People tend to forget about the Plus-One Douchebag until it is too late, mostly because he’s that kind of person nobody ever wants to believe is actually part of their lives.
Mostly you don’t — people don’t — think of him at all. Until that day when you’re going over the guest list for your wedding, and there he is, and your future spouse is like, “Really? Plus-One Douchebag? And Guest?”
Then you hear yourself say, with resignation, “Yes,” because he’s friends with . . . somebody, for reasons you never bothered to figure out. And because of him and others like him, you decide that having your wedding several thousand miles away from home is not such a terrible, awful idea. Because you know that Plus-One Douchebags are less likely to show up when they’re asked to travel.
But the real bitch of it is, that after you’ve managed to repress him again, like the ritualistic torture that he recalls, there will be an extra ticket to go somewhere, and before you know it, it’s Sunday afternoon, and you’ve answered the door in sweatpants, and you’re face to face again with the Plus-One Douchebag. Because if you’re giving tickets away to an event , then he’s going to be the Plus One, he’s made a name for himself, hasn’t he, as the man who will always go when nobody else can be found?
“Oh, I remember when my house looked like this“
“Is there gang violence in this area?”
“So, now that you have your degree, will you go on and get another one? Say, in Chemistry, or something like that?”
The Plus-One Douchebag is a big-shot of sorts, though only by the standards of the smaller towns in which we all grew up. And perhaps that’s why he’s so annoying, hanging on your every last throwaway syllable, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. For his chance to stick it to you. Douchebaggery douchebaggery everywhere, nary a drop to drink.
“He’s very talkative, isn’t he?”
“Just . . . taking everything in, I can see it.”
“Of course, my girls were both reading by his age, because my wife had books . . . everywhere,”
“Do you plan on doing anything, you know, for work?”
Eventually, somebody will come — out from the kitchen, down the stairs, out of the bathroom, anywhere — to save you from the prying eyes of the Plus-One douchebag. But for the rest of your week, you will wonder what happened, why it happened, and why — on earth — would anybody every invite that guy to join them to a Lakers game?
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