TRAPPED ON DOUCHE BAG ISLAND

I’m sure you’ve all known that one work associate or acquaintance that is a total condescending douche bag.  They always feel it necessary to make you look stupid or correct you with some paltry bit of knowledge they know that you don’t, in order to validate themselves.  The IT computer guy at (insert company) comes to mind as a good example.  “Ummm .. It’s Windows 7, not Vista … du’h… the HTML doesn’t load the same, hehehe, everybody knows that, stupid.”  Yeah, you know the type.  Luckily, in life, those unique personalities are only sprinkled amongst society.  Unluckily for me, I was recently trapped in a room with 6 of them all at once.  When you die, and if you were a bad boy or girl, and are religious, and go to hell, the idea is to suffer for eternity reliving the worst nightmare imaginable.  If I had the choice of going through one more day with those shitheads OR to suffer an eternity of having Satan himself butt fuck me with his huge horn-shaped and spike covered red cock while having my balls scorched with a butane torch; I would pick the latter.  

The amazing thing is that they apparently have no idea what incredible pricks they are, and it’s not even worth letting them know because they can’t even conceive of themselves as anything other than awesome.  I mean, I suppose I may be a douche bag, myself, without even knowing it, however it’s extremely unlikely due to the fact that I am fucking amazing, have a huge penis, and everyone fucking loves me, but you get the idea.  So, I’m stuck in this room with them, let’s just say it was a training seminar that allowed opportunities for everyone to express themselves.  I was unusually introverted, as to not provoke more moronic conversation than was absolutely necessary.  I spent 6 hours gritting my teeth and wincing in pain as I was ear-raped by these spider monkeys; these human-hyena hybrids; these….fucking douche bags.  Like having to listen to finger nails down a chalk board or a fork scraping zigzag on a ceramic plate, I was tortured relentlessly.   Debates raged on about who was the most travelled, the best athlete, the most highly trained, had the most divorces, who was the most  mature due to their knowledge of 80’s and 90’s trivia (the last topic was a draw due to everyone’s equal knowledge level when it came to ThunderCats and Gloria Estefan music).   Just as I drew the imaginary Smith&Wesson revolver from it’s hallucinated holster, cocked the lucidly dreamt hammer back, and placed it to my quivering temple, the instructor notified the class that we were done.  I was drenched in sweat and shaking, but it was all over.  I had survived, without going to prison for disemboweling every fucking cocksucker in the place with my Las Vegas Nudie Girl revealing ball point pen.