An Open Letter to the Douchebags of the World

It has come to my attention as recently as four hours ago that your ignominious stupidity simply knows no end. One of your brethren, who for the moment shall remain nameless, pursued me for many years and now, it's finally done. I finally sought to end the tiresome back and forth of textual communications and long-distance bullshit, and I put a solid end to the entire ordeal. The fact is this relentless human being had, over the course of the preceding three years, communed with me while in other relationships. Note the plural.

Once I acknowledged this, I saw absolutely no need to remain in contact with him. For the last ten months I had enjoyed peace. But then, just after I had gotten out of work this evening, then came the ever-predictable texting, as if it had never ended. I haven't checked, but my guess is that either he's just broken up with his most recent lady, or he's bored with her. Ladies, be warned. I have to wonder (though I didn't deign any of this evening's communiqués with a response) what it is that makes men (and, I'm sure, some women) pull this kind of stunt! What makes them think they can get away with that. I mean...I'll put up with...well, not a lot, but I know no one's perfect. But this? No one wants to be the other woman. No one wants to be benched every other inning (oh shit, a sports analogy). A woman wants to be Elizabeth Bennet, not Lydia.

Doesn't it look like his left hand got
eaten by that magenta scarf he's got
wrapped around his waist?
Now there's a perfect example of a douchebag: George Wickham. He takes everything he's blessed with in his upbringing and throws it into the fire for whores and booze. Then in an attempt to reclaim that which he "is owed" he (about 26 at the time) tries to woo a 15-year-old heiress, screws her up for life, and goes off to attempt to ruin other lives including, but not limited to, Mary King and Lydia Bennet. He gets cozy with Elizabeth, gets engaged to another heiress (King) and then, when Mary's uncle takes her out of George's wicked way, he goes back to Elizabeth who, by then, has found him out, so then he runs off with her sister and ruins her, the situation descending into the depths only to be slightly rectified by Mr. Darcy. Dear douchebags, stay away from my baby sister or so help me I will end you before you can put a hand out for a hand-out.

That's it. Stare longingly. Right into
Emma Thompson's heart.
Or let's take John Willoughby, hmm? Now there's a winner. Goes around screwing everyone except for his "true love," Marianne. He's reckless, he ruins and abandons Col. Brandon's now-pregnant ward and then goes traipsing off to woo Marianne, he leaves Marianne in tears and runs off to London to marry Miss Grey (while also abandoning country for city, though he so professed his love of country and cottage)...and then when Marianne is sick and seems near death, Willoughby happens by and professes his love blah blah blah though he's already married Miss Grey. Elinor basically rolls her eyes at him, as I would (and did) this evening.

"Look into my eyes, look into my eyes,
the eyes, the eyes, eyes, not around the eyes,
don't look around the eyes, look into my eyes're under. You'll come with me to India.
You'll be my subservient worker-wife.
You'll never be as pretty as Rosamond. 3-2-1're back in the room."
And how about St. John Rivers? He's in love with Rosamond Oliver. She's in love with him. Her dad's cool with it, St. John's family is cool with it. If St. John had an ounce of Wickham's character, he'd be all over that. But St. John's a control freak. St. John believes in practicality, so he says no thank you to Rosamond and invites Jane to be his "practical" wife and move to India with him. Jane, smart and passionate (read: not an idiot) that she is, says no thank you and runs back to her love who, by the by, while he may keep his bat shit crazy wife locked in the attic, at least he's not pretending to love her while also loving the elfin Jane (or pretending not to love her while also loving Jane, as St. John did with Rosamond.)

Dear douchebags of the world, is this where you get your ideas, or am I giving you too many intelligence points on credit? Maybe you've just seen too many Tom Cruise movies. Or, for that matter, Dane Cook movies. Seriously, though, why would you take any of these characters in stride? You all do it. Every single one of you is more one of these than the other, but you're all the same. Why would you want to end up like Wickham, basically poor, stuck with young Lydia as a wife (who, by the way, has inherited her mother's fits and whines and...ahem....nerves), and living completely indebted to the man you hate most in the world. What of that?

Count Mondego doesn't actually
need a sword. He will cut you
with his cheekbones.
Or what of Willoughby in his loveless marriage? Surely they have some money, now, but what about when the lack of interest you have in your wife turns to whoring and gambling? What then? Will you still ride up to the top of the hill and stare longingly down at the woman you once called your true love? Doubtful - you'll probably make the mistake of challenging Count Mondego (there's another douchebag for you) to a duel and getting stabbed in the heart.

Or do you maybe prefer the quiet missionary life, alone in India, pining for Rosamond, but only writing to Jane for you know that she'd really like it there with you all mopey and dying-like.

Yeah, none of those sound at all like fun.

And so, douchebags of the world, I offer you this challenge: get a life. Crawl out from the porn-den of a rock under which you reside, and learn how to become a civil human being. No means no, yes means maybe. Don't cheat on the one your're with, and make sure you're with the one you love. Life is too short to go around spending it like a douchebag (even if the life expectancy seems longer these days).

Sincerely (albeit somewhat desperately),


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