The Definitive Definition That Defines a Douche Bag
One day, while I was supposed to be writing down some intelligent shit to put into this book, I took a cruise to the store and noticed all these stupid-ass numbers on the back of high-end cars—e?? m?, e?? x?, e???. None of the numbers made any sense, but it got me thinking about the people who can recite each car model and how much each costs. It took but a few seconds for me to classify them as major douche bags. Then I started thinking about other types of people who could fall into the douche-bag category. The list grew too long to put into this book, so I’ve only included the top six (if you’re wondering, Why six? Why not ten or fifty?, you’re a round-number-loving douche bag). If you happen to do any of the things that are on this list, I hate to say it, but you’re grade-A, brother.
1) If you always buy a specific brand of hair-care product, such as a creme or gel, and refuse to use anything else, you’re a smelly douche bag.
2) If you have a person who waxes you, and you’re not a professional swimmer, you’re an overflowing douche bag.
3) If you’ve driven a Hummer outside of the military, you’re a sergeant douche bag. If you’re a chick who drives a Hummer, you’re a douche baguette.
4) If you do things to people while driving that you wouldn’t do while standing in a line, you’re a fucking douche bag. Airport lines don’t count because pretty much everyone does foul shit at the airport. But if you do things driving that you wouldn’t regularly do in a line, such as cut someone off or give him the bird, I fucking hate you. When I’m rolling around with my big, goofy, gangly ass, hip-hopping because one leg is shorter than the other, which makes me look like a seventies pimp with a severe case of polio, people don’t tend to fuck with me. But in a car, man, everyone is so fucking tough. Could it be because I drive a beat-up Scion?
5) If you regularly carry condoms on you, you’re a douche bag. Unless you’re Chuck Liddell, you don’t need to walk around with condoms. I mean, come on, really? You carry condoms?
6) If you’ve ever tried to pick up a chick in church, you’re not a douche bag, but you’re going to hell. It’s admirable, but you’re taking a trip south when your ticket is up.
Heal the World
When I was a young buck, I was a proud member of the Webelos, which is the Boy Scouts’ version of Brownies. I loved the organization with all my heart, but unfortunately I never advanced in rank. While in our sacred den one afternoon, I got involved in an ice war with a group of fellow Webelos. What began as a minor skirmish quickly turned into a full-fledged battlefield. My opponents overturned a table and took refuge behind it. The crafty little fuckers would grab a handful of ice, pop up from behind the table, and then pelt me with all their might. By the time I could return fire, they had already ducked down behind the table. Just as I was about to surrender, an idea occurred to me. The cooler from which I was receiving my ammunition also contained several cans of soda, and I figured that if I launched one of those cans at the cement wall above my rivals’ heads, it would explode like a bomb and shower them with sticky pop. Never having been one to actually think things through, I did just that. With a sinister smile on my face, I hurtled the can of pop at the cement wall.
The can of soda did not hit the cement wall. A millisecond after the cold metal container left my palm, the scoutmaster popped his head in the door to scream, “Hey, what are you kids—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence because the can of soda crashed headlong into his face. An hour later, I was asked not to return to Webelos, which was unfortunate. Apparently, no merit badges are given for successfully tagging your scoutmaster in the face with a can of Dr Pepper. All they do is ask for you to leave and not return. However, in the brief span of time I served in the Webelos, I learned the importance of making the world a better place. When we went to a campground, we not only picked up our trash, but also the trash of the people before us. We always tried to leave a place clearer than we found it. As an adult, I still have that philosophy.
