Some of them are downright nice dudes, until the beast within them is awakened by a rush of cheap beer or booze. I’ve been watching this type of metamorphosis for a decade now, and it still surprises me how easily a mild mannered guy can go from wallflower to brawler with just a couple shots of tequila. One minute they’re hanging out in a corner nursing a light beer, fidgeting with their cell phone, and sheepishly trying to talk to a couple of sorority pledges. The next thing you know, shot glasses are empty and they’ve morphed into something else entirely. If you look closely enough, you can even see them physically getting larger and their skin turning green. They start getting up in people’s faces, pushing their fingers into chests, talking louder and louder, and making moves against any guy foolish enough to stand within 5 feet of them. They wander aimlessly through the room in their drunken stupor, staggering into people and then screaming at them to watch where they’re going. Where they direct their rage makes no difference—if you’re in the room you’re a target.

Congratulations guys, your alcohol induced adolescence is the primary reason people have to wait until they’re 21 to buy a beer in this country.

For example, you can’t fault men for wanting to get laid anymore than you can fault a dog for wanting to spend hours and hours licking his own nuts. It’s just the way things are programmed. Nobody got consulted about it, that’s simply the way it is. And you can’t blame men for thinking incessantly about sex when their very genetic composition demands they spray their manhood as often as possible. As Robin Williams once pointed out, God gave men 2 heads, but only enough blood to use one at a time. So be it.

But there’s a breed of choad out there that abuses this excuse, a breed of smooth talkin’, soulful lookin’, romanti-choads who are almost entirely responsible for inspiring all the bad man-hating emo-chick music produced in the 1990’s. You know who they are. You’ve seen them in action. They’ve always got a woman on their arm, and it’s never the one they had with them the day before. Welcome to the land of the Player Choads, where the men are gods and the women are disposable.

1. Men enjoy women. Choads enjoy using women.

While most guys spend their Friday and Saturday nights chasing ladies, only choads do so with malignant purposes. The Player Choad’s intention isn’t so much to find a lady he likes, but rather to pump’n dump as many ladies as he can. It’s all about the numbers for the Player Choad. More chicks equals more manliness, or so they seem to believe.

2. Men want women. Choads want to catch women.

Since we understand that men are naturally inclined toward the chase, we have to cut them a little slack. But Player Choads make the chase more important than the lady. Most dudes are psyched when they finally catch a hottie. The Player Choad, once he’s caught the fish, sometimes doesn’t even get the condom off before throwing it back.

3. Men work to catch women. Choads work to catch women off guard.

Herein lies the secret of the Player Choad, so pay attention: Player choads do what regular dudes don’t. Think about some of the most common complaints chicks have about guys.

Here’s where the Player Choad makes his move. Every woman in the world, no matter who she is or where she comes from, wants to believe that she’s not just unique and special, but that someone recognizes what it is about her that makes her special. Player choads lock in on this target like a heat seeking missile. Once they’ve found that particular sweet spot, the gal will stick to him like Velcro thinking she’s found the man of her dreams. And then it’s only a question of time (usually just hours) before she’s mentally picking out names for their future children.

Of course there’s far more to it than just the way he stares intensely into her eyes and tells her how he sees her, but that’s what’s at the heart of it. And while men sometimes do this and mean it, Player Choads do this to satisfy their egotistical needs. Hair, wardrobe, and accessories factor into their chick-bagging equation as well of course. You’ll never see a Player Choad who’s afraid to be looked at. The style will vary, depending on what the guy is interested in, but he’ll never blend into any crowd too well. Part of the allure of the Player Choad is that he’s unique, confident, and answerable to no one. And you can bank on every one of their style choices, no matter how casually it seems to have been made, being carefully considered. The bandana, the watch, the wrist cuff, the shades, the shoes (even if they’re just cheapie flip flops,) the jewelry, every selection is specifically chosen. Less care goes into the construction of jet engines than a Player Choad’s ensemble.

So far you may think there doesn’t seem to be much difference between a Player Choad and just another skirt chasing guy. Let me break it down for you: If there’s a long list of bitter women in your past, you’re probably a Player Choad. If your friends constantly praise you for your tally of chicks, you’re probably a Player Choad. If you pride yourself on being God’s gift to women, you’re probably a Player Choad. If seducing women isn’t merely what you do, but who you are, you’re a Player Choad.

