:: A solution to the The Situation ::

Halloween is only a few days away, and it looks like Jersey Shore-themed costumes are awfully popular, which really shouldn't come as much of a surprise due to both the show's immense – if inexplicable – popularity and also the fact that douchebags of the world really like to show off their douchebaggyness (Ed Hardy shirts, after all, are not exactly understated).

I, of course, being of both good taste and a bad attitude, hate Jersey Shore. It's such a lowest-common-denominator show that it makes Rock of Love look like fucking Masterpiece Theatre. Sadly though, my hatred of the MTV program will do nothing to slow its popularity, nor the thousands – millions maybe – of Snooki and The Situation costumes that are sure to sprout up on the streets and at Halloween parties beginning tomorrow night.

All we can really hope for, I guess, is an increase in poison Halloween candy and firecracker accidents this year. Either that, or a bad batch of energy drinks and jagermeister.

:: (Useless) Douche of the Day ::

A couple things that have been annoying me lately – all of which leave the guilty party up for Douche of the Day honurs (you know, that sporadically-awarded honour I first gave to this guy)

Anyways, Contestant #1: Somebody called me at work the other day, and after we chatted about whatever it was he called for, he gave me his phone numbers so I could reach him next week. So he leaves me his work number – no problem there – and then his cell. Only he doesn't call it his cell. No, he says, "Oh and this is my mobile."

Mobile? Really? I mean, really?

I know, it's an English or possibly European thing to call a cell phone a mobile, and that's fine – I have no problem with that as long as either a) you are in that country (or countries) or b) you are from that country and that's what you're accustomed to saying. 

But this guy is not English, and certainly not European – he's Chinese. And as far as I know, he's always lived in the Lower Mainland (I've spoken with him numerous times through the years, and I think this is true). There is absolutely no reason for this guy to call his cell phone his "mobile" other than to try and sound like a pretentious douche.

Contestant #2: This one isn't specific person, but a type of person. And I can't even take credit for it – it was first brought up by Mike at The Jerk Store. He hates people who talk about people playing poker on TV. And he's absolutely right. A couple weekends ago I was somewhere – can't remember where – and heard two or three guys debating their favourite players. Really? Favourite poker players? 

I like poker as much as the next guy – I've actually started liking it more lately, as a matter of fact – but I like playing, not watching. And you certainly shouldn't have a favourite. I mean, Christ...

Contestant #3: This guy isn't so much a douche as a guy who has wasted his youth. He is yet another guy on my Facebook friends list who is obtaining a post-bachelor's degree. Only this is a doctorate. Our very first Douche of the Day was a guy being knobby about his Master's Degree – go click the link at the top for a refresher, if you want – so with that precedent set, I've gotta include this guy, too. 

This new guy is someone I haven't seen since high school, and though I don't remember him being a douche, he was/is incredibly smart. He's 29 – same as me – and has spent the last 11 years in school. Fancy university back east, then a post-bachelor's degree run at a prestigious school in the States, and then, of course, studying abroad. Lives in France or some place. 

Anyways... though one could assume he's a douche candidate simply be virtue of his schooliness (yes, I'm inventing that word), he recently posted as a FB photo the cover page of his doctorate dissertation. And you know what? I don't really have too much of a problem with that because I imagine it's about 120+ pages and took the guy years to do.

He's proud of it. Fair 'nuff.

But then I read the cover page and finally realized what exactly this dude's been studying for a decade – which has presumably cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars. I'd never known before, but I thought it was probably some medical field (Not because it's a doctorate, but because I was under the impression he was a science-y, pre-med type of guy).

And the title? Some 3-line, two sentence, paragraph about the French Revolution from 1789-1792 (so not even the whole revolution) and its effect on international law. 

Like I said, douchey. 

And assuming this incredibly boring, scholarly dissertation is actually good – I'm sure it is, because he's a smart guy – do you know what he'll receive? 

His Doctorate of Philosophy.

You heard that right. Fucking Philosophy. 

I'm sure he'll get lots of high-paying job offers from philosophy factories with that in his back pocket.

:: This place probably sells a lot of Red Bull & vodka ::

Tonight, while we were out and about in Langley, I remembered that I needed to stop by a liquor store so I could buy enough booze for my golfing weekend, which begins early tomorrow. We were on our way back to Cloverdale, so I suggested we go to the government liquor store near Willowbrook Mall, because it's en route to home.

"Ah, not that one - that's the douchebag liquor store!" Christene complained.

This was the first time I'd heard such a complaint about this particular establishment, so at first I was skeptical of such a claim. But before we'd even parked the car, I noticed two muscled-up D-bags in Affliction-esque shirts - the mark of a douchebag - another skinny darker guy in oversized sunglasses, and another guy sitting in a jacked-up truck, not wearing a shirt, with a dog that may or may not have been a pitbull.

And inside was much of the same.

Then, after picking up and paying for my beer, we walked back out to the truck, passing many of the aforementioned douchebags as well as some new recruits. As we passed a guy waiting in a car - which had the windows rolled down - he yelled out in Christene's direction.

"Tittttaaaays!!" he called.

