First of all, how is it that I can continually make relevant use of the picture above?  I mean… really?

That said, I thought this would be a good place to outline my activities of last Saturday night.  The debauchery was as fast as it was furious, resultant in me on a swing, with a bartender, on a bar, having free shots of Patron poured down my throat.  Ten minutes later I realized I had had enough and was no longer firing on all cylinders.  I hailed a cab and went home.

Listen, I’m skipping a lot of things, but to be fair, this is all really besides the point and the beginning of the story.  (Or at least the part that I can remember).

After I got out of the cab and into my house, it occurred to me that I was not even close to being ready for bed.  The fridge was empty.  So in my infinite wisdom, I put my shoes back on and barreled out the door and back into the great wide open.  I know what you’re thinking.  What was it?  Pizza?  Hallal?  That gross Chinese place on the corner?

No.  None of the above.  I made the responsible decision to go food shopping.  And shop, I did.

Ye Ol’ Trade Fair is open 24 hours and I felt this would be an appropriate time (what with my busy schedule) to do a food shop.  You know.  Just the basics…

I’m going to skip ahead to the next morning, thereby denying you of what was most likely a drunken rumble of brilliant proportions through Trade Fair supermarket at 3AM.  The next morning, I found that I had apparently played Phoenix’s “Run, Run, Run” 6 times during the experience.  So if you need an accompanying theme for what transpired, just toss that on repeat.

Here is exactly what I purchased:

1.  6 cans of Progresso Lentil Soup

2. 8 individual dinner rolls

3. 1 can of Progresso Pea Soup (You know… for variety)

4.  An individual package of Craisins.

5.  Yogi Tea  - Blues Away brand

6.  An avocado

——————-

I don’t often like to pat myself on the back, but well done…me.  Clearly, with all of the snow, I’ve been able to prepare feasts made for a king all week long.

Let me holla at you for a minute.  In a recent conversation I had over dinner, it came to light that New York City is full of douche bags.

I know.  Quite the revelation, right?

But in all seriousness, this city is rank with grandiose spectacles of bombastic douchebaggery, an affront to the inherent awesomeness that is you and I.  From the Wall Street ex-frat boys who cram into Turtle Bay every Saturday to the midtown suits who measure joy in 401Ks and meaningless job titles, there’s hardly a crevice in this good city that isn’t teeming with the infection of doucheitude- The D1B1 virus - The Douche Flu - or whatever you will.

And it’s not just limited to folks with jobs.  Employment does not intrinsically make you a douche.  Let me get that straight and don’t you get it twisted.  The heart of the Douche community goes well beyond the elegant confines of a sharp tailored two-piece.   It goes so far beyond…

Somehow in the process of fighting “the man,” the endearingly hip countercultures of New York City mutated into punch lines and caricatures that are, in so many ways, unbearably worse than the “social norms” they were originally rebelling against.  The artistic and endearingly hip generations of the past weep for today.  Our “cool” is so desperately “uncool,” it makes Bob Dylan roll in his grave.  And no.  He isn’t even dead yet.  It’s a pre-emptive grave roll. Basically anything quote unfucking quote “hip” that has come out of Williamsburg in the last decade is making him spin right round, baby.  Like a record player.  Round…  Right round…… round.

And before you derelict heroes of the Bushwick dance scene get excited, the fact that our city’s counterculture needs a counterculture is not ironic.  It’s a farce.

But in truth, there’s really nothing anyone can do about this.  Professionalism dictates that I’m…uh… professional around these self-important idiots in their insipid corner offices.  On the same note, all generally accepted rules of social decorum instruct that I be cordial to the self-indulgent dickbag at the Met wearing a pink Furby shirt, Viking hat, and pants he undoubtedly purchased at Baby Gap.  I bet he thinks he’s ironic.  He’s not.  He’s just a fucking douche bag.

So what can we do?  We can laugh at them, that’s what.

We can envision a perfect world where the douche bags get what’s coming to them.  And I don’t mean this in a malevolent way where anyone would be legitimately harmed.  Anyone who knows me knows I could never advocate such a thing.   But, I am an advocate for embarrassing the shit out of people who suck and helping them realize their existence is of no use or benefit to the world at large.   Shaming a douche is what my Jewish brethren would call a “mitzvah.” Sadly, one man or woman could not achieve such a feat.  Nor could it be achieved by any number of people.  So you and I are out.  So are our friends and our family members.  There’s only on force on God’s green Earth that could unleash such a noble trouncing — one force that could hand out such blind judgment, as instinctive as it is effective.

Squirrels.

You’ve seen them around New York City.  You’ve experienced them gallantly leaping in and out of garbage cans, scaling trees with wondrous agility, and getting aggressively up in your God damn face like you’re a deadbeat baby-daddy who’s late with alimony.  Yes.  Squirrels.  Squirrels indeed.  They have no fear.  They have no prejudice.  They are unwaveringly fair.  These vermin lords of the concrete jungle — they will take your food.  They will steal your girl.  They will bring down the douche bags of this once-good city.  They will make us laugh and they will steal your hearts.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you with great pride the newest addition to LastKingofHollywood.com -

“SQUIRRELS Vs…”

Next Wednesday, the squirrels fight back.  Stay tuned…