Douche Intuition: Why It Helps For Women To Have A Male Friend (Or Family Member) Around


Despite whichever feelings you have about gender equality, gender roles, genderism, and Ryan Lewis, it’s hard not to admit that (generally speaking) men possess certain advantages over women, and vice versa.

For instance, it’s documented that women tend to have a higher tolerance for physical pain than we do. Which, considering that some of them pay people to splash scolding wax on their vageens once a month for…really no reason whatsoever, makes sense. And, if my experience has taught me anything, they’re also much better than we tend to be at recalling mundane and seemingly forgettable details from month’s old conversations in a context-less matter (“Remember, back in June when we were watching Shark Tank and I asked you to pass me that bag of pretzels and you handed one to me instead?”) just to provide evidence of the truth of certain a narrative (“You’re selfish.”) they’re trying to prove today. They’re really, really good at that.

We also have our advantages. Some include being better than women at doing pull-ups, dunking, farting, building shit with brawn, and playing spades. (Don’t argue.) And, one of these advantages comes in the form of douche intuition.

What do you mean, Wise Sublime Supreme One?” I hear you pleading. “What is this intuition you speak of?”

Let me give you a scenario:

“John” is at some happy hour or house party or Charades contest some other bullshit social event. He’s introduced to “Ken.” Ken is new in town. They speak for several minutes. Ken seems like a nice guy. Personable, social, handsome, and well-dressed, John isn’t gay or anything — nttawwt — but he can tell that women will probably be very interested in him.

Which is unfortunate. Why? Well, there’s something else John has been able to tell. Ken is definitely a douche.

Which may seem odd because Ken doesn’t look particularly douchey. And he hasn’t said or done anything particularly douchey. But John just knows. He can’t explain how he knows. He just does.

Every guy reading this has experienced this before. You don’t know what it is about the guy, but you just instinctively — and immediately — know he’s a douchebag. Not kind of an asshole or a dick. But a full on douche, a scumbag, a guy you make sure to spend as little time around as possible. You don’t say anything about it. You don’t want to seem like a hater. And really, you don’t have any evidence other than your own gut feeling. You just know.

But while you were able to sniff his douche out the first time he looked at you with his douchey eyes and extended his douchey right hand to shake yours, this intuition doesn’t seem to extend to the women he interacts with. Well, maybe it does for some. But enough are so completely oblivious to it that they don’t pick up on it until he does something particularly douchey to them.

But why? Why are so many women blind to something that so many men seem to see so easily? For a while I thought it had to do with attraction. Basically, sometimes these men have so many other attractive qualities that it manages to initially conceal the douche. Which is something every man who’s dated an Erica Mena can relate to. I also thought that maybe they noticed the douche too, but thought they could somehow change it. While that would explain a lot, it doesn’t account for the surprise present when the douchebag does something extra douchey.

Now though, I think it’s much more simple than that. I think we’re better douche detectors because we’re just better at knowing men. While (generally speaking) women might know individual men they’ve dated better than anyone else does, a lifetime of all types of interactions with men — classmates, friends, roommates, acquaintances, enemies — have made us (well, most of us) experts on men as a collective. That immediate and instinctual impression is nothing but a lifetime of determining to who to trust, who to not to trust, who to introduce to your homegirl, and who not to piss on if they were on fire distilled into thin slices.

This is one of the many reasons why it pays for women to have a brother or close male friend or cousin or co worker or former concubine they can count on as douche detectors; guys who, when you ask “Well, what do you think about Ken? He’s cool, right?” just respond with “He’s bad news.” And, when you ask why, they just say “Trust me.”

(Do they actually trust him? Well, that’s another topic for another day.)

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

10 Black Men I Just Can’t Trust


Peter Gunz and Rowan Pope are perhaps the two most hated men on TV right now. At first glance, they don’t seem to have much in common. (Well, much in common besides a preternatural ability to ruin their daughter’s lives.) But, a close glance reveals a trait linking them both. Actually, you don’t even need to make a close glance. Just look at them and you’ll see.

Two grown ass Black men. And not a facial hair between them.

Look, I get that some Black men just can’t grow any real hair on their faces. I don’t think there’s a name for that affliction, but if there was it would probably be paulpierceidits. I also get that some—presidents, news anchors, strippers, etc—have to cut it off for professional reasons. But, for Black men who fall outside of those categories, “an intentional lack of facial hair” usually equals “this n*gga takes showers with no curtain.”

