Perhaps I’ve lost touch with what is and isn’t cool… or perhaps I’ve grown close-minded in determining what defines a douche bag. Either way, I find myself constantly annoyed (and oddly afraid) of the “Saviators” (Suit + Aviators). You see them, you know them, you hate them.
What is it about too much hair gel, a really sharp designer (knock-off) suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses that makes douche bags feel cool? I have it the worst. Across the street from my day job (where I work saving people’s lives… but not really) is a machine shop called William Morris Agency. William Morris has invented a system that turns creative ideas into poop, that poop into nuclear energy, and then that nuclear energy into money (patent pending, U.S. 38929993). (if/when I’m repped by WMA one day, I will delete this blog entry and deny its existence.) Anyway, WMA is creating an army of Saviators from their interns, to their office lackies to their junior agents in training wheels and they’re ready, willing and poised for battle against normal people everywhere. It’s almost as if orientation involves a field trip to my good friend George Zimmer’s wearhouse, where these newbies are forced to shed their current duds, prison-style, and after being sprayed down with a hose and checked for lice, they’re handed their new suit, to be worn with pride. You see, to create a true Saviator, the douche bag must be “broken” first, and then recreated in Ryan Seacrest’s image. Of course there’s a trip to The Sunglass Hut on the way back to the office and, depending on the collective behavior of the new Saviators, a quick stop by Sprinkles for cupcakes.
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