A sweet and charming girl was so overcome by the choadiness of the world that she went into hiding and didn’t see or speak to anyone for a month.
The End.

Okay, not really. Wondering where I’ve been? I wish I had an interesting story for you. I believe the official term for it would be “soul searching,” but if I’m honest with myself, it was really just a bunch of hiding under the covers and an unwillingness to deal with the seemingly unending string of assholes who make daily life so damned annoying. In other words—the choads got me down.

To hell with that. I’m back bitches. And to celebrate my semi-triumphant return to internet pontificating, I’m bringing you:

Gird your loins kiddies:

10. The drunk friend who insists on calling me four times a night between 3am and 5am to tell me how he’s drunk, lonely, and hasn’t had sex since 2002.

9. The annoying prat from my cable company who keeps calling trying to sell me cable and phone line packages I have no use for. Nothing pisses me of quite like being awakened from my afternoon nap to discuss television with some Mike Tyson sounding motherfucker.

8.The pedicab hippy who rode over my foot last weekend. When this swelling goes down, it’s your dread-headed ass buddy.

7.The frat-tastic Abercrombie whore who demanded that I pay him back for all the drinks he bought me when he realized I wasn’t going home with him. Sorry junior, learn the hard way.

6. Barack Obama’s campaign fundraisers. One more unsolicited phone call, and I may start firebombing your offices.

5.James Franco, for all the shitty movies he’s done. And because of that ridiculous face he makes.

4. My neighbor, who just bought a brand new Cadillac Escalade and takes up 2 parking spots with it.

3. The long haired-yet-balding dude in the speedo at my pool. Just because you don’t have a beer gut like most men your age doesn’t mean you need to be trouncing around in a thong.

2. The hoards of comic book geeks who loudly insist that Dark Knight is the best film since Casablanca. If boring protagonists and 15 false endings are what get you off, keep it to yourself.

And finally…

1. Timothy P. Shriver, chairman of the Special Olympics, for endorsing a boycott of the upcoming movie Tropic Thunder. He’s claiming the movie is filled with “hate speech” because of its use of the word retard. Now, I’m not saying it’s a nice thing to make fun of the mentally handicapped, but to quote a Dream Works spokesman, this movie is “an R-rated comedy that satirizes Hollywood and its excesses and makes its point by featuring inappropriate and over-the-top characters in ridiculous situations.” This is what Hollywood does Mr. Shriver. It celebrates the inappropriate. And if you think that mental deficiency is the only sensitive topic being mocked in films, I say you haven’t been to the movies since they added sound. Find something else to get your panties in a bunch about.

If you haven’t, go take a quick look. If you’re reading this, chances are what you’re looking at when you peek out your door is a nice little chunk of Middle America. There are probably some paved roads, some houses, maybe a high rise or two, some trees even. I betcha the view from your window is really nice actually, a picture of daily American life, with cars driving past, a guy on a bicycle, you know, something nice and civilized. If that’s the view out your window, I want you to read this next statement very carefully, okay?

There is no reason for you to own a Hummer.

I nearly got run off the road this morning by some middle aged woman who was driving one of those H2s and talking on her phone at the same time. It’s such a cliché I know, but middle age suburban women truly can’t drive for shit. But instead of revoking their driving privileges, we’re giving them bigger and faster vehicles to ride around in. And parking in crowded areas isn’t difficult enough without those beastly rides taking up 3 spots? Whoever decided that the Hummer needed to be modified to suit the needs of the average suburbanite CLEARLY never lived in a ‘burb.

Anyone know where the name Hummer even came from? It’s a play on the abbreviation HMMWV, which stands for High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle. Just a few of the things the Humvee was originally designed to serve as:

In short, they’re designed to withstand COMBAT, not rush hour. Now I ask you, why did this monster of a military machine need to be adapted for the average choad driving to and from an office building every day on carefully maintained roads? Is he anticipating having to ford a river in the case of unexpected flooding? Is he nervous about incoming fire? Or does he really just want to show everyone that he’s got enough cash hemorrhaging in his wallet and little enough common sense to buy a $50,000+ vehicle that gets roughly 9 miles to the gallon?

