I am writing this entry on behalf of my friend.  Today’s douchebag is the bird that flew over the bench on the southeast corner of Bryant Park in NYC at about 2:30 PM last Thursday. Why?  Said bird took a shit on my friend’s head.

My friend decided to take a much needed break from work, grab some lunch from one of her favorite food trucks, sit on a bench and people watch while she eats.  People watching in NYC is one of my favorite pastimes.  It’s the only place you can see a fierce tranny, a conservative granny, and a baby with its nanny walk by in a matter of 5-7 seconds. So my friend was sitting there enjoying the sights and her pad Thai, when suddenly she felt something wet drop onto her head.  She clearly knew it wasn’t raining, and she wasn’t close to any buildings. What I mean by that is, in the warm weather, the air conditioners on the high rises often leak water which can drip on you’re head as you walking down the street. Crazy as it sounds, as a New Yorker, you sometimes learn to embrace it, especially in the really balmy months.  Even dirty water feels good when it’s balls hot and you still have 18 more blocks to walk. Anyway, my friend pulled a mirror out of her purse, and came face to face with the reality, a bird had crapped on her.

Now, you might think her anger and disgust came from the fact that she had bird feces in her hair. Well, you would be wrong. She was pissed because she had just gotten a blow out.  Here’s the deal, my friend has not taken a blow drier to her head in years.  She says she’s about as skilled at blowing out her own hair as Kim Kardashian is at, well, anything. She has curly hair, so she says, I’ve known her for over 10 years and have never seen so much as a wave.  It’s always pin straight, and looks great by the way.  She managed to find a salon on the upper east side that gives cheap, but good blowouts. So twice a week, she goes and gets it done. Yes, it sounds like a convenience, but she works full time and has a son, so fitting it in is often a challenge. She’ll either get up extra early to do it, or try to sneak it in on a lunch break. I used to work at the same ad agency she works at so I can assure you, much like finding the perfect pair of underwear, a lunch break is very rare.  So the fact that the biweekly blowout she had just gotten the day before had been crapped all over, had her really pissed off.  She sent me a selfie of the affected area of her head, and tragically it was right by her scalp. This bitch of a bird didn’t have the decency to unload on the end of her hair so it could’ve been a partial wash scenario. Nope, this was a full redo blowout and that really blows.  I tried to make her feel better by telling her what my mom used to say, when a bird shit on her car it was good luck.  She immediately sent me another selfie of the bird crap dripping down her head with the message, no, I’m just shit outta luck.

She washed out what she could, and the next morning told her boss she had a doctors appt in case he was looking for her, but really went to get a morning blowout.  Sure she lied, but whoever says they’ve never lied to their boss is full of as much shit as the left side of my friend’s head. So on behalf of my friend, bird…you took a poorly placed poop, that makes you the douchebag of the day.

I’m sort of on the fence about today’s douchebag. On one hand I think it’s a fantastic idea, on the other hand, it stresses me out. So the newer public bathrooms these days tend to have the automatic flushing toilets as well as automatic sinks. Now, it clearly has its perks. The fact that you don’t have to touch the “flusher” is pretty genius. Given the wipe then flush protocol, it’s pretty much the same thing as touching someone’s asshole. I would always flush with my foot, but frankly I don’t even want someone’s ass remnants on the bottom of my shoe. Especially if I’m wearing my Pradas. The same thing goes for the sinks, it prevents you from having to touch anything so that’s good. But here’s my issue, half the time they don’t work. Or if they do, the timing is totally off.

For example, if you go to a public bathroom, you most likely want to get in and out of there fast. Even if it’s a really nice, upscale bathroom that doesn’t change. Fancy people’s shit stinks too. So it’s happened to me too many times where I finish my business, and I’m ready to leave the stall. I’m pretty much out and en route to the sinks when I realize I haven’t yet heard the toilet flush. Now, I’m pretty quick and it could just be a DL (delayed flush). Or like many of the toilets out there, the automatic flush could not be working and you still have to do it manually. Now if you’re like 6-7 strides out of the stall, what do you do? Well, if you’re me you go back. The last thing I want is to walk into a bathroom stall and see yellow, brown, or worse yet, red (Too much? Sorry). Nothing can ruin your day more than seeing a floater that doesn’t belong to you, or some really aggressively yellow pee. I don’t need to know that the person that went before me either doesn’t drink enough water or OD’s on vitamin C supplements. So as a contributing member of society, I do my part to make sure nobody’s day is ruined on my watch. But who the hell wants to have to go back into the stall after you’ve already moved on?

