Booty Shakes

There is nothing I love more than getting a lap dance whilst enjoying a delicious nutrition shake. Why anyone would want to deny such a common pleasure is beyond me. But the 15-member strong Citizens Against Nude Juicebars is doing their best to separate the ginseng and the ding-a-ling.

Racehorses Gentlemen’s Club owner Bob Rieger was the first to blend the love of g-strings and implants (yummm....implants) with a healthy dose of glucuronolactone and vitamin B12 (yummm...B12). After a group of fellow South Dakotans...South Dakotites…South Dakotars…snow-covered hicks protested Rieger’s adult establishment and forced the city of Salem to create a no titty-bar law, Rieger changed his club into a juice bar, keeping the butt-naked dancers and adding a menu of protein enriched shakes (protein…hehehe). And the all-nude juice bar was created. And it was good.

Definitely not health nuts, the small band of protesters stepped up their efforts and formed the Citizens Against Nude Juicebars. While Racehorces Gentlemen’s Juice Bar is still open, growth in the pole dancing/power shake industry has taken a huge blow. Now I'll never lose this beer gut.

Paranoia Will Destroya

The typical extracurricular activities of the Colorado native tend to leave them a little paranoid…and with a major case of the munchies. But mostly paranoid, as over-demonstrated by a real life cookie monster, Wanita Renea Young.

A 49-year old mental case, Wanita won $900 in a lawsuit against two young girls living in her neighborhood. On one particular evening, the girls, tired of going to school functions that promoted foul language, dry humping and Ashlee Simpson songs, decided to stay home and bake cookies for their neighbors. The little Martha Stewarts went door-to-door, leaving the cookies and little heart-shaped notes on the steps. One of their last stops was at 10:30 p.m….at half-baked Wanita’s house.

One of the many voices in Wanita’s head convinced her that the footsteps she heard on her front porch were Satan’s minions coming to take her back. Another told her it was the DEA. The girls knock on the door caused Wanita to flip out. She claims to have had an anxiety attack, and, eighteen hours later, decided to go see a doctor. The douche bag sued the girls for the cost of her visit, plus loss of a day’s wages from her job as a Wal-Mart cashier and the cost of a motion sensitive front porch light (which doubled as a mosquito zapper).

The judge, likely an old stoner himself, agreed to portions of Wanita’s delirium, saying that 10:30 was too late for the girls to be outside doing nice things for their neighbors. The judge felt that if the girls were going to stay out that late, they should be at a school function, cussing, dry humping and listening to Ashlee Simpson songs.

The girls still plan on practicing random acts of kindness. Thousands of dollars in donations have been sent in to pay off the $900 fine. And either cookie maker or porn star, Otis Spunkmeyer, has offered the girls their own business. Wanita, who had run-ins with neighbors and aliens before, is staying with relatives until girl scout cookie-season is over.

Diamonds Aren't Forever

Minnesota Viking’s star quarterback Daunte Culpepper is quick to give out the bling bling. He’s even quicker to take it back back.

At a recent press conference, Daunte gave two of the ugliest pieces of jewelry ever made – a gold chain with a medallion featuring his jersey number and another chain with a diamond encrusted pepper – to a young football player confined to a wheelchair after being paralyzed from the neck down during a game. Though too ugly to wear in public, the youth accepted the generous gift, totaling about $75k, hoping to find someone on eBay ready to pay big money for a sparkly pepper.

But as soon as the press conference was over and the cameras put away, Daunte ran faster than he ever did for the Vikings, caught the kid in the wheelchair and asked for his gaudy necklaces back. Had he chased down a football like he chased down a paralyzed kid, the Vikings might have made the Super Bowl. The douche bag took his necklaces back, but promised to send the kid something of real value…hopefully a necklace with Tom Brady’s number on it.

No Duh, Douche Bag

Conservative watchdog group and closet S&M freakniks Parents Television Council has made a startling discovery – MTV TARGETS TEENAGERS!