I Always Try to Live My Life So That My Positive Output Is Greater
Than My Negative Output. If You Have Been Raised by Monkeys and
Have No Clue How to Go About This, Here Are Some Hints
1) Volunteer to help those less fortunate. Back in Augusta, Georgia, I volunteered four hours of my time at the Golden Harvest Food Bank every Saturday. I did this for a period of two years. In addition to making you feel warm and fuzzy inside, it’s also a great way to meet hot hippie chicks. Although I’m not crazy about the dress, music, or body hair that comes with hippie chicks, I like the fact that they are concerned about the environment. They are also very compassionate about your shortcomings. If you come entirely too soon, they are understanding. Or so I’ve heard. Volunteering also looks great on your résumé. I tell everyone I possibly can about how I helped out at the food bank. Hell, I’m even writing about it in my book fifteen years later. But the one thing I always fail to mention is that my charitable donation of time was way back in 1994. Since then, I haven’t done dick. Does that matter? Hell no. Once you have that merit badge, no one can ever take it away. It’s a lot like screwing a supermodel. It doesn’t matter how repulsed she is when she wakes up with a screaming headache and finds you nestled up to her bosom the next morning. She did the deed, and that’s all that counts.
2) Pick up after yourself and others. The reason I’m adamant about this one is that the Japanese do it, and we can’t let those fuckers beat us. There could be thousands of them walking up and down the same street, and you won’t find a single piece of trash. And if there is a piece of trash, those fuckers will pick it up and put it in their pocket until they can find a trash can. How many Americans do you know that will carry someone else’s trash around in their pocket until they can find a proper home for it? Not one. It’s virtually incomprehensible, and this is unsatisfactory. Tell everyone you know to begin picking up trash. If we’re lucky, it will become a trend that sweeps the nation, and we’ll defeat the Japanese once again!
3) Drive courteously. I’ve left this one for last because it is by far the most important. Seriously, don’t cut people off. If someone needs to get into your lane, let him or her into your lane. If they saw the lane was going to end and sped up, that’s different; you cut their ass off and give them the finger. But if they are just trying to get over, don’t be a dick. It’s not a contest. That one car length of lost distance is not going to make a difference in your life (unless, of course, you add it up exponentially, and then it will probably make a pretty big difference, like at least a couple of days of your time, which could have been spent on doing cool shit like watching television, but you’re not supposed to add it up like that). If people fucked with me less on the road, I would be a lot happier of a person. We all would. However, I don’t always practice what I preach. While doing this interview on the phone with Erich, I’m reading my notes on this subject, drinking a cup of coffee, and driving sixty-five down the freeway/sidewalk while all the other cars are pretty much at a dead stop. I’m weaving in and out of traffic, endangering not just my life, but also the lives of all the people around me, like those six kids in the back of the station wagon ahead of me. But I’m different. I mean, come on, I have a mental handicap.
* * *
DICK IN A BOX
by Big John
I feel the need to elaborate on Forrest’s obsession with drivers being courteous. He made it sound as though if you cut him off, he would get angered. That is not the truth—he will try to kill you. Remember how I was telling you that there are two sides to Forrest—the happy-go-lucky Forrest and the scary Forrest? Well, asshole drivers bring out the dark side in him. One time, we were driving home after an awesome training session. Both of us were as happy as could be, and then some guy cut him off. Forrest went apeshit and chased the prick for two miles, all the way to the guy’s apartment complex. Forrest pulled in behind him, jumped out of the car, and unleashed a verbal assault the likes of which I had never heard. I
know Forrest pretty well, and I could tell he was gearing up for a fight, and so I said, “Forrest, get back into the car.” Immediately he spun around and started going apeshit on me. “Don’t use my motherfucking name! Don’t you use my motherfucking name!” The only reason he wouldn’t want me to use his name is if he was planning on seriously wounding the son of a bitch. I’m glad I did, because it obviously snapped some sense into him. He got back into the car, but instead of driving away normally, he backed all the way down the street so the guy couldn’t get his license-plate number. So trust me, drive courteously. You never know when you’re going to meet Forrest Griffin on the road.