And those automatic sinks, I consider myself relatively intelligent, and sometimes I can’t figure out where to put my hands to get the damn thing to turn on. Not the place I want to be challenged. And then once you finally get it on, a lot of them don’t stay on long enough. Who are they to say it should take me 3 1/2 seconds to wash off my soap? It takes me 5 1/2 seconds and I think that’s reasonable. You’re not the boss of me automated sink people! Which brings me to today’s douchebag. Whoever is behind this technology, you leave me with a conundrum. I like you for reducing the amount of butt bacteria I touch, but you really gotta get your shit together and make sure your wizardry actually works. I don’t want to spend any more time than necessary in public restrooms. It’s strange that they call them restrooms. Personally I’d rather rest in a cold, dark cave than a place that smells like dirty diapers. Anyway, sink/toilet people, you are today’s douchebags of the day. But given my mixed feelings, I say it with peace and love.

It was one of those days when I was in Walgreens and my daughter decided that every single mascara hanging in the make-up section would be better off on the floor. She’d blown through Revlon and was halfway through Cover Girl when I finally got a hold of her. That paired with the deep wedgie my underwear was giving me all day had me at the end of my rope. I resorted to bribery which I try to avoid, but I just didn’t care at that point. I told her if she behaves and doesn’t touch another thing until we leave the store I’d get her a toy. She was an angel the rest of the time and she left with some crappy motorized something, but she was really excited about it. Buying toys in Walgreens is like perusing some of the shittier dating websites. The selection sucks, you end up settling for something you wouldn’t normally want, you play with it once and never acknowledge it again.

When we got home she wanted to play with her crappy new toy immediately which was fine because then I could make dinner. My daughter is obsessed with cooking and always wants to “help.” She doesn’t get it from me because before I had a kid I literally had cooked one meal ever for an old boyfriend. I was trying to impress him, but ended up severely overcooking the chicken. I was so afraid of undercooking it and giving him salmonella, that it ended up, in his words, “drier than Betty White’s vagina.” He had quite the sense of humor, and in this case it quite literally killed both of our appetites so we just drank heavily instead. So I went to open the toy for Lily, and just as I saw her excitement build, I realized it didn’t come with a battery. And of course we’re not the type of people who have batteries lying around the house. You know those people who always have a spare roll of toilet paper in the bathroom ready to go? We’re not those people either. So now in addition to cooking, I’d have to deal with a cranky, now disappointed kid. And let’s not forget about about the deep wedgie that still hadn’t let up. Some toys do include batteries, why don’t they all? I’ll pay the extra money, just make my life easier please.

Needless to say, when I broke the news to Lily about not being able to play with the toy she was disappointed. But to my delight she said, it’s ok mommy, I’ll just play with something else right now. I was somewhat shocked, but mostly relieved. Those few moments here and there when your kids don’t act like assholes are magic. I know I can be really harsh, but for the record, my little asshole is by far the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. Ever.

Enough sap, back to business. I might’ve gotten off easy this time, but it could’ve gone the other way, and regardless, not including batteries in a motorized toy is moronic. Which means toy company, you are the douchebag of the day.

Today’s entry is short and sweet.  Why?  Well, even thinking about it actually makes me physically ill. I was on a flight home from LA, and had just come back from the restroom.  As you know, airplane bathrooms are pretty tragic to begin with, nothing good happens in there.  I never understood the whole Mile High Club thing. You want to screw a Mile High, have sex in Denver.  I’d have an easier time getting turned on at an assisted living facility than an airplane bathroom.