Some choads are merely annoying, while others legitimately drive people to homicidal thoughts. Today, I’m dedicating my attention to a breed of choad that falls smack in the middle of that scale for most people, but in my world, they’re in the Top 5 most useless and provoking creatures on the planet. They serve no purpose past impeding a person’s good time and occasionally unhooking a few velvet ropes, but they stand in doorways everywhere with their arms crossed and their chests puffed up, scowling in no particular direction, ignoring the offered smiles and handshakes from anxious people trying to get into the party. There may be more offensive and more pervasive brands of choads, but none are so specifically dedicated to standing between the everyman and his fortune as the Choad Door Guy.

Before I begin my dissection of these mouth-breathers, I’ll toss out a few disclaimers. First, I recognize there is a need for Door Guys. I don’t begrudge them their jobs, only their handling of the position. Second, not all Door Guys are Choad Door Guys. I’ve come across many a gatekeeper who didn’t look at me as though I were a bug to be crushed, but smiled and joked with me as he checked my ID and waved me through the door. But as is the case with many professions, a few bad apples give the rest of the group a bad reputation, and because of the role they play, Door Guys are perfectly positioned to be the perfect CHOAD.

Let’s start with their appearance. Is the all-black look what management demands, or is the grim reaper costume part of their intimidation tactics? And how much gel and pomade does it take to get that super high-gloss sheen onto that carefully tousled mop? Is there some store that only bouncers and Mafiosos know about that sells those chrome looking suits they love sporting?

But I’m just nitpicking here. Here’s my real beef. They don’t smile. They don’t look you in they eye. They seem exasperated when you walk up to them. They critically look you up and down to make sure you’re attractive enough to be seen in their establishment. And in spite of the fact that half of these meatheads can’t read their own names, they’re placed in charge of VIP lists every night. Maybe it isn’t that they deliberately want to keep a long line in front of their building for appearances sake… maybe they just can’t find the words “John Smith +3” on a sheet of paper in under 20 minutes.

You know that old adage about kids that got beat up in school going on to be cops later on so they can strike back at the people who once tormented them? Wanna take a stab at what those school bullies grew up to be? That’s right, you guessed it. If they’d been smart, they’d have figured out how to sling booze behind the bar, since bartenders make far more money, get far more booty, and are far more well-liked than door guys. But that requires both a willingness to learn a skill and a better than room temperature IQ, and since that eliminates a lot of beefcake immediately, they move onto a position better suited to their size and intellect.

When they’re not donning their headsets and polyester and keeping the unworthy from their cocktails, they’re at the gym feverishly maintaining the bulky physique that gives them their authority. It’s the abuse of that authority that gets them sent to the Choad Hall of Fame as a cartel. This isn’t the first time people with power have exploited that power. It isn’t even the first time a bunch of ‘roided up dullards have been recruited to serve a mastermind’s nefarious purpose. And they’ll always be there, blocking the path of the righteous toward their Holy Land, believing themselves to be ultimate authority on “who’s who” and “what’s cool.”

Next time the Door Guy lets you into a crowded club ahead of the line, grease his palm and offer to buy him a drink. If the line is long and he’s up there working fast, smiling at people, shaking hands, let it slide if it takes a few minutes to get inside and consider yourself lucky that for once, the man standing between you and night club Mecca isn’t a choad.

He never even has to leave the comfort of his mom’s basement if he doesn’t want to—he can annoy via binary code in his PJs. But if you’re in the mood to see a choad in his natural habitat, you needn’t go far. Just find the nearest trendy bar. Wherever there is potential for women to be congregated for a good time, choads will inevitably follow.

Most choads are easily identifiable by style and wardrobe, and those qualities will tell you a great deal about their personality. But there are other more subtle clues to their character that a trained eye can easily pick out, even in a dark and crowded bar. When you first eyeball that choad, take a note of what he’s drinking. A man’s choice of beverage speaks volumes about his persona, and about what sort of game he’s spewing at the ladies.

The first one you generally see is the Domestic Yellow Beer drinker. Think about it… It’s cheap, generic, uninteresting. The same can be said for its owner. If you’re drinking American yellow beer and you’re not near a large body of water in a bathing suit, you probably have about as much to offer as a piss warm Budweiser.

With imported beer it becomes a little trickier. There’s plenty of good brew in the world, but if you’re already cruising the room with a Choad Swagger, there’s a good chance that beer of yours is just something you picked because you think it’ll make you look more sophisticated than your domestic swill brothers. Unfortunately, spending that extra buck on your bottle isn’t going to make up for the fact that you can’t spell the name of the country it’s from.

