You're Named After A Girl, Douche Bag

He’s a boy named Jan. He’s with the UN. And he apparently didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

Responding to questions regarding the tsunami victims in Asia, bitchy little Jan Egeland, UN undersecretary general for humanitarian affairs and emergency relief coordinator, got a little critical of the US, calling Westerners “stingy.”

"We (bloody Americans) were more generous when we (bloody Americans) were less rich," Egeland said, utilizing the collective “we” but really meaning “bloody Americans.” "And it is beyond me, why are we (bloody Americans) so stingy, really. ... Even Christmas time should remind many Western countries (the one with the bloody Americans) at least how rich we (bloody Americans) have become."

Jan the man bases his theory of stinginess on the fact that countries like the US give a smaller percent of their gross national product than tiny, less stingy countries do. But while the US may only give .000001 percent of its GNP, that’s still a kajillion dollars. Norway, Jan's homeland and the most generous contributor, gives almost one percent of it’s GNP, which comes out to $11.24. Thanks Norway!

A billion dollars is on the way to India. Planes carrying tons of food and clothes have already landed. Lots of people are volunteering to help. Elton John is writing a song about tsunamis with all proceeds going to Sri Lanka. A tribute performance with Toby Keith and Nelly is planned for the Super Bowl halftime show. There’s a lot being done, and lots of money being contributed. With such a massive effort underway, now is not the time to get snooty, douchebag.

And did I mention that his name is Jan?

Bestselling Douche Bag

Judith Regan will sign anybody to write a book. The former National Enquirer "reporter" is responsible for coffee table classics penned by the likes of Paris Hilton and Jenna Jameson (and in both cases, the movie was much better than the book). Now, Regan has officially cornered the horny blond market, signing Amber Frey, momentary mistress to the king of bad breakups, Scott Peterson. Frey’s story is said to be "a story of courage in crisis that will inspire others who have been betrayed to fight back for truth and justice."

She fucked a guy. That’s it. She screwed a fertilizer salesman who turned out to be a murderer. Had she tossed Peterson’s salad knowing that he was a murderer, then we’d have a story. But she got nailed by a guy who peddles mixtures of dirt and crap, and on the first date. That warrants an STD, not a book.

I can’t blame Frey. Without girls like her, I’d would’ve remained a virgin throughout high school (alright, college). She couldn’t tell a fertilizer salesman no. How could she stand up to a manipulative sensationalist like Regan? Regan loves to peddle trash, but then again, these people love to read it. I personally think Regan’s own story about screwing the next Homeland Security czar over the ashes of the World Trade Center makes a much better book, but Regan prefers to stay out of the spotlight. If I was the douche bag that thought Paris Hilton was worthy of 300 pages on dating tips, so would I.

Paging Dr. Douche Bag

Lance Cpl. David Battle scored an infinite amount of nookie points when the injured soldier allowed doctors to remove his ring finger in order to save his wedding band.

A fierce firefight in Fallujah left Battle with a horribly mangled hand. Doctors at a field hospital suggested that they could cut the wedding band off and try to save what was left of Battle’s ring finger, or amputate the finger completely and save the ring.

I’ve had my own wedding band for seven years now. It’s special, but I take it off quite frequently, like when I shower, when I wash the car, during the summer when my fingers swell from the heat, and during the winter when it catches on my gloves. Oh, and at nudie bars. Though I pushed for matching wedding tattoos, I’m honored to wear the ring my wife gave me. But I also like to be able to count all the way to ten without taking my shoes off. While the ring finger lacks the communicative importance that the other digits carry, it’s nice to have even if it's just to makes my gloves fit better.

In a truly dedicated act, Battle waved goodbye to his finger to keep the wedding band intact, in appreciation for the love and support of his wife. His wife was honored, his friends amazed and the rest of us generally impressed with the guy.

It’s the field doctors that screwed up. The douche bags lost the ring. No one seems to know what happened once the ring was removed, though witnesses claim to have seen one of the doctors hobbling off with a ring, muttering "my preciousssss."

Listen Up, Douche Bag

Forget about John Ashcroft. My parents are the true originators of the Patriot Act. They were reading my mail, listening to my phone conversations, digging through my closet and swiping my porn right up until I turned thirty and said "Enough! Stay outta my room!"

Parents snoop, and when they pay the bills, they have every right to snoop. It’s their house, their car, their mailbox and their phone. Unless your American Express platinum card says Mary-Kate or Ashley Olsen on the front, you are likely a ward of the loving woman who carried you in her womb for nine months and the guy who knocked her up.

