In The Presence of Greatness...

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One of the great joys of working the rope at a "hotspot" nightclub in Los Angeles is denying the entitled.

Many of the people that go to that type of club (trance, DJ-driven techno clubs) have a huge sense of entitlement. Mix that with the presumptuousness common among some of the denizens of Los Angeles, and the result is somebody that knows they are the reason the entertainment industry exists. Tyler Durden told tale of a generation angry that we are not becoming the movie stars and rock gods that television has lead us to believe we'd become.
It never occurred to me that there are people who honestly -really- believe they are the greatest and brightest star in the known universe.

Saturday and Sunday night, a world-famous DJ played at Avalon. I know he's world-famous because everyone kept telling me so, but I've never heard of him. Being a famous DJ is something like being a world-renowned physicist...you're only famous in very small circles of people who go out of their way to figure out who you are. Except in the case of the DJ, you don't have any useful skills, and you are an artist in the most disposable and forgetful movement of music in the history of the world.
Yes, even more than Crunk.

Sunday night a guy comes up to my rope with 4 people about 12:30 or 1am. I've already turned away dozens and dozens of people by this point, and let in the few that were kind enough to introduce me to Andrew Jackson and his twin brother.

The two pretty girls and two even more beautiful guys standing behind him keep their distance and don't come up to the rope. He's clearly going to be the spokesman, and I hope, the giver of grease.

Him: Yo, bro. I know such-and-such. They always hook me up. Me and my crew just want to come in and hang out for a little while.
(this means they don't want a table, which they would have to pay for, they just want me to let them in...for free)

Me: Yeah? Such-and-such should have given you some wristbands. He's outside at the door working the guest list. (which is true)

Him: (producing a business card) Bro, I'm with Myspace. Blah blah blah...(I honestly couldn't hear most of this over the music. I was paying attention, it was just too loud...not that it mattered much)

(I pocket the business card without even glancing at it)
Me: I can't let you guys in without wristbands, I'm really sorry. I wish there was something I could do. (this is a hint that he could give me money, and I'd let them in)

Him: Look bro, these guys (thumb over shoulder) are on Laguna Beach. We just want to chill, such-and-such always hooks us up bro!

Me: Laguna Beach, really? Well...

(I lean in a bit and wave him closer, so I can "club whisper" in his ear. He leans in.)

Me: ...Dude, this is fucking Hollywood!

The guy leans back, eyes wide with disbelief. He whips out his cell phone, presumably to "hook something up" with such-and-such to get into the bottle service area.

I don't see him again the rest of the night.

Other than laughing about the fact that this guy was trying to parlay the miniscule fame associated with Laguna Beach into entering a VIP area in a Hollywood club for free, I forgot about the incident for a while.

Joe always asks me about any good stories from the club when we see each other again, so I tell him about the guy frontin' for the Laguna Beach crew. I remember that I have his card somewhere, so I dig it out and toss it to Joe.
Ten seconds later, the world became an infinitely funnier place.

It turns out that this guy I thought was just slightly entitled and a little arrogant is in fact, the World's Biggest Douche.

His doucheness is so great, I daresay no one human being in the history or future of mankind will ever hope of measuring up to his douchery. It would take the ten next-greatest douches of any one century to equal the douchebaggery of this fellow.

I can say with all sincerity that in fifty years if my grandchildren ask me: "Papa, what did you mean when you called somebody a douche when you were young?" I will look into the eyes of the blood of my blood and say "It's time you saw Ted Skillets myspace page."

Shortly after handling Teds business card, I started to feel very strange. Joe felt the same thing. I tried taking some Advil. I drank some water. I tried to take a nap. Nothing seemed to be helping. It turns out that douchitis is highly contagious.

All you can do is stay indoors, don't go around people you know and ride it out.

We recorded our sickness so the images can be used in those horrid medical journals with pictures of STDs and skin conditions. If people can be scared of getting Herpes from seeing a picture, they should sure as shit be scared of becoming a douche.