Then there’s the spit shined polish of the wine drinking choad. He’s banking on that pretentious glass making him look like the jet-setter he wishes he was. He’ll probably be standing off in a corner, where there’s less chance of some peon bumping his arm and spilling his drink, and from that vantage point he has clear view of the entire room… a perfect place to scan the crowd for tasty choad bait. But if he really knew anything about wine, he wouldn’t be drinking it at a place that only has 2 or 3 different types available. Most clubs and bars aren’t known for their wine selection, but they ARE known for being chock full of pretentious and choadtastic posers.

Vodka & Red Bull Choad

Moving onto liquor, have a look for the well vodka and Red Bull choad. It won’t be difficult to find one; they’re absolutely everywhere. The vodka cuts down on the syrupy sweetness of the energy mixer, or maybe the energy mixer softens the flavor of cheap vodka, I don’t know… either way, it’s a disgusting drink whose popularity comes from the fact that you can catch a buzz from it and not get as sloppy drunk as if you were drinking a real cocktail. Only those with the most uneducated and undiscriminating palates in the world can stomach this vile concoction… what does that say about the man sucking it down?

Then there’s the next step up—drinking premium vodka and Red Bull. All that says is you’re willing to mix high quality spirits into that same shitty mixer. In some cultures that’s the definition of alcohol abuse. You should be eliminated from the gene pool. Go play in traffic.

If Jagermeister is your shot of choice, you’re hoping that the show of drinking such nasty sludge will make you appear more of a man, since that pathetic 35% alcohol content isn’t going to impress anyone. You should have gone with Rumplemintz or Goldschlager instead—same thick slime, but 100 proof and 110 proof respectively, and at least you walk away with minty fresh or cinnamon breath afterwards. And if you see someone drinking a Jager bomb (Jager with Red Bull) just do the world a favor and go slap them for being out in public without supervision.

Once you get past these more obvious choads however, it gets a little more difficult. A man willing to drink whiskey, gin, or tequila is a little more versed in the pleasures of alcohol, and unmistakably more capable of handling his liquor. That’s going to mean he’s smart enough to hide some of his choadier qualities, but make no mistake, the choad beneath the surface can be even more loathsome than the blatant ones who make public asses of themselves. Anything consumed “on the rocks” or “straight up” means the drinker isn’t kidding around. He’s arrogant, he’s cocky, and he’s probably pretty used to getting his way. He’s also got a talent for smooth talking. Lock up your little sisters guys, this one’s on the hunt for virgins. Or sorority girls. Whichever shows up first.

Finally, there’s the pain-in-the-ass drink choad. The name pretty much says it all. If you have to explain it to the bartender 3 times before he or she gets it right, or if it has more than 7 ingredients, or if it requires muddling or fire or layering something 2 or more times, you’re a weenie. There’s no need to worry too much about this particular choad. He’ll likely spend the entire night trying to talk to women who are desperately out of his league, and getting slapped down like an unruly stepchild.

There are a handful of other alcoholic drinks I could mention, such as wine coolers, test tube shooters, or even Jell-O shots, but we’ve covered the basics. Remember, these are only guidelines. Choads come in many shapes and sizes, and may not necessarily subscribe to generalizations. .

What I sat next to at Texas Stadium during the 48-27 pounding of the Cowboys by New England on October 14, 2007:

“Whoa, look at that scoreboard! LET’S GO PATRIOTS!!! Yeah buddy, it’s another first down for us! Howdya like THAT for pass completion??? All day long guys, all day long! Oh man, is that ANOTHER touchdown pass for Brady? Jesus, did you guys even BRING your first string today? I’ve seen high school teams play more coordinated football! Hey, at least your cheerleaders are hot! They’re the only entertainment Dallas fans are gonna get today! How’s the turf tasting today, huh Romo? Don’t worry, 6 and 1 is still a good record! SCOOOOOREBOOOOOARD!!!”

Now I’m a Patriots fan myself, but this didn’t stop for 4 solid hours, even when the Cowboys accidentally stumbled into a brief lead. I’m not quite sure how my friend, a most devoted fanatic, escaped the ass beating of a lifetime amongst a bunch of beered up, disappointed Dallas boys, but he did.

I love a sports fan. But relentlessly kicking people when they’re down ain’t sportsmanship. It’s CHOADSmanship.

The follow up to this, however, is that I watched the Superbowl at this particular friend’s house last week. Apparently he used up all his “cheer” during the game in October– he had nothing left for that miserable defeat and spent the evening conspicuously quiet, except for the occasional “Shit!” or “Come ON!” The silence in his living room when the clock finally ran out was as deafening as his shrieking had been at the game 3 months before. Karma, it seems, has quite the sense of humor.

Beer Pong. Definitely the sport of Choads… I believe I even saw a pink popped collar in there.