Though Washington Supreme Court Justice Tom Chambers wears a gown like a mom, he’s not as smart as one. Chambers and the Court recently handed down a ruling that prohibits parents from eavesdropping on their children’s phone conversations. The ruling stems from a case where a mother listened in on the conversation between her daughter and her daughter’s felonious boyfriend, who was bragging about his latest purse-snatching. Mom, listening in on the phone she pays for in the house she owns, took good notes, gave the info to the cops and the boyfriend was convicted.

But instead of carrying this woman around town on their shoulders and building houses of worship in her honor, Chambers and other old men who still live with their moms declared that the daughter and the purse-snatching beau were due a certain amount of privacy and overturned the conviction. "The Washington privacy statute puts a high value on the privacy of communications," said Chambers. It’s felonies that they don’t care so much about.

If the daughter was paying the phone bill and the boyfriend wasn’t mugging old ladies at night, then the ruling might have some merit. As it is, men in gowns continue to confuse us (and in so many ways). While campaigning for the Supreme Court, Chambers himself said, "My parents taught me that solutions to problems should be grounded in common sense--not technicalities. I believe the courts get too hung up on legal technicalities when common sense would serve us all better." You should’ve listened to your parents, douche bag.

Get to the Nipping, Douche Bag

Where the Hell are you? Two weeks till Christmas and the air conditioning is still blasting. In Minnesota, they’re snowmobiling on alfalfa. In Minneapolis, cross-country skiers have taken to actually grabbing poles and PRETENDING to cross country ski. They may be delirious from the heat. Or maybe they just don’t have cable. I moved to DC to see some snow and wear some very fashionable Abercrombie and Fitch skull caps. But it hasn’t snowed and my skull caps got all sweaty and shrank. They fit like yamakas now. Everybody’s sweating and my bus smells like a Chili-Cookoff. I held my breath so long, I got cramps. Just give me a flake. Or a slight frost. Or even blue balls. I don't care, douche bag. Just make it cold.

Thanks for Nothing, Douche Bags

It’s not easy getting my wife in the mood. She’s built up quite a tolerance to the roofies. Typically, seduction consists of a Grey Goose martini and a two-hour spree in DSW. That she considers tracking down a size eight in practical one-inch heels foreplay is fine by me, as long I later reap the benefits of a steamy buy one, get one free sale. Sadly though, we’re only shoe shopping about twice a month now.

So I was excited – very excited – when I heard there was this new patch for women that functions as Viagra for horniless chicks. You simply smack it on her (or carefully smooth it on if she’s still sleeping), wait for the high powered testosterone to makes it way into the bloodstream, and then go at it like you wanted to on Spring Break (but couldn’t because you had irritable bowel syndrome).

It’s the invention mankind has been waiting for, and by that I mean that regardless of the outcome, when man sat down to invent something, he was thinking sex. Fire, telephones, space shuttles – all by-products of guys trying to create something that would mean more sex. The wheel was created so that we can pick girls up and go somewhere to have sex. The microscope was created so we could watch tiny things have sex. Blenders were created to make margaritas, which guarantees sex, even for ugly people. And the beauty of the patch is it cuts out all the work. Peel, stick, screw, sleep.

But the Food and Drug Administration, obviously made up and hateful old ladies and gay men, refused to clear the patch until more studies could be done to prove its safety and effectiveness. Past studies showed that the patch can cause a little acne, some body hair and a deeper voice. But I can deal with that. I’d sleep with Barry White if it meant not going shoe shopping again.

The FDA needs to be more considerate here. The Spring fashion lines won’t be here till March and I can’t wait that long. Aside from thank-you sex after shopping, the only other opportunity will be sympathy-sex after hanging out with her parents. For God’s sake, release the patch, douche bags!

D.W.A.: Douche Bags With Attitude

Who would ever screw with 50 Cent? 50 was shot nine times while battle rapping in the mean streets of LA and still finished the song. I was shot in the knee with a B.B. gun and missed half of the seventh grade while in a coma. 50 is tough. When 50 says "holla," I say "how loud."

So I have to wonder what Nigeria's version of the Fresh Prince, Idris Abdulkareem, was thinking when he refused to budge from 50's first class seat on a chartered plan carrying a bunch of rappers on tour. 50 has bullet scars and prison tattoos all over his body. Idris Abdulkareem has a bronze medal in table tennis from the African Olympics. 50 lists songs with titles like P.I.M.P and I Will Shoot You Until You Be Dead Fool. Idris, deeply upset by sexual discrimination and government outsourcing, penned the not so street Mr. Lecturer and Retirement Benefits Are Dope.

