The Douchebag Bible (52 page)

current personality. I was formed by my

environment, to an extent, just as all people are.

10. KNOCK KNOCK

Who's there? Me. I am everything listed above and

many, many things that are not even touched upon.

Perhaps one day I will devote more time to the

subject of who I am and what makes me tick, but my

ego isn't yet big enough to sustain such an effort just

yet. My megalomania has only advanced enough to

sustain a giant rambling chapter devoted to myself—

not an entire book.

Not yet, anyway.

PASSIVELY

ENTERTAINED

BY DRIVEL AND

GLITTER

asked once what I

would do to Justin

I was
Bieber and Nicki

Minaj if given the

chance.
After much deliberation, I decided that I’d

give Justin and Nicki a 3 foot long double-sided

dildo (with a 12 inch circumference). Their lube: hot

sauce. One end of the dildo goes in Nicki’s ass. The

other end goes in Justin’s ass. And whoever gets it in

farthest gets to die relatively quickly. The loser has

to starve to death in a room where their own shitty

music is blaring at top volume. It's not sadistic. It's

only fair! Let them suffer as I have suffered—as
WE

ALL
have suffered. The great thing about this

solution, is that it gives Justin and Nicki an

opportunity to be genuinely entertaining in their

otherwise boring careers.

I am not a tremendous fan of much of the

things that the average person finds entertaining. I

don't care for pop music, NY Times Bestsellers,

crime procedurals or reality shows (though I will

own up to Pawn Stars as a guilty pleasure). I think

that stupid entertainment creates a stupid populace.

Art is supposed to be food for thought, but nearly

everything that becomes popular now seems to be

the artistic equivalent of Doritos—superficially tasty,

but of no nutritional value.

By far, one of the worst examples of our

cultural decline, is the popularity of Michael Bay's

horrendous Transformers movies. Reprinted below

is my review of the third (but unfortunately not final)

addition to the series:

I am dead inside. I am dead and my soul is mush

and my heart is dust and my brain is missing. I

have just seen ‘Transformers: Dark Of The Moon.’

The only moon worth speaking of in this movie is

the dimpled moon of Michael Bay’s pale white butt

as he squats down, pulls open his asshole, and

releases this movie into America’s eager, gaping

maw, browning our teeth and indelibly tarnishing

our spirits.

This cinematic abomination opened tonight in

IMAX 3D, and I saw a sold out (fuck you, America)

showing at
AMC 20 Palace Place
in Harahan,

Louisiana. Because the movie was sold out, we had

to show our tickets as we entered the theater. The

first time I showed it, the dull-eyed usher said, “It’s

backwards.” The ticket was backwards. I’d been

careless. I flipped it around so he could see the front.

“It’s upside down,” he said testily.

Pissed, I flipped it right side up and held it

literally a centimeter in front of his face and

continued holding it there as he stared blankly

forward.

No matter what

he said in

acknowledgment, I continued to hold it there,

hoping to incite his ire. I saw the rage and

indignation begin to well-up in his stare and I

finally removed my ticket from his site and loudly

proclaimed him to be a douche bag. He got the last

laugh, however, because I was in for Transformers

3.

The movie began with an explanation that the

space race of the 1960’s was actually because a