally don't enjoy this latest fad, as I like to eat ribs, not see them exposed on a shirtless guy at the beach. After all, I am only human and the time will come when I will no longer be able to resist my urge to play a ribcage like a xylophone.

My personal opinions aside, the headlines this month proclaim that manorexia has claimed yet another hapless hetero: John Mayer.

Sure, he's not really a gay icon. That said, I often doubt he is actually, in fact, human. I have long since surmised that those crazy genetic scientists at Columbia/Sony BMG cooked him up in a test tube by splicing the following:

+

=

Oh, John Mayer, you're the only celebrity I know of that would sign a piece of trash. Though I suspect Pamela Anderson would also do as much for her "fans".

For years, Mayer's non-offensive blend of blues-rock musings and boy-next-door good looks have left me feeling...well...like I'm watching a bag of Wonderbread dry-out on my kitchen counter. But then there was that delightful guest appearance on Chappelle's Show. And then the tattoos. And then Jessica Simpson. And then the marvellous romantic hybrid that is Anistayer or Johniffer or some other clever mash-up of names that escapes me right now.

So, whatever his dietary choices may be, whether it's a cup of dust or a McRib sandwich, I've decided that I like the guy and have decided to include him on my list of things that get better with age. I've been a fan ever since he lightened up my spring with:


Look at those legs. Look at those pubes. Look at that...is he stuffing?

Where the fuck can I get one of these?

Lastly: John Mayer, if I ever see you wearing the Borat-sling in person, you've won the right to teabag me...I'm all yours, baby! Ughn!