After watching and most likely masturbating himself silly through 171 hours of MTV Spring Break specials, PTC head prude Brent "Stop Calling Me Bozo" Bozell discovered that MTV shows cater to a younger audience, encouraging shopping at the Gap, excessive text messaging and screaming at the top of ones lungs when requesting Hoobastank’s rad new video. On an even darker side, Bozo found that MTV’s programming also featured lots of bleeped-out profanity (Puff Daddy), simulated sex (Nick and Jessica), lots of smoking (Puff Daddy), lots of drinking (Puff Daddy), and, on occasion, music.

Before the seven-day marathon began, Bozo stated, "There's no question that TV influences the attitudes and perceptions of young viewers, and MTV is deliberately marketing its raunch to millions of innocent children." And shortly after watching MTV programs for 171 hours straight, Bozo returned to say, "Aw shit yo! Check it. Dis sheeznit is wack, ya heard. Dem shows got me all thinkin’ bout nuttin’ but hos and herb. Now I gotta get to da club and party like it’s my birfday. Pour out the Cristal and pimp my ride with spinners on 20-inch doves. Shorty wanna ride wid me? Holla at cha boy, yo!"

How credible really is Bozo and the other PTC douche bags? The PTC just paid nearly $4 million to the World Wrestling Federation for lying about professional wrestling. Lying. About a fake sport. And word has that Bozo is watching a week’s worth of the Food Channel to prove that the programs cater to people who eat. So if you believe the Brent’s MTV study was anything more than an excuse to spend a week watching sixteen-year old girls dance in bikinis, then you just got Punk'd.

It Keeps Calling Me and Calling Me

Douche Bag of the Day may quickly become Douche Bag of the Month. I now have Tivo. And it's taking over.

Tivo takes the television cable and sticks it right up your ass and feeds programs right into your soul. I’m not watching TV anymore….I’m absorbing. I threw away yesterday’s TV Guide because I had already seen everything. Everything! My wife made a crack about a movie on the Lifetime Channel called Mother May I Sleep With Danger and I blurted out "A 1996 drama starring Tori Spelling and Ivan Sergie about a naive female college student who falls in love with a charming pathological liar, credit card scammer and murderer. When her mother attempts to break up the relationship, the psycho boyfriend abducts the daughter and hides her in his cabin in the woods. Two hours. Repeats at 3 a.m. Saturday and all day Sunday."

WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM!!!

I get up about three times during the middle of the night to because I keep hearing the TV. My wife gets pissed and screams at me to stop stomping up and down the stairs and I yell back, "DON’T YOU HEAR THAT!?! DON’T YOU HEAR THE JEFFERSONS!?!

Tivo has a little function called Wish List, where you type in a program, an actor or a subject and it finds programs that you might like. I never typed anything in. But right after I hooked it up, I hit the Wish List and up came Knight Rider, Airline, The Price Is Right and Súper Sábado Sensacional. How did it know? CAUSE IT READ MY MIND!!!

I’m scared of Tivo. Don’t like to be at home alone with it. It’s always on. And it’s hooked up to your phone line so it can listen in on your conversations. And call me crazy, but on the same day we hooked up our Tivo…our VCR died.

ctrl+alt+douche bag

You can talk about me. You can talk about my mom, my God and my country. But don’t you ever talk about my iPod.

Kevin Rollins, Dell CEO, snobbishly dismissed Apple’s 8th Wonder of the World, calling the iPod, "a fad." After their own version of the iPod flopped, Rollins dismissed the music player biz altogether, pitching Dell’s frequently crashing business systems instead.

"Our strategic focus has been on corporations and institutions and selling them large server clusters and huge SAN (storage area network) installations," said the high-brow, business only, SAN installing, fad-busting, downloading is for stoners Rollins.

Five words for you, douche bag: "Dude, you’re getting’ a Dell."

Pass the Grey Poupon, Douche Bag

What better way to ridicule President Bush's extravagant inauguration and his corporate-favoring fiscal policies than to rent a bunch of limos and throw a big, phat ass party!

