Useless Jobs: A New Denim Douche staple

Hi, kids. Ryan here. I should be studying. At two, I have a quiz. At 3:30, I have a test. It's now noon. I have chosen to replace showering with blogging today, and so I don't feel guilty about supposedly wasting valuable study time writing this. Besides, we all know I'll do fine.

Now, you may have noticed the title of this entry. Useless Jobs: A New Denim Douche Staple. I'd like for it to become a new staple. I fully intend for that to happen at this time. I also hoped I might incorporate more photoshops into the blog, but the well's been dry since "Pontius Pilates." Anyway, I thought of the subject of the blog, then decided it would make for a charming series. So, without further ado,

USELESS JOB #1: The Courtroom Sketch Artist



Who is this person? Care to venture a guess? I want you to struggle a little with it, so I wrote who it is at the bottom of the post if you're really looking for closure.

Courtroom Sketch Artists are absurd. They came into being because courts would not allow cameras into their proceedings (real courts, not Judge Judy), but for some reason, decided to allow amateurish drawings of all parties involved. The picture above looks like a caricature you'd get of yourself at Disneyland. Why aren't her eyes boggling out of her head a little more and why doesn't she have a 3-foot neck? I guess the artist was just lazy.

I understand the Stenographer. This person types out everything that's said in the courtroom so that it's accessible on the record. That's important. We're dealing with the law. But why in God's name do we need the art-school dropout present in court? (Becca, I'm calling you out. Does your judge have to deal with these Bob Ross wannabes? Do you agree that any full-time courtroom position that involves colored pencils is slightly unnecessary?)

Who actually wants to be a courtroom sketch artist? How low in the artist spectrum is that position? I think I'd rather teach kindergarteners to fingerpaint. There are police sketch artists, but those are useful. Some of them are frighteningly good at their job and help catch criminals. But courtroom sketch artists are a mockery and make way too much for being marginally talented with Crayola products.

The picture I posted is from TMZ. It's someone you all know, which is why I asked you who you think it is. Since TMZ can't get in there themselves with their terroristic cameramen, they buy these shitty sketches so they have something visual for their articles. What we get is a ridiculous juxtaposition between (usually) serious criminal charges and silly political-cartoon drawings.

"The defendant recounted his ghastly murders in graphic detail"



Anyway, it's now 12:20 and I'd better get back to studying. But fuck me sideways, Courtroom Sketch Artist is one USELESS JOB!

If that's not a real HTML function, it should be.






Oh, and it's Paris Hilton.

Poop: Why can't it be number one?

Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about Poop. Doo-doo. Fecal Matter. But don't worry, because I'm twenty-one and mature, I'm going to handle this with class and dignity. I consider that my duty. Heh. Doodie.

Human beings, unlike our feathered friends and their leavings-of-questionable-substance, have two types of waste. Liquid waste is known by the scientific name of "Pee-Pee." Pee-Pee is entirely socially acceptable. People announce to their friends that they intend to urinate. Men say, "Right back, gotta take a piss." Women say to their girlfriends, "Hey I need to pee, want to come with me?", and god damn me straight to hell if the other girl doesn't follow her into the bathroom. Women are like wolves (whose asses we all know I'd like to kick) when they pee. They are pack animals. I'm not sure of the reasoning behind this.

Men are given the permanent green light to pee outside at any given time. You might think we would be embarrassed if ever we were to be noticed by a disgruntled passerby. However, men know that the secret is to laugh and give the thumbs-up sign with your back completely turned to the person. At this point, the passerby's proper response is to laugh back and cheer the peeer (not a typo, but PEE-er: one who pees) on with words of encouragement, such as "good man," or "let it flow, buddy!" Comments on the peeer's penis are strictly forbidden. Actually, this rarely works if the passerby is a woman. If you're a woman, quit being a passerby. It'll make things easier.

(Author's note: All of this rings true for my current walk of life. I could [and probably should] walk outside my apartment right now and just start peeing all over the parking lot. I've got my aforementioned bailout at the ready. It is yet to be seen if the "anything flows" motto holds true later in life. I like to think that I won't let my my urination methods be altered in any way by any sort of societal pressure. Because isn't that what America's about?)

Now I know what you're thinking. "Ryan, I thought you said this article is about poop. Here you go, prattling on about pee. You liar." Don't call me a liar on my own fucking blog. That's just rude. Anyway, one can't get a proper perspective on poop's place in society without first examining the carefree nature of pee. Poop, pee's retarded cousin, is an entirely different animal. Poop is taboo. You can't announce poop. (Unless you're with only guys, or family members, and you're not out somewhere). It's shameful. If you let out a real bomb at some sort of group function, you're required to sink back into the crowd and pretend you know nothing about it. If you're finishing up in a public restroom, you'd like to wait for the other person in the bathroom to leave so they don't look you in the eye with that "My God, what have you done" look.