Anyway, when you gotta go, you gotta go. So I went.  I walked in, looked down at the toilet seat and what did I see?  A pubic hair.  The nerve of someone leaving this behind.  It’s honestly worse than something being left IN the toilet because at least you can immediately flush it and move on.  I quickly turned away from it, but knowing it was there was enough to drive me over the edge.  I mean, it’s such a small place, didn’t the person it used to be attached to see it when they went to flush?  It was so long, how could they miss it??  Did they see it and just not care???  The mere length of it alone could lead me in a whole other direction but no, I must stop.  The granola bar I ate about 10 minutes ago is quickly creeping up my esophagus just thinking about it. I’ve got to move on.

Today’s Douchebag of the Day is to whom that wiry pube used to be attached.  I curse you, Wiry Pube Passenger, and the moment that pube escaped from your vagaygay or shlong.

As I previously mentioned, I’m from New York but moved to Orlando a few years ago. There are so many things to love about NY, the Broadway shows, the museums, the shopping, the bagels. In my opinion, there is nothing in this world better than a hot, fresh, deliciously dough-ey everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, and lox on a lazy Sunday morning. The only thing that might be better is hearing my daughter giggle uncontrollably.  But honestly, if we’re talking literally right out of the oven, the bagel trumps the giggle. So I’m driving in Orlando, and I come across a shop called Einstein bagels.  Jews usually know their bagels so I decide to give it a shot.

It’s not Sunday so I decided to go simple. I ordered a sesame bagel with cream cheese. A few minutes later the woman handed me my bagel, I sat down at a table and dig in. I took one bite and was immediately horrified.

They have the nerve to call this a bagel!  It’s like the worst knock-off of a bagel I’ve ever tasted. Worse than the knock-off Louis Vuitton bags they sell for 10 bucks on the city street!  I’m telling you, this was no bagel, it had the consistency of a roll.  At least call it what it is. Like the Cronut, it’s part croissant, part donut. If this thing is a roll, disguised as a bagel, they should call it a ragel, or a boll!  At least cronuts are good, this “ragel” was a disgrace. It’s an outrage. And as a born and bred New Yorker, a Jewish New Yorker, I think I speak on behalf of my people by saying, frankly we’re offended. There’s a certain amount of integrity that comes along with calling something a bagel. What I ate was bread with a hole in it.

So Mr (and/or Mrs) Einstein, your shameless distortion makes you the douchebag(s) of the day. And I would urge you to change the name of your establishment. Einstein Bolls may not have the same ring to it, but at least it’s accurate. No more lies.

With that movie coming out this weekend, I was inspired to post about this particular douchebag. Now that I have a daughter, I understand how hard being a mom actually is.  We all love our kids and would do anything for them, but I find 1 major flaw in having kids.  You have to raise them.  If kids could raise themselves and we could just hug, kiss, and play a few of the less mind-numbing games with them, they’d be awesome.  Last night my daughter made me read her favorite book to her 11 times in a row.  Halfway through the 8th reading, I found myself plotting ways to kill the author. My best idea involved a sledgehammer, a garbage bag, and a trunk. Given the book’s Halloween theme it seemed to make the most sense.

Anyway, today’s douchebag was realized after a friend told me a story.  She was picking her son up from preschool, he fell down and started crying.  She picked him up to comfort him, which sounds pretty normal.  Well, one of the moms there said to her, “So you’re one of those moms who picks her kid up every time he cries.”  What??  If I was there I would’ve had to stop myself from saying, “So you’re one of those moms who needs to learn how to shut her fucking pie hole.”  First off, I would’ve done the same thing my friend did, secondly, like I said, being a mom is hard and I really try not to judge.  And if I am judging, I judge in the privacy of my own head.  I take my daughter to preschool and I often forget to bring her cup. Every time I worry that the other moms are thinking I’m trying to dehydrate my kid.  I swear, I’m not. I’m just forgetful, irresponsible, and extremely scatterbrained.  But hopefully I make up for it with my funny faces and ability to sound exactly like Fozzy Bear.

So, today’s douchebag of the day is “judgy judy” from my friend’s class.  A very wise person once told me, everyone’s got an opinion and an asshole.  It’s often best to keep both under wraps.