While thousands of hippies are freezing their dreads off staking out a protest spot on DC's snow covered inaugural parade route, the Billionaires for Bush will be putting the final touches on their all-night ball, complete with Cristal, ice carvings, VIP rooms, Puff Daddy, hookers and coke. I'm already there! But why throw such a soiree? In the Billionaires' own words, "to expose politicians who support corporate interests at the expense of everyday Americans." And nothing exposes the President's and his corporate buddies' recklessly lavish spending like a $250 ticket to a party against recklessly lavish spending.

STOP THE PRESSES! I've just been informed by the New York Times, Washington Post, Time Magazine, CNN, FOX, NPR, ABC, CBS, St. Petersburg Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Detroit Free Press, Akron Beacon Journal, Las Vegas Review-Journal, Swank, Big Uns, Too Young and OUI that this is SATIRE. Billionaires for Bush uses satire, the thinking man's knock-knock joke, to get the point across that political greed and corporate waste are killing America. Apparently, a CEO from Halliburton who rents a limo and buys a $250 ticket to an inaugural ball is bad. He's greedy and evil. But when done satirically, well, it's not so bad. It's still a limo to a $250-per-person party where everyone's bejeweled and on a binge. But, again, done so "to expose politicians who support corporate interests at the expense of everyday Americans."

The Billionaires don't expect to ship any of the money made during their counter-inaugural ball to homeless tsunami victims. The theatrical troupe (unemployed actors) will be pocketing the cash, looking to load up on more satire (by satire, I mean more parties, coke and fancy things to shame the parties, coke and fancy things of those sans satire). I'm a big fan of satire. I also like puns and dirty limericks. But the Billionaires' gig isn't that funny. It pays too well, and they smell too good and wear too many bras to be real protestors. They're just douche bags between auditions who've found a way to make a living without waiting tables or eating scrotum on Fear Factor.

Royal Douche Bag

Heir to the throne and caught wearing a Nazi uniform. What the heil were you thinking? Buckingham’s problem child got even redder in the face after he was snapped at a "fancy dress" party while wearing the uniform emblazoned with swastikas. Thinking this was funny qualifies the high prince as a douche bag. Attending a "fancy dress" party qualifies him as a pansy. Dressing as the villain is always fun, but next time you may want to go as Darth Vader…or Dracula…or the guy from IT who never calls back…or Star Jones.

And the Favorite Douche Bag is...

For the People’s Choice Awards this year, millions of people went online to cast votes for their favorite singers and actors. And like voting in Ohio, it didn’t do a damn bit of good.

Winners of the People's Choice Awards were supposed to be determined by online voting, with votes being tabulated until a few minutes before each award was handed out. But Mel Gibson, who made a movie about God, and Michael Moore, who thinks Mel Gibson made a movie about him, were told that they were receiving an award about 24 hours before the red carpet was rolled out. CBS maintains that it was still considered the people's People’s Choice Awards, but by people, they meant "the culture-savvy editors" at Entertainment Weekly (the same culture-savvy editors who tonight will discuss how the Brad & Jennifer breakup will effect tsunami relief efforts in India).

The new faux voting system wasn't the only change. Trying their best to pull off an Mtv style awards show, CBS’s PCAs featured a stage surrounded with lots of fans to help relieve Hollywood stodginess. That works well when Blink 182 wins Best Rock Video at the VMAs and there are lots of bouncing hotties in baby tees to give high fives on the way to the stage. It loses a lot of appeal when it’s Marg Helgenberger from CSI: Wisconsin pounding knuckles with old people in tuxes.

And if you Tivo’d the program, don’t skip the commercials or you’ll miss half the show, as Joey became a built in infomercial. Matt Le Blanc won for favorite male, favorite funny guy, favorite animated character, favorite female action star and favorite collaboration with Lil John and the Eastside Boyz. Then in a nailbitter, Le Blanc’s show Joey, currently being trounced in the ratings by According to Jim, edged out Father of the Pride (canceled) and Complete Savages (canceled) for best new comedy.

Apparently, the douche bags who put together the PCAs knew they had a loser when they decided to air it in the same time slot as Desperate Housewives, Lost, Extreme Makeover - Home Edition, a South Park re-run and a marathon of the The Surreal Life. Which begs the question...if you give Michael Moore an award and no one is there to see it, does it still count? I vote no.

