Monday, June 8, 2009

A Favor

Dear Readers, I need to ask you a huge favor. If I ever start sounding like Arthur Kade, please put me down.

I read about him in this month’s Philadelphia Magazine and immediately detested him.

Tatiana wanted to get online and tear this guy apart. I managed to talk her down with a couple glasses of wine and some rational thinking -- after all, isn’t that exactly what this guy wants. More press.

I then thought about it some more and realized that even though this guy lived in my city, and was only a few feet from my house when the article was being written, there was a good chance I would never have to see him. That his existence would have zero effect on my life. It isn’t as if I hang out at the G Lounge or the Spank Bank or any of the other way-cool, exclusive spots this guy hits up. So I would never have to worry about passing by him and hearing him snicker, “she’s a four. She could be a six if she would lose some weight, bleach her hair, get bigger boobs and wear something tighter and lower cut.”

Because you know, if I heard that it would be on like Donkey Kong -- though, when you think about it, if Angelina Jolie isn’t a ten, maybe I should be happy with a four.

But then Theresa read the article and out of boredom googled the son-of-a-motherless-goat. Which is when she learned that he goes to my pool.

And that is when I started to worry. What if that level of douchiness (I know this is not an actual word) is contagious and not something killed by chlorine? Come to think of it, I wonder if the STDs I’m sure he is carrying are killed by chlorine. Can you catch chlamydia from a swimming pool? Man, I should have paid better attention in sixth grade health class.

The thing is, I am totally addicted to my pool. I love lying there, on the white resin chairs, imaging my life is more fabulous than it really is, judging the others around me, all the while baking my skin to a warm, golden brown.

Plus, the day after I have imbibed in maybe a tad too many libations, I find nothing refreshes and renews like a dip in the unheated pool.

So, it looks like I will have to risk catching douchiness (and chlamydia). Fortunately, I am pretty sure penicillin will clear up the clap. I am not sure they have found a cure for DBS (douche bag syndrome).

This is where you come in, Dear Readers. Maybe you won’t want to commit homicide (even though you would be doing the world a great service). At least promise that you will pepper my comments section with such gentle nudges as “umm, honey you are getting a little Artie on us.” I will know that you don’t mean interesting or obscure (that would be “arty”). If that doesn’t work, get tougher. Call me names and point out my grammar errors, question my sexuality. If I still continue to blog about all the amazing times I am having at really exclusive clubs, where everyone knows me, the owners comp me and I have to spend most of my night snapping photogs with guys that I totally could bang, but won’t because they aren’t 10s, well then, just leave. Stop reading me, stop commenting, eventually (fingers crossed) I will fade into oblivion.

Oh, and a word of warning, if you don’t know who Arthur Kade is, and you are going to google him and see what I am talking about -- take my advice, get something to throw up into first. It would be a shame to ruin your keyboard/desk/blouse and skirt.


Doug said...

Good news! I have no idea who this guy is. Word of his duchebaggery has not extended this far west.

You made me curious, though, and I did Google him (after readying a handy receptacle). He is sickening and hilariously diluted, but mostly just sad.

I'd be happy to keep you in check, but I don't imagine that your writing will ever reach the levels of smug, unapologetic narcisism that this guy achieves.

Anonymous said...

He was probably on the set with his mother who was only trying to encourage him.

If he's at the pool when you're there, it's very important that you don't look at him. Not even once.

b3ar said...

After Googling him, someone commented in a forum that he looked like a gay porn version of Sylvester Stallone.

Raised by Republicans said...

I read up on him.

If you do ever run into him, do the world a favor and just castrate him. Really. No court would convict you. It's a public service.

ChristaV said...

Is he the Striped Shirt Guy or the Jaeger Bomb Guy? I googled him for a minute and it looks like he falls into one of those douch-ey categories....

Tatiana said...

Definitely a striped-shirt guy.

As for castrating the guy -- does anyone know if chemical castration is available in pill form? Seems like poetic justice for all the women I am sure he has slipped a roofie to?

Tina Marina said...

* gets trash bin and finishes ice cream *

I have a feeling that I'm in for it.

But have no fear - I've heard that DBS is like hemophilia; you have to have a penis to catch it. Or at least think you have a penis.

Anonymous said...

Wow. He's for real? I mean, he's not a complete made up farce but actually believes in himself (I know no one else does, lol)? Wow. That's just... sad. Really, really sad.

Anonymous said...

Please, don't feed the bear. Let him fade away into anonymity.

By uttering the phrase "google him," you have played directly into the hands of this narcissistic twit. I'm sure googling this guy does nothing but provide him with onanistic thrills.

~M said...

Thank you! I checked out his blog, that was one of the funniest things I have read in a long time. His star is rising very quickly, although I think really his best work was when his elbow was in the background shot on Gossip Girl.