Read The Douchebag Bible Online
Authors: TJ Kirk
current personality. I was formed by my
environment, to an extent, just as all people are.
10. KNOCK KNOCK
Who's there? Me. I am everything listed above and
many, many things that are not even touched upon.
Perhaps one day I will devote more time to the
subject of who I am and what makes me tick, but my
ego isn't yet big enough to sustain such an effort just
yet. My megalomania has only advanced enough to
sustain a giant rambling chapter devoted to myself—
not an entire book.
Not yet, anyway.
PASSIVELY
ENTERTAINED
BY DRIVEL AND
GLITTER
asked once what I
would do to Justin
I was
Bieber and Nicki
Minaj if given the
chance.
After much deliberation, I decided that I’d
give Justin and Nicki a 3 foot long double-sided
dildo (with a 12 inch circumference). Their lube: hot
sauce. One end of the dildo goes in Nicki’s ass. The
other end goes in Justin’s ass. And whoever gets it in
farthest gets to die relatively quickly. The loser has
to starve to death in a room where their own shitty
music is blaring at top volume. It's not sadistic. It's
only fair! Let them suffer as I have suffered—as
WE
ALL
have suffered. The great thing about this
solution, is that it gives Justin and Nicki an
opportunity to be genuinely entertaining in their
otherwise boring careers.
I am not a tremendous fan of much of the
things that the average person finds entertaining. I
don't care for pop music, NY Times Bestsellers,
crime procedurals or reality shows (though I will
own up to Pawn Stars as a guilty pleasure). I think
that stupid entertainment creates a stupid populace.
Art is supposed to be food for thought, but nearly
everything that becomes popular now seems to be
the artistic equivalent of Doritos—superficially tasty,
but of no nutritional value.
By far, one of the worst examples of our
cultural decline, is the popularity of Michael Bay's
horrendous Transformers movies. Reprinted below
is my review of the third (but unfortunately not final)
addition to the series:
I am dead inside. I am dead and my soul is mush
and my heart is dust and my brain is missing. I
have just seen ‘Transformers: Dark Of The Moon.’
The only moon worth speaking of in this movie is
the dimpled moon of Michael Bay’s pale white butt
as he squats down, pulls open his asshole, and
releases this movie into America’s eager, gaping
maw, browning our teeth and indelibly tarnishing
our spirits.
This cinematic abomination opened tonight in
IMAX 3D, and I saw a sold out (fuck you, America)
showing at
AMC 20 Palace Place
in Harahan,
Louisiana. Because the movie was sold out, we had
to show our tickets as we entered the theater. The
first time I showed it, the dull-eyed usher said, “It’s
backwards.” The ticket was backwards. I’d been
careless. I flipped it around so he could see the front.
“It’s upside down,” he said testily.
Pissed, I flipped it right side up and held it
literally a centimeter in front of his face and
continued holding it there as he stared blankly
forward.
No matter what
he said in
acknowledgment, I continued to hold it there,
hoping to incite his ire. I saw the rage and
indignation begin to well-up in his stare and I
finally removed my ticket from his site and loudly
proclaimed him to be a douche bag. He got the last
laugh, however, because I was in for Transformers
3.
The movie began with an explanation that the
space race of the 1960’s was actually because a