We live in a world where everyone you meet would love for you to believe they've never taken a shit in their life. Now isn't that insane? You have a dog, don't you? No? Cat? Snake? Whatever. Your pet just bends over and shits whenever he wants to. Not only that, he's pretty happy about it, too. It probably just made his day. He sees no difference between Nos. 1 and 2. He is responding properly to a physiological sign, and more power to him. That's what early humans did, back when we were still figuring out the world. (I reference early humans a lot...I suppose you've got to love any group of people who defecate freely, hunt the elusive porcine and eat like there's no tomorrow).

Well, I suppose living in a society means stigmatizing natural and essential human functions.

But I have a dream. A dream that one day, pee-pee and poo-poo will be treated with equal regard, as they are equally important to the human equation. If you can't help it, you shouldn't have to. You pee with pride. Now go, my loyal Cronies, and crap with courage.

Remember, there's no shame in shitting. Unless it smells. That's gross.

Now click my ads.

Octo-mom and Rod Blagojevich: America's biggest douchebags?

As a guy whose blog is called "Denim Douche," I know a douchebag when I see one, and believe me, they're everywhere. However, there is normal douchebaggery, like some guy in ultra-tight emo pants that take 15 minutes to squeeze into, and then there are the subjects of today's rant. Ultra-douchebags. The kind of people you just WISH you could run into in a soundproof room (Yeah, I'd punch Octo-mom. Try me). That said, the two assholes I feel like discussing today are Octo-mom and Rod Blagojevich. (Warning: Post may contain a greater volume of swearing than usual.)

At the end of my last post, I said that I'd keep my eye open for news that brings my piss to a boil. Well, the kettle's fucking whistling. Are Octo-mom and Blago new news? No. Are they related in any way? Not outwardly. But it was when I read an article about each one of these fuckwads in the same day that I snapped and decided The Douche had to get involed. It's just too much bullshit in the same day.


Let's start with that piece of shit, the Octo-mom. Her name is Nadya Suleman, but who fucking cares. I hate this person. Really, the picture I posted says it all. For anyone who has the good fortune of being more out of the loop than me, this crazed psychopath already had SIX children, living in a 3 bedroom apartment with Octo-bitch and her parents. Then, she decides to have SIX more, only two of the embryos split, and woudln't you know it, she's got eight on the way. Yeah, that's right, this unemployed single mother who lives with her parents now has fourteen children.

But that's not the bad part. The bad part is that we know about it. Why? Because of the fact that we know about it, everybody knows about it. Because of the fact that everybody knows about it, bleeding-heart carefree assholes know about it. Because of the fact that they know about it, they're throwing Octo-mom money every which way, for new living arrangements, furniture, clothes, diapers, blah blah blah. This horrid woman is our country's latest charity case. Instead of the satisfying feeling you might get from seeing Social Services haul her Brady-Bunch-Ain't-Got-Shit-On-This zoo full of kids out the door while she sobs her silicone lips off, it appears that Octo-mom will be just fine. Hell, even better. Of course she'll have plenty more talk show appearances, follow-up news stories, probably an action figure and a clothing line. We've handed this woman a fortune on a silver platter as a direct result of some of the most recklessly irresponsible behavior this country has ever seen.

What a career, huh? I imagine most of you reading this are in college, working your ass off to maybe end up with a good job after graduation. How much does it chap your ass that this freak is soaking it all in: donations, taxpayer money, while she's essentially a professional uterus? Hey ladies, whatever you're trying to do after college, clearly it's not as profitable as squirting a few dozen babies out eight at a time and allowing the country to rally around you. Fucking America. Octo-mom should be shot. Give the kids to Brangelina; at least one enormous-lipped woman has the means to care for them.



Blagojevich, the other asshole in the festering cesspool of shit I'm a'cookin tonight, is really no better. You all know the story, he was impeached and stripped of his Gubernatorial (that's Governor, to you) duties for conspiracy to commit fraud, and even more fun, for trying to sell Obama's empty Senate seat to the highest bidder. The media likes to call Blagojevich "Blago..." I much prefer "Fagojebitch." Eh? Nice ring to it, huh? It will be abbreviated henceforth as Fago.

Corruption in government, it's nothing new, right? I mean, Spitzer got caught banging that hooker, this is no worse. Wrong. It's worse, because Fago just signed a book deal worth somewhere between 400-500 thousand dollars. America, land of the free, home of the brave, and country where you can bastardize and piss all over the people of Illinois, get impeached, and instead of living out your days in shame, some sleazy publisher hands you a check for half a million to tell your story. You know, I don't recall reading the "Charlie Manson Story," or "Timothy McVeigh: The Man, the Myth, the OKC Bomber." Oh, because they're VIOLENT offenders. Fago is just a white collar criminal, and really, making a total mockery of an important government position is no big deal, I mean, who cares? Apparently some legislators are trying to get this stopped, seeing the same infuriating problem with the whole thing as I do. Thank God I'm not the only one.

