(Alternatively named “How to be a blatant douchebag and still have friends”)
I feel like we are entering that inevitable era in human history where douche-iness transitions from “scum” to “cool.” Like everything else in life– Pokemon cards, Yomega yo-yos, Glee– I’m hopping on this bandwagon ASAP. To test out the waters, I started wearing my sunglasses indoors. At night. Even if it dramatically impaired my vision. Even if it made me walk into walls, or
worse better yet, into the bathroom while my roommate’s dropping some kids off at the pool. Then I got my motorcycle license so that I could split lanes and guffaw at the tunnel of middle-finger salutes. Now my roommate and I decided that douchebagery needs to encompass every facet of our lives, and where better than to kick it up a notch than the gym?
With a little inspiration from Lebron James, we decided that it’s not enough to just be super hot, buff girls. We need to rub it in your face. And thus, we opened up our DIY DOUCHEBAG-SHIRT WORKSHOP.
I’ll (not-so) live stream it here for you.
What you’ll need:
- a tshirt that is the perfect combination of athletic and slutty (much like its owner)
- fabric scissors (yes, they must be scissors of the fabric variety. We’re douchebags, not animals.)
Lay your shirt down somewhere flat.
Cut off one sleeve.
Cut off the other sleeve.
Step 4. (optional, so I obviously didn’t do it.)
Cut off the shirt collar for extra deep-V sluttiness.
BOOM. Done. Being a douchebag has never been so easy.
The best part is, everyone will be so distracted by your super buff arms and now exposed abs that it won’t even register how douchey you’re being. EXTRA DOUCHE POINTS. Plus, it is comfortable as hell. I never realized how constricting a freakin’ t-shirt can be until I started preemptively hulking out of my clothes. It’s like my body just broke out of Azkaban for the first time and went swimming in a pool of delicious chocolate pudding. MMMM :)
Actually, on second thought, the best part about these intense side-slit shirts is the fact your dog (aka best friend) doesn’t have to be left out! EVERYONE WINS!
Nothing sexier than a douchebag and her douchedog prancing around Vallejo, I guarantee it.
(If you find yourself needing a towel after seeing these pictures, it’s probably because I just finished doing Insanity Abs. Thanks, Sean T!)
Anyways, a fun fact about douchebags. It took me a really long time to be able to drop the d-bomb (very much like how I can still barely utter the word “penis.” In fact, my fingers cringed just typing that). I didn’t really say it ever until I moved in with a certain Judy-shaped potty mouth last year. In fact, it used to bother me whenever people would say it. This is mostly due to the fact that it brings back horrific nightmares.
The summer I graduated high school, I worked as a “courtesy clerk” at Raley’s. AKA, I bagged your groceries, walked them out to your car, and loaded up your car for you, put away all the random shit you brought to the register and then decided “on second thought, I’m just gonna go to Panda Express tonight because I hate myself and my body and love cheap knock-off Asian food (this is ironic because Asians monopolize knock-offs).” But most of the time, I just walked around the store saying HI to people and asking them if they needed help finding anything. 99% of the time, people would just tell me how incredibly cute I look in my uniform and ask me to strut down the cereal aisle and then be well on their way, because 99% of people are self-sufficient enough to find things in a freakin’ grocery store.
You know how sometimes you can just sense impending doom? Kinda like Spider Man and his spidey senses? Well, that day, I sensed it. But I went for it anyway. I was gallivanting in the produce department, blowing kisses and signing babies’ heads, when I noticed a somewhat distraught looking older lady. Though there was already a line of boys following me around, begging me to help them find the donuts and pickles (thanks Edith Wharton!), I winked and coyly asked them to stay behind the velvet rope, and then proceeded to walk up to said distraught lady and asked her if I could be of any sort of assistance.
She turned around and sweetly said “sure, can you help me find the douchebags?”
“Um, excuse me? Sorry, I’m hard of hearing.”
“Silly girl, help me find them douchebags!”
“uhh… well, I’m not sure if we, the union of respectable grocery stores, carry them, but I’d be ‘happy’ (I wish I had air-quoted that word in the moment) to help you find them. I highly doubt they’re kept here… between the bell peppers and brussel sprouts… BUT FUN FACT ABOUT BRUSSEL SPROUTS! They’re freakin’ delicious if you saute them with some ham hock!”
“I’m allergic to anything from Brussels. (Damnit, my change of subject did not work.) Now about them dbags?”
“Oh. Yes. Dbags. You can find a plethora of them in the self-tanner and body oil aisle at Target across the street. Can I interest you in some tiny peppers instead?”
“That’s what he said.”
Okay, she didn’t actually say that, but I feel like she should’ve. Her request automatically catapulted our relationship into that level of conversational intimacy. The worst part was, she was so calm about it. Like it was no big deal. Could this lady seriously not tell I was freaking the eff out?!
Eventually I regained control over my legs, heartbeat, sweat glands, and dropped jaw, and started to “casually” walk her around the store, frantically trying to figure out where in the hell douchebags would even be stocked in a grocery store as she continued with some random small talk completely unrelated to my horrifying task.
At this point, God himself decided enough was enough. You know how sometimes you’re watching TV and something is just so unbearable awkward or gross that you can’t even summon the strength to watch it, and end up either getting up to “grab something from the fridge” or changing the channel? For me, the epitome of this phenomenon is when Stiffler eats the dog’s poo in American Wedding. I just can’t bear it, and that’s coming from me, the girl who brings up poo at every formal dinner. Anyways, I’m pretty sure that’s how God felt when he was watching me helplessly wondering around Raley’s with this lady. With a stroke of luck, we randomly walked by the aisle with feminine products, condoms, and yeast infection medication that I only recognize from those equally soul lemon-facing commercials. (Yes, so awkward it lemon-faces your SOUL.) I thought to myself “if it isn’t here, maybe I can feign surrender and next time, she’ll keep her grocery shopping and douchebag shopping separate.”