Anywho, a Black man with an intentional lack of facial hair is definitely a Black man I just can’t trust. Here’s a few more.

The Black Man with two first names

I’m not saying that every Black man I’ve ever met who goes by two first names—i.e. K. James Jenkins, John Michael Johnson, K. Bill William Williams, etc—is a self-important prick I wouldn’t trust with a bag of counterfeit bitcoins, but every Black man I’ve ever met who goes by two first names—i.e. P. James Jenkins, John Michael Johnson, F. Bill William Williams, etc—is a self-important prick I wouldn’t trust with a bag of counterfeit bitcoins.

The Black Man who dresses like a White man

Unbunch your panties. “Dresses like a White man” doesn’t mean “looks nice” or “wears suits that actually fit” or “knows his kids” or anything like that. No, “dresses like a White man” means “it’s 15 degrees outside, and this n*gga is at the store with a f*cking Levi jeans short set and some chancletas.

The grown Black Man with the dress shoes that point up

Let’s just say that if you try to shake my hand with your Catholic school confirmation ceremony-ass dress shoes looking like this…


…I will spit in your eye. And then I will run. Because you probably have a couple felonies. And you won’t catch me. Because if you try to run, you’ll stab yourself in your shins.

The Black Man who gets mad at other Black men for not effing with another Black man

I get it. You don’t think peeing on 12 year olds is that big of a deal. Fine. I’ll still invite you to the BBQ. You’ll have to eat with a plastic spork, and your food will be on a paper towel instead of a paper plate, but you’re still invited.

You know how to get yourself uninvited? Have the audacity to be mad at me for my decision not to eff with guys who pee on pubescents.

And, speaking of that…

The Black Man who uses the White man as his basis for morality

If the words “well, White people still supported ***insert celebrity’s name*** after he did ***insert some random effed up sh*t***, so why can’t Black people still support… ” ever oozed their way out of your mouth, kill yourself. Tell me where you’re going to be buried first, though, so I can dig up your grave three months later and pour orange Kool-Aid on your corpse.

The Black Man who’s the only other Black man at a work event but refuses to talk to you

64% of the time, this is the exact same Black guy with the jean shorts in the frigid weather.

The Black Man who, instead of just admitting that he’s cheap as hell and was raised by a flock of pigeons, gives you a thousand word long constitution about the economy as the reason why he doesn’t tip

Also commonly known as the “prisonsmart” Black Man

The Black Man with the perpetual bluetooth in his ear

I haven’t done any type of study or survey with this population, but I’d bet 60% of them look like they smell like honey Jack and ginger ale. And 60% of that 60% are named “Tommy.”

The Black Man who promises to make a list of 10, but since he could only think of nine, writes about himself for the 10th

That’s it for me, people of VSB. Did I miss anyone? Are there any other Black men (or Black women) no one should ever, ever, ever trust? The floor is yours.

(Oh, and those with Tumblrs, make your way over to the reason why they never should have given you n*ggas money.)

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

To Be Young, Gifted, Urban, and Employed

It's funny because it's true. And um, let's also pretend we don't know each other so people won't think we're a gang.

It’s funny because it’s true. And um, let’s also pretend we don’t know each other so people won’t think we’re a gang.

Because most of us can read, most of us have jobs. Or at least have had jobs. And because most of us are in that part of life where we’re not girls, but not quite women – Black Girls Rock and sh*t – many of us are cubicle jockeys and middle management corner office holders with small-to-no-windows. Buck buck buck to those who are self-employed on that 1099 steez. Get thee to an Obamacare exchange post-haste. Then rub your *CENSORED* if you love hip-hop.

Well the difficult part about working in an office is Blackness. And this is not a Black in the sense of having some ratchet, but a ratchet having no gotdamn sense. See, while we all know better, sometimes we just forget. And nowhere is that more prevalent than in an office. I see you outchea trying to figure out, “P, what iz y’all sayin?”

What I’m saying is that I’m is kind, I’m is smart and I’m is important all up in the office. And I’m also sometimes suffering from youth and ethnicity. Like so.