I didn't hear him at the time, and Christene didn't tell me what he said until we were already driving away, but man, what a fucking douche. I mean, sure, boobs are pretty great, but who actually does that?

Douchebags, that's who.

:: Throwing hands ::

In my adult life, I've been in two fights - both, incidentally, at hockey rinks. The first, some of you may recall, came about 5-6 years ago, when a handful of us were watching Chris, Gorski, and... other people (sorry, can't remember if anyone else was on that team. Lambie maybe? I dunno...)

Anyways... that altercation came about when - after a bit of a brouhaha on the ice - I cheered when Gorksi, who was in net, hit an Aldergrove guy with his stick. An Aldergrove dad, sitting a few rows behind us, did not like it, and we started yelling at each other. Then he called me fat, yelled at my mom, and that's when I punched him. Pat broke things up about five seconds after that.

Fight #2 came Friday night, when I went to the rink to watch the Mooseknuckles game. After the game, a bunch of us - all the players, plus Chris, Me, Sean, Amanda and Jenna - were sitting in the dressing room, having some beers. I was sitting next to the goalie, Danny.

Right from the start, he was being weird about me being in his space - I'm not sure if he noticed how small the dressing room was, but there's really not a lot of places for that many people to sit, and I'm also not sure why he thought he deserved eight feet of bench, but that's really not important. What matters is that he was being weird about it.

Eventually, we started jostling for space - trying to knock each other off the bench, etc... it was all just goofing around. We were laughing (at least I was).. no big deal. But then he decided to put me in a headlock and quite literally, try to choke me out.

Whether he knew it or not, this is when it went beyond just a couple guys screwing around. I honestly could not breathe - my face went red, and I didn't enough have enough oxygen to say, "OK, joke's over. Stop." I mean, this Danny kid was a strong guy, and I really had no way of getting him off me.

So I elbowed him in the junk (which missed and got him in the thigh), and then when he finally let me up, I threw a beer at him and punched him twice in the face, before he came back at me and Bucholtz - wearing his delightfully tacky Cowichan sweater - broke it up.

I never got hit, and then I left the room, followed by Sean and Chris. A few seconds later, the goalie tried to come after me again in the lobby, but Chris stopped us from having round 2 (And almost started trading punches with him, himself, he said.)

After the situation defused, Chris (who, not surprisingly, was pretty jacked up about the whole ordeal) and Sean both said I did the right thing. Jones did too. Jeremy said "Well, he owes you a punch" which is, of course, bullshit (No offence Jer - so you can't be mad). And it's only bullshit because fights are inherently not fair - somebody has to start it, somebody has to throw the first punch, and unless it's one of those schoolyard, "Meet me at the swings at recess" fights where both parties know it's about to happen, a fight is usually going to be a surprise to somebody. If he owes me a punch, I owe him a 15-second choke hold, because I didn't see that coming either.

And sure, I know that it was unlikely I was going to get the worst of it - I was in a room with 10 of my friends, you think they were gonna stand around while I got pummeled? No, of course not. But regardless, that's the situation we were in.

Besides, I think everybody knows I'm not a violent, angry, fight-starting person. But when you can't breath, you panic. And I definitely did - and when I could breath again, I just sort of snapped. I mean, you gotta stick up for yourself, and that's what happened. I didn't even consciously decide to do it - I mean, it wasn't until afterward that I even knew I hit him twice. I thought it was just once.

It was all a blur. And though I feel bad for making the dressing room an awkward place - and for making Dan suffer through the world's most awkward drive home (He gave Danny, the goalie, a ride), I don't really apologize for much else.

But I'll tell you what - for a guy who never really got hit, fuck was I ever sore on Saturday morning. Back, shoulder, neck - from the choke - it all fucking felt like I'd been in a car accident. I'm definitely too old for that shit.

Therefore, I think it's in everybody's best interest if I retire. With a perfect 2-0 record and without ever having taken a punch*.

*Whether this is because a) I'm one helluva crafty scrapper, or b) because I'm lucky or c) because my friends break things up quick, is really here nor there.)

(The line of the night goes to Lambie, who apparently said after I left the dressing room, "Leave it to Nick to insult the guy with a joke about the Internet." As me and Danny yelled at each other on the way out, I called him a "fucking Craigslist hack" because he's not a very good goalie, and because Jer found him for the team via the online classifieds.)

:: Douche of the Day ::

There's a guy on my Facebook friends list, a former minor hockey league teammate of mine, who recently finished getting his Master's Degree at the University of Victoria. Today, his status read:

Jonathan is job-hunting in Calgary. Anyone know who's hiring MBAs for project management/consulting?

Immediately, one thought struck me – that this is one of the douchiest status updates I've read in, well, maybe forever.

Let's deconstruct, shall we?

For starters, it is my opinion that Master's Degrees are overrated. In my line of work, for example, someone with a post-graduate degree is just as likely to enter the workforce in the exact same position (ie: the bottom) as someone with a two-year diploma in the same area of study. I have a bachelor's degree, which took four years to obtain, so I fall directly in the middle of the two extremes, but sometimes I still feel like it was a waste, except for the ego-boost that saying "I have a degree" gives me (Or could conceivably give me. I don't really get an ego boost from it, but that's just me). Strictly on a professional level, it does me limited good.