Further, Forrest forgot to mention the importance of being considerate to others. He’s the most loyal guy I know, and he’ll do just about anything for his friends, but at times he’s lacking in the consideration department. For example, the night before he was to make his acting debut on Law & Order, I called him up and asked him if the show was appropriate for my three-year-old son to watch. I knew the show could get a little edgy, but with Forrest being my son’s godfather and biggest hero, I didn’t want him to miss out. Forrest’s answer was this: “Of course it’s okay for him to watch, dumb-ass.”
The next night my son and me curl up on the couch in front of the TV. When Forrest’s ugly mug appeared on the screen, my son was overwhelmed with happiness. He kept saying, “Forrest, Daddy. Forrest on the television.” It was truly wonderful to see such joy and amazement in my son’s eyes, and then out of nowhere, Forrest gets shot dead. My heart sunk, and an instant later my son starts screaming and crying. “Daddy, Forrest dead. Forrest dead,” he kept repeating over and over. It took me twenty minutes to calm him down. It was a truly horrifying moment in my life that I blame entirely on Forrest’s lack of consideration.
* * *
The Right Woman Is Not Just a Swallow Away
If you plan on becoming a professional fighter, there are certain types of women you don’t want to date. A lot of fighters won’t give you this advice because they want to get laid, so they keep their options open. For them, the wrong woman can be the right woman—for an evening, anyway. But, having found the right woman, I have no fear of pissing off the opposite sex. So heed my words; just don’t repeat them in public—only in the mirror. As a matter of fact, if one of the two chicks who actually read this book (earlier I had that number at three, but I was being optimistic) asks you what you thought about my advice on women, tell them this: “Forrest Griffin is a hermaphrodite piece of shit who hates his hairy vagina and takes it out on women.” If you’re foolish enough to agree with me, you’ll most likely lose your spelunking privileges for at least a month. It’s not that my advice is bad; it’s just that women don’t like men placing them into categories. There is, however, one exception to this rule. When chilling at the club with your old lady, you’re allowed to point to the really hot chick getting all the attention and put her in a category—as long as that category is titled “slut” or “whore.” This will usually prompt your woman to run at the mouth about the troglodyte in question for at least an hour, allowing you to ogle other hot chicks while she is preoccupied.
So what is the wrong kind of woman for a fighter? First and foremost, a girl that is with you simply because you’re a fighter. They are sometimes masters at disguising their reasons, but there are telltale signs of a fighter fucker. For example, if she comes to every one of your training sessions and shouts things like “kick his fucking ass” while you are grappling, and then leaves a puddle of viscous fluid on the plastic visitor’s chair when she gets up, she’s probably got a fight fetish. I know what you are thinking: That’s fucking cool! No, no, it’s not. Fighters are usually unclean people who’ve had terrible childhoods. They’re pretty much crazy people. If a chick dates fighters and fighters only, she, too, is probably pretty fucking crazy. She’s the kind of chick who will dress like a megawhore to get attention, and then tell the guys who hit on her that you’re going to beat the piss out of them. It doesn’t matter if the perp has ten buddies guarding his back—she’ll send you to slaughter by insulting their mothers and challenging them on your behalf. Chicks like that are into expensive cars and glamour and all that materialistic bullshit, and they’ll most likely leave you the instant you lose your first fight. The actual author of this book, Erich Krauss, experienced this whorishness firsthand. Awhile back he cornered his friend Jason Pietz at an IFC event. After Jason kicked the living shit out of his opponent, the opponent’s girlfriend approached him backstage and pretty much tried to blow him right there on the spot. I mean, come on. How fucked up does a girl have to be to try to blow the guy who just moments before bloodied up her boyfriend? Trust me, you do not want one of these skeezers. They can be fun in the sack with their fake tits, but these shallow, daddy-issue attention whores will put you through a living hell on a daily basis.*
But by the same token, you also don’t want to go out with a woman who detests the fact that you fight. I can understand a woman’s concern if you met her when you were working as a repairman and then, two years into the relationship, you decided to make the transition to MMA fighter. After all, fighters are not the nicest people to be around the month before a fight. The profession is a lot like bodybuilding—you’re hungry all the time, sore all the time, and you generally feel like a sack of shit twenty-four hours a day, making you one moody son of a bitch. (If you love the woman you’re with, you better make damn well sure fighting is a serious passion before making the transition because you very well might lose her.) But I’m talking about the kind of chick who knows you’re a fighter when you meet her but waits until you’re emotionally attached six months in to share her disdain for the sport and your involvement in it. If you detect that you’re with this type of broad, immediately shed that dead skin. It doesn’t matter if you were already considering giving up on the sport—no matter what new path you take, she will most likely have a problem with it. This is the type of woman who won’t be happy until you have a chain around your neck and are following her every tug. It happened to a talented buddy of mine. He was a damn good fighter, but the chick he started dating gave him so much grief, he ended up walking away from the sport. He’s a successful doctor now; what an idiot! He could be making 10 & 10 in the UFC.