1. Dancing a little too hard in my chair…

…and not even sure if anybody is paying attention. You know how folks hear a song and yell out, “that’s my jam!!!” Of course you do. If you’re Black you likely do this anytime the radio is on and any song comes on. If you’re not Black there’s a good chance you’ve still done this at least once in the past 6 months. Point is, all of us have that song that we love that will cause us to move uncontrollably. And if you have Spotify or any other streaming music service there’s a good chance that you have caught yourself giving  your chair that work. My song is currently “Pop That”. I go full ratchet when that joint comes on. I mean full arm swang and eveything which wouldn’t be an issue at my desk except my co-worker cool caught me off guard. I had in my headphones so I didn’t hear buddy slide in and ask me for – basically – an Excel cheat code. I’m just saying. Which leads to…

2. Singing louder than you intended to

Yeah. You’ve done it. You’ve been sitting at your desk with your headphones in and that 50 Cent “Many Men” came on and you started singing along. You probably didn’t even know you were doing it until it was almost too late. That happens to me at least twice a week. And there’s only so many times you can play off “many men, wish death upon me” as a the remix to Johnny Cash “Folsom County Blues” before folks start asking questions and googling. Also, there’s nothing funnier than me walking into a coworkers office who is listening to hip-hop. Seriously.

3. Talkin’ a lil too loud with the homeys

My boys all call me at work. We have wholesome conversations about money, hoes, and clothes and not specifically in that order. Now, because these guys and Jesus are my homeboys, we also spend an inordinate amount of time arguing about music and hip-hop in general. This wouldn’t be an issue except hip-hop tends to be very polarizing and draws out emotions. One of my homeboys and I have had a very passionate 15 year argument about ATLiens versus Southernplayalistic… and it comes up at the most inopportune moments and STILL draws very passionate (read: loud) discourse. Which, again, all good except when you work in an office with paper thin “metal” dividers, well, everybody is hearing everything you say. So yelling out, “n*gga please” is soooooooo not the move. At all. Ever.

4. That a little bit too funny for its own good Gchat conversation

We all do it. Unless your job has blocked chat at your job through some jacked up policy setting. We all sit and have conversations with one another to pass the day. Hell, 90 percent of the folks I talk to thru the day are people I’ve met via VSB. Every so often you find yourself in an actual funny conversation that ends up causing you to laugh like Eddie Murphy just walked into the room and give it his all. Or similarly you see a video that causes you to shed real tears (this will NEVER not be funny…real tears my ninja) and have to pretend you are either crying or having a coughing fit strong enough to get suggestions of visiting the nurse. I’ve had to remove myself before from my office (or close the door) because of a conversation I was having.

Well that’s a good starting place for work place shenanigans. Or at lest difficulties, which I know I have a lot of. Like a lot of.

Most of us have jobs. What’s your job difficulty? Holla at me.




The Anatomy Of A Nag


I’m lazy.

Not lazy in a way that has had an effect (well, a serious effect) on my professional or personal life. In fact, considering what I do for a living, some may even consider me industrious and ambitious. (ha!) I’m also pretty punctual, and I’m annoyed by people who are not. (After you read the next few paragraphs, this paragraph is going to seem like a paradox. It’s not. But it will seem like it.)

My laziness is more intentional. It manifests when I just don’t believe that certain tasks need done in a timely and/or thorough manner. Basically, if you need me to help you move into a new place tomorrow morning, I’m there. But, if you need me to help you move a couch from your living room to your dining room, well, I’ll get there when I get there.

Since the majority of my male friends also share some variant of this trait, this laziness has never been an issue for them. If asked, they’d probably (well, maybe) even say that it’s proof of my character.

Unsurprisingly, this has been an issue with every woman I’ve ever seriously dated.

My girlfriend and I have a tacit agreement where she buys, prepares, cooks, and serves all of the food. My tasks? Take out the garbage and take care of the dishes. (I know this is a pretty good deal. My barber once told me that the key to happiness is to find pretty good deals and keep them. This is why he’s still my barber despite the fact that I hate the way he cuts my hair.)

Because I hate the way garbage smells, I have no problem with the first one.

The dishes, though? I try to make sure the dishes are done before I go to bed. Sometimes, I try harder than others. Sometimes I don’t try at all. I know I’ll get them done. Eventually. But, there just isn’t much difference between a dish done at 10:30 pm and a dish done at 10:30 am the next morning.