In most fields, I'd suggest, Master's Degrees are about as necessary as snow tires in July.

Which brings me to my next point. I think people get Master's degrees largely so they can say they have them. It makes them sound fancy, and hey, I guess it is pretty impressive that you spend an extra 2 years in school. 

(Important note: I do have a couple friends currently obtaining master's degrees. I do not know your specific reasons for doing so, but I exclude you from my Master's Degree rant, if only because you are both far less douchy than my ex-hockey teammate, and do not post similar FB status updates.)

And case in point is this guy's status: He makes a point of announcing his MBA to a group of 200 people on Facebook. "Hey everybody, just in case you forgot, I have a Master's Degree!"

I mean, if Facebook was a corporate job board, or a business networking website, maybe I'd understand. But it's not. It's a place for posting pictures of your trip to Vegas, sending drunken messages and playing Farmville.

The only people who will read that message are people who already know him – friends, old school buddies, etc. Chances are that nobody – nobody – is going to respond to that status by saying, "Oh yeah, my Fortune 500 company is hiring people right now. Send in a resume!"

I'm sorry, but it's just not going to happen there, Champ.

Secondly, and this is just a personal thing, but "consulting" and "project management" are about the most vague, pretentious sounding jobs I can possible dream up. Which of course, plays right into Mr. MBA's hands – I mean, imagine the hard-on this guy would get if he was able to have MBA and "Business Consultant" on the same business card?

(And make no mistake about it, this guy would definitely be the type to add every possible "title" after his name on his business card, whether is was BSBA, MBA, JD, MD, whatever.)

So there you have it, the Douche of the Day.

:: Oh, now I remember why the gym sucks ::

Last night, I went to the gym for the first time in awhile. It was obviously busy - as it is every January, as people try to make good on their New Year's resolutions. By mid-March the crowds have thinned out, but yesterday it was busy.

My gym is also quite small, and there are only five or so treadmills. When I was there, four of these treadmills were occupied by four mid-20s bleach blonde guys - the typical douchey gym rats. I didn't know just how douchey, however, until about the five-minute mark.

As I watched from a stationary bike, I realized that these four guys were all at the gym together, and not only that, but they appeared to be "racing" each other.

Yes, racing each other. On treadmills.

They were really into it, too. At one point, two of the guys actually high-fived each other, so pleased with themselves were they. Yes, while running. It was at this point that Ed Hardy himself (is he even a real guy?) could not have made them any more douchebaggy.

Douchiness notwithstanding, the real problem here is that they were racing. Did I mention they were on treadmills? They kept the "race" going for about 5-6 minutes, at least. And they really seemed to be getting into it. The problem, in case you haven't already figured it out, is that treadmills aren't ideal for racing.

Sure, the four guys kept bumping their respective speeds up and up and up, but the thing is, once one guy gets to a level that nobody else can manage, it's over. Just stop. He wins. He's the fastest. Simple math suggests that, whether you are racing to 1 km or 1,000 km, he's getting there first. There are no speed bursts, so slowing down, no winning by a nose. No drafting. No nothing.

Just one speed. That's it.

If they were simply goofing around, then maybe I'd give them a break, but I couldn't tell for sure that they were, and - judging simply by the high levels of douchery - I would guess that they were more serious than not.

God I'll be glad when the herd thins again, and all the gotta-get-in-shape-for-2010 folks give up and head back to watch TV. Because one they're on the couch, they can high-five all they want.

:: There are no words for this ::

"This is my favourite Black Eyed Peas song. It's so unlike anything else they've ever done." - said by a pub-goer at our table Saturday night, with complete and utter sincerity. 

(No, I don't remember what song it was, but does it really matter? This is perhaps the douchiest thing I've ever heard. And really, calling it douchey isn't even quite right, but like I said in the title, I'm at a loss for words here. Unbelievable.)

:: Not that funny ::

Just a friendly word of advice. If you are a brown guy, in his mid-20s, with an fashion sense that I can only describe as "G'd up from the feet up" (ie: douchey), and you find yourself in a parking lot, exiting from an $80,000 Porsche Cayenne alongside two other young brown dudes, do not make any jokes when you hear police sirens in the background.

When you look at your pal/accomplice - and me, standing right beside you - and say, "Ha, sounds like somebody else got shot!" you aren't that hilarious (even if you might be right).

No, considering your car, your age and your general appearance, you do not sound funny at all.

You sound guilty.

:: The Definition of Douchebag ::

Saw this BMW parked outside Boston Pizza last night. Needless to say, it did not have a "Handicapped Parking" pass hanging from the mirror.

I was as shocked as you.

(I apologize for the grainy photo, but it was taken on my BlackBerry as I was walking swifty. I would've stopped, but this was an expensive car with nice rims, and I therefore gave it 10:1 odds that the owner of said vehicle was a gang member. And I did not want to get shot. I'm sure you understand.)