CALL O' THE WILD DOUCHE BAG

It must be spring!

All across Chicagoland, the native Douche Bag have begun to crawl out of their knot holes, dorm rooms, sports bar wingeries, and poorly-lit studio apartments with just a "Bob Marley Smoking Weed" poster on the wall and nothing but a half a case of Corona and moldy lime wedge in the fridge to spread their douche-baggery far and wide. The smell of Patchouli and Axe Body Spray wafts on the cool breezes that ruffle their un-ruffleable gelled-permanently-into-bedhead hair.

I know this for two reasons:

A.) Every four seconds at work today, I could hear their native calls of "DUDE!" and "BRO!" as they migrated past the window

and

B.)It's baseball season.

So get the hose ready, Chicago- there's bound to be some pee and vomit on your porch in the morning! The Wild Douche Bags are on the prowl, shouting their mating calls to and fro (or, date raping calls as it were.)

I, for one, will once again be choosing my time outdoors carefully. Unlike sparrows, the common hummingbird, and tuft-eared North American squirrels, I do not like being around Douche Bags. They are the worst thing nature has to offer. Volcanos? Nope. Pestilence? Nope. High-register Earthquakes? Famine? Poisonous black mamba snakes? Madagascar hissing cockroaches? AIDS? Mexican Bird Eating Tarantulas? Dancing With the Stars? Matthew McConaughay?

No, friends. I'm afraid Douche Bags trump them all. Though- you could call technicality on Matthew McConaughay, because (technically) he IS a Douche Bag.

So make sure to lock up your trash cans and set plenty of traps baited with 3D Dorritos, MAXIM magazine, and the latest Dave Matthews Band CD.

I'm afraid we're in for a long Douche Bag season this year.