King of All Douche Bags

Have it your way? Not with Omarosa Manigault Stallworth as Burger King’s new pitch bitch. Months of therapy down the drain after seeing the lying, race baiting former Apprentice villain herself in the fast food chain’s latest commercial.

A marketing leper, Omarosa was cast out by advertising departments from numerous companies. Clairol canceled plans to use Omarosa in their commercials after 43 million people threatened to stop washing their hair should they see her hawking shampoo. She had a twelve second appearance on Passions, a soap opera about witches and midgets. It appeared for awhile that prayers and holy water really work, as Omarosa was left with only a 1-900 number and a fill-in spot at the Soul Train Music Awards.

Then Burger King brought her back, again as a sneering bitch. First they ruined their fries. Now they’re paying an egotistical monster thousands to eat a two pound burger made of puppies and baby souls. Thanks Burger King. When it comes to douche bags, you’re a whopper.

Who's Your Sugar Daddy, Douche Bag

It wasn’t the first time TJ Myers has asked, "Are you my daddy," on camera. TJ and her boobies, wrapped in a cocktail dress fit for the Adult Video News Awards, confronted one man and kicked in the Cialis for six other horny old goats on Fox Television’s latest "reality" sham, Who’s Your Daddy. The show, viciously put down by adoption advocates and people with taste, paraded the drooling old farts past Myers so that the surgically enhanced long-lost daughter could question the fellas, run them through some silly challenges and ask, "Are you my daddy?"

But TJ is a little more accustomed to asking, "Are you my big daddy?" Her tearful performance in the Fox reality special falls on the heels of a more intimate performance in the late night classic Seduction of Innocence, where daddy’s little girl plays a stripper who likes to bump and grind, preferably with other strippers (did I not say it was a classic). Her earlier work includes a movie called Poop and several appearances on Walker, Texas Ranger, typically a catapult for numerous young women looking to make it in the competitive movie biz (the competitive late-night porn movie biz, I mean).

Can it really be called a reality show when it star of the show is an actress? The douche bags at Fox have a real hard on for taking professional pervs and shoving them off as reality stars. There was American Idol's BBW Frenchie Davis. Joe Millionaire almost ended up with a star from toe licking videos. And you can't forget Bill O'Reilly, the freakiest freak in all of freakville! Now we've got TJ, a douche bag actress who could care less about which old coot is her pops. She won $100k, found her daddy and six horny uncles and probably lined herself up an appearance on JAG. And maybe even a sequal to Poop.

How not to be a Douche Bag in 2005

Trucker Hats
Time to toss in the hat. The askew trucker cap will not score everybody a hot piece like Demi Moore. Ashton got lucky. The other forty million part-time Abercrombie & Fitch employees with their bills to the side just look like they ran into a wall or something.




Kabala
Kabala is a religion based on red bracelets. Kabalers believe the bracelets represent faith and give them magical powers like flying and talking to animals. Bracelets must come from Madonna to have any real powers. I think there’s a diet involved as well, so it’s half Jesus and half Jenny Craig. You also have to take pilates. Only celebrities are into kabala as it is expensive and requires lots of time to work out. It's really only doable if you have assistants who can fit faith into your schedule. Pick a less weird religion like Scientology.




Killing your Wife
Even at her nagging worst, living with my wife is much better than being fondled by men in prison. I know it seems passe, but divorce is still an option. Sure, it’s just as expensive as a murder trial, but if you pay with your American Express, you get reward points. Freedom and an iPod!




Being Not Funny
Profanity is priceless and I’m always the first to crack up at a good dick joke. But when Jon Stewart rambled on Crossfire about how evil the media has become and called the not-unlikable Tucker Carlson a dick…well, it was the day the laughter died. When your job is to be funny and you’re really good at it, don’t screw it up for a John Kerry campaign button. Funny folks are a dying breed. George Carlin is in rehab for wine addiction. Michael Moore makes dramas. Janeane Garofalo went blond. And poor Al Franken went from making blockbusters like Stuart Saves His Family to doing a 3 a.m. show on satellite radio. Less blue states, more blue humor.

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.