Find a chick in the middle. One who doesn’t hate the fact that you fight, but for whom the thought of you shattering another man’s nose doesn’t get her panties dripping wet. Although some things are better when they’re extreme, women aren’t one of them.
Warning Signs to Look out for with the Opposite Sex—in This Case, Opposite Sex Means Women (Nonfighters, Listen Up)
1) If on the first date a woman orders the most expensive thing on the menu and expects you to pay for it, she is a money grubber. Instead of paying the bill, tell her that her makeup is runny and send her to the bathroom to fix her face. If she takes her compact mirror but leaves her purse, steal her purse and sneak out the back door. If she takes her purse, order and consume the most expensive bottle of wine before bolting.
2) If she asks you to buy her a dress or any type of jewelry on the first date, tell her that you will purchase it for her on your second date. Take her home and try to convince her to sleep with you—bring up the item she wanted you to buy as a bargaining chip. Whether she sleeps with you or not, conclude the evening by telling her that in fact there will never be a second date. Sounds mean, but don’t forget who started it.
3) Steer clear of women who work in a bar or club that has an animal name. For example, “Spearmint Rhino,” “Leopard Lounge,” “Cheetahs.” I just can’t tell you that enough…you know what, never mind. If you don’t follow this, you deserve the deep purple nipples.
4) If she talks about her ex-boyfriend and the size of his cock, immediately end the date. Immediately. However, later that evening you should call her mother and inform her that her daughter is a whore. If the mother agrees and sounds hot, ask her out on a date.
5) If on the first date
she talks on the cell phone for more than a minute, tell her that you’re sorry for interrupting her and leave Burger King immediately.
* * *
DICK IN A BOX
by Luke
I don’t know why Forrest is giving advice on the “right woman” because before he met his beautiful wife, his taste in the opposite sex was seriously demented. If we were at a county fair and I asked him to point out the hottest chick he could see, he wouldn’t point to the supermodel in pumps and a tiny skirt. He would point to some backwater chick that had saggy tits and protruding tan lines. Seriously, he had some type of tan-line fetish. A psychiatrist would probably read all sorts of stuff into this (and I think Forrest should see a psychiatrist at some point), but I know exactly how his strange taste in women developed. When we were kids and first discovered the hotness of girls, we went searching for porn. And where does one go searching for porn? In their dad’s closets, of course. Well, instead of finding an issue of Playboy or Penthouse or Hustler in his father’s hiding place, we discovered a pile of EZ Rider magazines. Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen EZ Rider, but they often have half-naked chicks mounted on top of motorcycles or lifting their shirts at rallies. His pop was into bikes, so I’m pretty sure that’s why he purchased the mags, but Forrest and I were looking at the chicks. Having never before seen naked women, we didn’t have anything to use as a reference. We thought the chicks were all hot, when in fact they were all snaggletoothed monsters. They had these massive bushes protruding out of their stained panties, Frisbee-size nipples, boobs that sagged down to their waist, and, of course, tan lines.
Got Fight? Page 13