The overarching theme in all this, of course, is unjust reward. Both Fago and Octo-whore did despicable things: Fraud, corruption, and eventual impeachment, and bringing 8 children into an insufficient-sized house with no income and requiring help from your aging parents who have already admitted being worn out simply taking care of the FIRST six kids. People do despicable things all the time. The problem is that they are, in a sense, being rewarded. Octo-mom is all set now that morons across the country feel bad for her instead of angry, and are setting a fine example in rewarding her selfishness and irresponsibility. If Fago's book deal goes through, he's sitting on half a million for admitting his wrongdoing. Wow, what a deal! Too bad I'm not significant enough to commit a horrid white-collar crime so that I could later profit off of it. I can see it now:

"Whoops! I stole all of your retirement money and got caught,

by Ryan Prescott, ex-CEO"

God bless America.

Ramblings!

I'm back.

Those two words, spoken by Michael Jordan following his first retirement/wacky baseball experiment, still have the power to produce chills in sports fans. If all is going to plan, those words should be eliciting the same reaction in all of you. As fans of me, the MJ of the blog world, I can imagine your shock and dismay at the amount of time it's been since "I hate morning people." This was an aberration, (had to play around with the combinations of 1 and 2 b's and r's in that word for 30 seconds or so before settling on that spelling. English majors, have at it.) and you can fully expect more frequent entries now that, just like Air Jordan, I'm back.

I was in Washington DC, followed by New York City. I spotted Dee Snider from Twisted Sister in one of those bike-carriage things being pedaled by an Asian man around Central Park. I also hung out on the set of Good Morning America while Emeril Lagasse was whipping up some crock-pot lovin' for the overeager, all-white crowd. While those were my only two universally-understood-and-thus-bloggable-experiences, there were plenty more, including running into 5 people I went to college with and 1 person I went to high school with at separate times in DC, obscenely expensive cupcakes, and drinking heavily. So, you could say it was a good time.

Cronies, I have an announcement! My Google AdSense account is finally posting money! That's right, so far, you've earned me almost 4 dollars. I'm so disappointed in you. I thought I told you to click those ads! Click! Click those ads! I'm still searching for a way to fund my last 2 months of cable and internet, and I'm thinking money is a start. The world is a place of great wonder. Quench your thirst for knowledge by using my search, at the top and bottom of the page. It's just like Google except sillier and green. Now who the fuck doesn't like that?

Yeah, as you can tell, no real writing today. In fact, you probably read the title, and thus figured out that I'm rambling. Lord, I was born a Ramblin' Man. Tryin to make a livin an...

AH! Stop it! ...rollin' down highway 41!!!

I'll keep my eyes peeled for things in the world that bring my piss to a boil like I always do. And of course, once those things are found, I'll bring them right back to the Douche for diligent reporting. 'Cuz that's what I do. Rambling over. Stay tuned until next time.

I hate morning people.

It's true. I do. Ooh... I bet you like that I followed right up on my title just now. I didn't start all over once I got to the next box, no, I seamlessly linked title to body. My God, am I a wunderkind. I throw all caution into the wind and tell MLA format to kiss my ass. And let's not even mention that bullshit Chicago Manual of Style. Crap. Mentioned it.



Yeah, that's what we're talking about. Morning people. Well, at least that's what showed up when I google imaged "Morning person." For all I know she's doing yoga, performing the YMCA dance, or she's surrendering to hordes of police officers while creepily and sadistically admiring her brutally murdered victims. Probably the latter. She just has that look about her. But because she's clearly a dastardly and heartless murderer, we can also assume she's a morning person.

There wasn't anything in particular that brought this on, other than the looming fear of going home tomorrow night. Although I'll only be home one night, oh how I wish to avoid the Voldemort of morning people...

My mom.

This woman gets up while roosters are still clearing their throats. I'm convinced she beats the sun up half of the time. I don't know exactly what it is, and I don't know if it's generational, but I think getting up early is a point of pride with this woman.

Mom: "God, Ryan, it's almost TEN O'CLOCK! I've been up since SIX!"
Me: "WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU BE UP AT SIX?!?!?"

Now I know what you're thinking...come on Ryan, you're not swearing at your mom. Actually, in this case I probably am, because this conversation is happening as my mom rudely wakes me up by kicking my door open, throwing cats on me (this literally happens all the time) and opening my blinds. And despite my best effort to get the cat off my face and go back to sleep, it's too late. She's succeeded. I'm up. The sun is now glaring in my face, and if I have to get up to close the blinds, fuck, I'm already up. Plus, I probably have to go to the bathroom, and then it's really game over. First of all, I'll never be able to go back to sleep, and second of all, she's out there. Yeah, that's right, she's waiting. I could creep as quietly as possible but just like Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters she'll pop out of nowhere and hit me with a burst of energy like nothing the world has ever seen.