Actually, let me rephrase that. There isn’t much difference in my mind between a dish done at 10:30 pm and a dish done at 10:30 am the next morning. In my girlfriend’s mind, however, this is an insult. A discourtesy. A war crime. An act against God. A fart in mother nature’s mouth. She is to “dishes in the morning” what Kanye West is to “leather jogging pants.” (Don’t ask.)

Naturally, she’ll occasionally make her annoyance known. And—and I don’t know why I do this, so don’t bother asking—this makes me even more apathetic. But, while the apathy was true before—I’d honestly just forget about them—it somehow becomes intentional. I do the dishes, but I’ll do them so, um, unthoroughly that, well, it eventually leads to yellow post-it notes behind our kitchen sink.

This thoughtful nag was captured by my cousin when she came to our apartment last week. She thought it was cute, and decided to post it to her Instagram account. I think it’s a cute reminder of why my girlfriend—who I love dearly—is kinda, sorta, f*cking crazy.

But, as much as it pains me to admit this, the nag is a direct result of my selective laziness. Which I do not intend to change. Which, if true, also kinda, sorta means the nagging must not bother me that much.

I’ll never actually admit that to her, though. Can’t give her the satisfaction. And, even if I wanted to, I just don’t feel like doing it. My laziness has integrity.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

On Following Football, Listening To Rap, Watching P*rn, And Feeling Like Sh*t


Every couple of months or so, a new negative study or news story about how meat is processed will show up in my Facebook news feed, Twitter timeline, or email inbox.

Sometimes it’ll have to do with a huge recall. Sometimes it’s an expose about what really goes on in some meat processing plants. Sometimes it’s an inside look at chickens injected with HGH, and sometimes they’ll show these chickens lifting weights. Sometimes it might even be a piece on how most of the meat you eat isn’t even really meat.

Either way, each time I come across one of these articles, I do the same three things.

1. Read the headline

2. Quickly advert my eyes, and hope the quick act of adverting convinces my brain to unsee what I just saw.

3. Close the window/delete the email.

I do this for two reasons. One, I’m an unapologetic meat-eater who loves burgers, steak, brisket, bacon, pork chops, chicken, chitlins, pulled pork, roast beef, and sausage more than most below-average parents love their children.

Most importantly, I do not want this information to ruin my enjoyment of these delicious meats. So, I stay willfully ignorant; turning the channel during 60 Minutes segments about ground Martian in Wendy’s burgers while I happily scarf down a Baconator.

There’s only one problem with this approach: I’m not willfully ignorant at all. 

Despite my efforts to ignore any new negative information about how meat is created and sold, I know that the cow my roast beef came from had chlamydia and that the pig my bacon comes from could dunk a basketball. Everyone knows this. You know it even if you don’t want to know. So, instead of “willfully ignorant” I am “reluctantly aware and actively apathetic.”

That said, the only solace this extended bit of cognitive dissonance allows me is that at least I’m only harming myself. (And, the millions of chickens, pigs, and cows slaughtered for our meat every year, but they don’t really count.)

As I write this, I’m watching the Steelers lose to the Bears of Chicago. Considering that the Black and Gold will now be 0-3, I am surprisingly serene. Perhaps this serenity is due the p*rn induced “faster nation” time I had early Sunday. Maybe it’s due to my interrupted listen to Self Made Vol. 3 as I drove to the mall Saturday afternoon. I don’t know.

I do know, though, that after…

1. Reading a dozen or so articles last week about the p*rn industry’s recent HIV outbreak

2. Knowing that the NFL is fully-aware of the fact that it turns a fourth of its workers into zombies

3. Being fully-aware of the fact that the nihilistic and misanthropic rap music I enjoy listening to does have a measurable negative effect on the people who happen to listen to it

…I don’t know how good I can feel anymore about following NFL football, watching p*rn, or listening to rap.

It’s one thing to choose your own pleasure over the knowledge of what that pleasure may do to you, but it’s getting harder for me to make the conscious choice of deriving pleasure from products I know are directly (and willfully) responsible for the harm of other people.

Actually, that’s a lie. Making the choice isn’t hard. I will not stop rooting for the Steelers, I’ll still check out XV*deos from time to time, and I’ll still listen to my violent-ass, misogynistic-ass rap music. I will also continue to feel like shit for enjoying it.

On the bright side, if I get too down on myself, I can always go to BRGR and get a Double Yoi burger with pastrami, Swiss cheese, fried egg, cole slaw, and thousand island to cheer me up.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)