Like the original gansta Kenny Rogers once said, you gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. You can take a man's wife, but his first class seat? Hell no. After "hurting Idris real bad," 50 cancelled the rest of the tour, denying thousands of Nigerian homies the opportunity to party like it's their birthday. So if you're planning to make a name for yourself in the Nigerian rap game by taking a man's first class seat, you may want to make sure that man's not from South Central and already been shot nine times, enka tacka doodoo *click* *clock* kaka meme (that's Nigerian for douche bag).

Nominate a Douche Bag

Send in your favorite douche bag to douchebagoftheday@yahoo.com. Pics of girls flashing at Mardi Gras will also be accepted.

And you can check out past douche bags by looking to your left a little and clicking on the archives link.

Douche Bag...And A Little Bit More

After catching Sharon Reed on Late Night with David Letterman, I knew there was something I didn't like about her. As it turns out, there's tons not to like about this skank.

On the petty side, she did the entire interview in one of those corny, irritating TV news reporter voices, and seemed to be auditioning for a porno, stroking herself and going all LL Cool J-like with the lip licking and the F-me eyes.

During her audition/interview, Reed claimed that stripping on TV was "about art." The story, about flabby naked people who like to pose en masse with similarly flabby naked people, was shot this summer, but aired just a few weeks ago during sweeps, which I guess is the only time they could show a report "about art."

Before the clock started on her 15 minutes of shame, Reed had already demonstrated her Diana Ross-like people skills at numerous other news stations. As an anchor in Philadelphia, she was called in to a Philly Police Station after posting nasty little comments about a fellow reporter online. She was fired.

And Reed has the gold-digging ho market covered, nailing Philly Eagle Donovan McNabb and Philly Sixer Aaron McKie, which explains how she got these. She was also the 435th black girl nailed by Robert Deniro.

Obviously, being the Channel 19 investigative hootchie is beneath Reed. The Omerosa of eyewitness news, she's bound to piss off enough people and screw enough celebs to land her dream job: fondling her plastic chest on the pages of Playboy or landing the role as Hooker #2 on a Cinemax late movie. Wanting to be a porn star is ambitious and generous. Like DeNiro, any Nubian princess who wants to flash her boobies is ok by me. But it ain't "about art," douche bag.

Sweeps Week Douche Bag

I love watching the news. I love watching naked girls. But watching naked girls report the news is weird and makes me feel all creepy inside. For a sweeps week special, WOIO reporter Sharon Reed stripped away clothes and professional integrity to report butt-naked in the streets of Cleveland. It was a sad and pathetic stunt because a) it lacked any sense of journalistic credibility, and b) she has the skinny ass of a white girl. Reporting naked for WOIO, this is douche bag Sharon Reed. Stay tuned for traffic and weather.

I'll Take Douche Bags for $2 Million, Alec

After bagging more than $2.5 million for being an unbeatable geek on Jeopardy, trivia-lord Ken Jennings is out. Ken was bounced by real estate agent/actress Nancy Zerg on yesterday's show.

Until Ken came along, I really didn’t know game shows still aired. Solving crossword puzzles for a three day cruise to Cancun or guessing the price of Sue Bee Honey ($4.49) for a Ford Fiesta seems droll when you can easily snag a million bucks for eating a cat uterus, trading in a spouse or pimpin’ your moms. But Ken’s nerdy reign single-handidly brought back old school game shows and pumped up Jeopardy viewership by 22 percent.

Ken writes trivia questions for a living (at least he did, before he won all that money and started getting laid). Technically, that makes him big, fat cheater. Still, he's head and shoulders above the usual pompous asses that answer the $200 questions with smirking condescension. Throughout his 73 game winning-streak, he remained pretty entertaining and even made me care about Norse mythology again. Ken would have made a good drinking buddy, with all the qualities I usually look for in friends – rich and less attractive than me.

And just when we were all wrapped up in a Ken lovefest, Nancy Zerg came along and ruined it all. If the producers were smart, they would give her a car and a year’s supply of JiffyPop Pop Corn and send her on her way, keeping Ken in place as a Hulk Hogan of trivia. Doesn't really matter though. Ms. Zerg turned out to be the Buster Douglas of Jeopardy contestants. Just 24 hours after dethroning the king of all answers, Nancy lost, taking home a total $14k.

So, for Final Jeopardy, the question is: Name of one who ends the longest winning streak in Jeopardy history as well as the only reason to watch the show.

Answer: What is a Douche Bag, Alec?