She will hit me with her laundry list of cliches:

Number 1: (And this is crucial...) No matter what time I wake up, I woke up at Noon. There are no exceptions. I'll come downstairs at 9:30, she'll start pinning me to the wall with her excitement as I clamor for the coffee pot, and yammer on furiously about what she's done already this morning. Then comes the line; "Of course you could have been there if you didn't sleep until NOON!"

It's important to know that if you actually slept until noon in my house, you would be shot, stabbed, and disowned, not necessarily in that order. On weekends, my mom will purposely mow the lawn at some ungodly hour like 7:30 so that when I wake up, she can needle me about how I'm a strapping young lad and yet SHE'S out there killing herself with that lawnmower. No, we're not Jewish. Why do you ask?

Number 2: So she's mowed the lawn. She's likely been tag saling. She is at this point in full battle gear: work clothes (including the sweatpants I bought her for Christmas last year) and a ridiculously bright, neon colored hat. When I come downstairs, it's time to make me do things. Oh, good, you're up. I need you to bring those trash cans full of branches into my car. Why are there trash cans full of branches? Because I decided I didn't like that bush and I cut it down. Can I drink my coffee first? Bring it with you. Same goes for vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, whatever. There is no waking up grace period.

Eh, that's enough of that. I'm going to start hyperventilating. I'm sure you noticed at this point that this entry isn't really "I hate morning people" anymore, so much as "my mom is the worst morning person of all time." I had to use her as my pinnacle of morning persondom. I've been around other morning people, but they just don't have what it takes. I could keep numbering crazy shit that she does in the morning, but a fair number of you have crashed at my house, you're privy to it. Waking up to my mother's presence is like opening a stove preheated to 500 degrees and feeling that insane heat suddenly shooting at you. You're never quite ready for it. If anyone who's ever slept over wants to share any fun Julie stories, you're welcome to do so. I'm not so sure it's good for my health to continue. So, au revoir! That means something in French.

The Challenger

Denim Douche does not have a statistics department. It's a shame, because I when I watch sports, which I do quite often, announcers will frequently vocalize a curiosity. You know, one of these:

Announcer: "I wonder... when was the last time someone had 37 points and 13 assists while playing 34 minutes on their grandmother's birthday?" And wouldn't you know it, before you can even figure out what they're talking about, they've got an answer for you. Hasn't happened since '77, on a long-since defunct team (Cincinnati Royals? Syracuse Nationals?)

Which brings me to my point: Food is clearly overrepresented on the Douche (or DD, if you will). I wanted a statistic to back this claim up; a percentage, a comprehensive count of food-related entries. But instead of looking it up, I chose instead to lament about this site's lack of a statistics department. In the irony of ironies, it appears I'm too lazy to navigate the archives for a few minutes, but not to write 3 paragraphs of convoluted nonsense. If laziness is conditional, is it really laziness? Chew on that for a while.

Check that: food isn't overrepresented on the Douche. Everything happens for a reason, and I write about food all the time because I love food. Food is the best, and it goes far beyond a need for sustenance. I apologize for the ironic juxtaposition of this entry and the one about eating disorders. Couldn't be helped.

During a spirited bout of eating this weekend, I consumed 2 and a half burgers, 2 chicken thighs, 2 servings of fries, and stopped because we ran out of food. This occurrence is hardly surprising, you see, because my roommate Ho and I have been training. We have been training for the Challenger. For those not in the know, the Challenger is a 2 person eating challenge at Randy's Wooster Street Pizza here at UConn. The description on the website calls it a "22' Stuffed Pizza with a combination too big to list!" And claims that 102 have tried it, with one team succeeding.

I'm ready. Ho is ready. Usually I stop eating because I'm out of food or because I feel that people are starting to stare. I want to see where I really stand. I want to enter this ring of honor and double that win total. But alas, Cronies, times are tight. The Challenger costs $35. I'm bleeding money and I'm not sure I can justify dropping 20 dollars myself for the challenge. That's why I turn to you...the fans. Sponsor this challenge. Pledge a few dollars, and come cheer Ho and I on.

Yeah, I'm serious. If a bunch of you throw in just a few dollars, you could be part of history. This event would be photographed, fully chronicled and the story immortalized here on the Douche with a postgame wrapup. When we have a solid base of funding, I'll post the date and time of the Challenger spectacle on the Douche and you can feel free to come enjoy the show (plus, you can BYOB at Randy's!)

Like Olmec from Legends of the Hidden Temple always said, the choice is yours and yours alone. Let's see what you've got.