We brisk through the aisle. My eyes are so glazed over, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. But then I hear her exclaim “Oh yay, there they are! Can you reach them for me?”
I think this question alone sums up pretty well the type of lady she is. I’m 5’4″. If she needs my help reaching something, you can only imagine how petite she is. Also, she said “oh yay,” clearly identifying her as a hip grandma who’s caught that catch-phrase from an even cooler grandchild (who probably knows her grandma should just order douchebags online to avoid the awkwardness). So I throw on some extra thick, fire-proof gloves, grab a box, throw it in her basket, and run like it’s a live grenade emblazoned with the Dark Mark.
So… the end, right? RIGHT?! Wrong.
If you’re as careful and thorough a reader as you claim to be, you’d remember that another majestic responsibility of mine is to bag groceries. I’ll give you 2 guesses to guess who showed up in my aisle. Yes, I handled that box of douchebags 2 more times that day, chalking my life’s experiences with douchebags to a whopping total of 3. And hopefully it stays there forever.
But as you can tell from this post, I have no problem saying it anymore. Just one of the perks of having a foul-mouthed roommate.
Speaking of douchebags… THOMAS KELLER IS THE SHIT.
I mean, this guy has more “chef of the year” awards than Lil’ Wayne has baby mamas.
Okay, I don’t actually think Thomas Keller is a dbag. He’s too godly. That’d be like saying Morgan Freeman is a dbag. But in case TKeller really is a dbag, I’d like to be the first to say that I’m completely okay with it. The world needs douchebags. You need that much ego to make fried chicken as delicious as TKeller. And, as you know, mama needs her fried chicken.
I’ve read Ad Hoc cover to cover. Camped outside of the French Laundry begging for scraps like Tramp more often than I can count. And you can bet your ass I’m at Addendum every weekend, eating that buttermilk chicken. A few months ago, I found a buttermilk roasted chicken recipe by SmittenKitchen that I can sincerely say I love more than I love your mom. Being the culinary genius that I am (move over, TKeller), I made a few tweaks, and made my own fried chicken.
Alexha’s Juicy-Ass Chicken for Douchebags (roasted or fried):
- 2 cups buttermilk
- 5 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed (um, I used 10)
- 1 tablespoon garlic salt
- 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
- 1 1/2 teaspoons paprika, plus extra for sprinkling (I used Hungarian)
- 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
- 1 teaspoon Mexican Style (hot) chili powder
- Lots of freshly ground black pepper
- lots of fresh thyme
- 2 1/2 to 3 pounds chicken parts (we used all legs)
- Drizzle of olive oil
- Flaked or coarse sea salt, to finish
- flour (if you’re frying it)
Let’s do this shit.
- Smash your garlic. Embarrassingly enough, I, the culinary genius, don’t have a garlic smasher. (My birthday is coming up in 2 days though, so if you feel ever so inclined to send a gift, you know what I need!) So, instead, I threw the peeled garlic cloves into a ziplock bag and smashed the crap out of it with a glass cup. The results are similar, and you get to feel like MacGyver.
- In a bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, garlic, garlic salt, sugar, paprika, cayenne pepper, chili powder, and black pepper.
- Strategically arrange your chicken in a gallon-sized ziplock bag and pour in the brine.
- Toss in as many sprigs of thyme as your heart desires. (Did you really neatly place the chicken in the bag in perfect puzzle formation? Me too. And then they all fell out of place as soon as I stood the bag up haha) Let this sit in your fridge for anywhere between 2 to 72 hours. I wouldn’t cook it a second before it hits 48 hours, but maybe that’s just because I like my chicken drumsticks to sploosh me in the mouth with amazing chicken juice whenever I take a bite.
- When you’re ready to have the absolute best roasted chicken of your life, preheat your oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. (If you’re going to fry the chicken, skip to step 7.) Take the chicken out of the brine and once again, arrange it perfectly on a lined roasting pan (I used a casserole dish, because I’m a douchebag like that). Drizzle with olive oil and some additional paprika and salt.
- Bake for about 30 minutes, or until golden brown.
- When you’re ready to have the absolute best fried chicken of your life, combine in a bowl your own flour dredge. In this instance, I used flour, paprika, garlic salt, fresh black pepper, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and an even smaller pinch of chili powder.
- Remove the chicken from the buttermilk brine and dredge in the flour mixture.
- Let sit for about 30 minutes so that the flour absorbs your amazing buttermilk brine.
- Toss into your deep fryer for about 8 minutes. (Not pictured. Sorry, I was too busy being attacked by a giant monkey.)
- Serve with some super-delectables! For this evening, I served both the roasted and fried chicken (that’s right, my guests got BOTH) with a simple salad, my homemade (and improved) Zuppa Toscana from Olive(r) Garden, corn, and scalloped red potatoes.
(Pairs perfectly with Acacia Vineyard’s Lone Tree Pinot Noir, btw. Too bad that’s actually a 2006 Napa Cab Sauv in that glass.)
So delicious, your friends will beg to put up with your douchebagedness, just for more chicken. You have my promise!
If you feel like I’m further douchebagging by bribing my friends with my cooking, then fine. I’ll admit it. We need lovin’ too!
If you’re still not convinced, then you can just suck it.
PS, it tastes extra delicious when you’re wearing a homemade douchebag shirt.
PPS, you owe me a shot for every single time I said “douchebag” in this post. Including that last one. Oh, you didn’t know this blog was a drinking game? Think of it this way: frats and gangs haze for a reason, right? I’m just trying to establish that sort of camaraderie with you.
PPPS, I swear I’m not a dbag in real life.
PPPPS, No offense to proud dbags.