P.Y.T.s and F.O.R.D.s (Fat Old Rich Douchebags)

P.Y.T.s and F.O.R.D.s (Fat Old Rich Douchebags) – a.k.a, O.F.W.G. (Old Fat White Guys)

You are familiar with the P.Y.T., Michael Jackson acronym, ay? Yeah baby! We’ve all seen their men tooling around in their “Fuck you, lesser beings” Bentley Corniches.

The dude will proudly be sporting the wealthy (fat) man’s Triple-H uniform: (1) Hawaiian, short-sleeve button shirt – impeccably pressed (2) Hermes belt, and (3) Herve Leger linen with super crisp breaks.  He’ll rhythmically be alternating between (a) talking shit to his production company’s casting director, or his fund manager, using a custom, Tiffany cased, iPhone 4s and (b) sucking on a half-smoked, but authentic, Havana Cohiba Maduro.  These dudes almost always finish the outfit off with sock-less, alligator loafers and a Gucci clutch. If you actually opened the Man Purse, you’d find a 2 week supply of 20mg Viagra tabs – ready for the evenings  sensual love affair 3-minute rabbit drill.

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So You Wanna Be a Douchebag?

Insider Tips to the Art of Douchebaggery

Part I

I work in a place that attracts douchebags like water to a drain.  Somebody has to.  When you’re a douchebag, you either own it and drive a Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, bitch!” for the rest of your life, or you go to great lengths to chastise douchebags and relentlessly piss and moan about how they’re everywhere and how you can’t stand the sight of them, until eventually you jump into your Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talking about, bitch!” for the rest of your life.

Click through for full article – So You Wanna Be a Douchebag?

Click through for Part II – So You Wanna Be a Douchebag Park Deux-che

I admit it.  I’m anal.  I suffer from OCD about many things but particularly, bartending. That said, I’m often doing my community service by frequenting bars/restaurants in a so far useless search for a really good and frothy Margarita, old-school edible Old Fashioned, the way I’d make them, or the never achievable perfect meal.  I never communicate as much to my servers, but I’m constantly and unavoidably evaluating the entire experience and taking mental notes on environment, quality, service, delays, cleanliness, order, music, lighting, attitude, and taste.  Mostly, I find idiots – surely that’s expected in this dump of Bloombergistania.

I also troll other bartenders’ blogs.  Most are temporary endeavors of a few month’s – a whim or fancy that’s quickly abandoned and left for the Blogger.coms, Tumblrs and WordPresses to relegate to archives of yore.  People just run out of time, ideas, experiences, or just plain change careers eventually abandoning their soapboxes.  Some are quality and some are not.  But every once in a while, you come across someone who speaks exactly your language, conveys your thoughts, makes you shriek with laughter, and shares your experiences and wisdom precisely.  

I thus present to you Dave, creator of TheRealBarMan.com – a California bartender with a lot of the same beliefs about life behind the bar as I have.  For instance, the two posts above on professional and omnipresent Douchebag, a very close relative of the slightly rarer and younger Bro. In fact, you can often use the terms interchangeably.  Bros typically graduate and age into Douchebag-dom.  I digress.  Anyway, Dave’s tales are beyond entertaining, sharply written, relevant, and most importantly, wicked accurate.  Kudos Dave.