According to a J.D. Power and Associates automotive Survey, Hummers receive more complaints than any other line of cars both foreign and domestic. Now tell me, why do you feel compelled to own one? I have my own theories:

When it comes to proving manhood, saving face, and asserting alpha-status, some men just don’t know when to quit. You gotta love choads for their total willingness to be a dumbass in public, but sometimes it’s not so much hilariously tragic as it is just TRAGIC.

Take the other night, for example. I’m strolling down a sidewalk on my way to a bar when I come upon a miserable sight. A huge crowd has gathered around 5 guys in thug-a-licious gear and bling. The 5 are taking turns kicking the crap out of some poor kid who’s laying in the fetal position against the curb with his arms up over his head. The girls in the group are yelling at their boyfriends to stop being such assholes. All the guys who aren’t taking shots at the poor guy are standing there staring with blank expressions, being about as useful as bathroom mold. The punching bag hasn’t moved in several moments, and I’m seriously starting to consider running into the middle of the mess to see if he’s dead when the assailants finally tire and back off, retreating with shouts of “yeah bitch! How’d you like that?” toward the pile of tenderized meat still sprawled on the ground.

5 on 1? Yeah, that’s a real victory. You’re all heroes for winning THAT fight. Maybe next time you can pick a fight with some senior citizens or amputees or chemo patients or something—how manly would THAT be? Or better yet, you could all just stand in line next to one another and pull out your dicks and measure them THAT way. Saves you the energy of having to throw someone an ass beating, you won’t sweat all over those nice baggy drawers you’re wearing, and you don’t run the risk of getting tossed out of whatever sticky floored all ages club you’re cruising honeys at. Works for everyone that way.

Besides, you never know which way a fight is going to go when you start one. Not everyone is the softy you might expect them to be. Take this guy, for example. Think the crowd of punks that started this mess anticipated his catlike reflexes and superhero stamina? It’s like watching one of the Bourne films—

Little fucking Choadz n the Hood.

There’s a long and drawn out version of the story, but the Cliff’s Notes go something like this:

Her: You’re not giving me what I need, so I can’t be with you.
Him: You’re right. I don’t have it to give.

(2 days later)

Him: I made a HUGE mistake. I miss you. I need you. You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Please take me back. I’ve learned my lesson!

(the next morning…)

Him: What are you doing here this morning? I said what to you last night? I don’t remember any of that. I was drunk. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it. Still, the sober and adult side of me is telling me I can’t do this. I can’t be with you.

I’ve edited out the emotional bullshit this guy spewed at her over the course of 2 months for the sake of not making my readers vomit all over their computer screens, but trust me on this one, this dude is in the running for Choad of the Year after the nonsense he spouted off to my friend.

Why bother writing about it? Because I’m sick and tired of watching girls get preyed upon by choads. I’m a firm believer that most guys are good guys. Sure, we all have our choady moments (usually after a bad day, or one too many cocktails) but on the whole, I’m a big fan of men. They usually mean well, and unlike their female counterparts, they say what they mean, don’t hold grudges, and are willing to buy me my first drink. But for every 10 nice guys out there, there’s a choad fucking it up for the rest of them. Ladies, pay attention:

Stop mistaking arrogance for confidence. Real men don’t need to flaunt. Remember, Superman didn’t tell people he was Superman.

If he doesn’t do what he says he’s going to do, WALK. It’s that simple. If he doesn’t call when he says he will, show up when he says he will, or deliver what he promises, being around you isn’t going to change that. It’s his choice to be lazy.

Beware the tortured soul. Being an artist doesn’t give you an excuse to behave like an asshole. You can be creative and emotional and still treat a woman with respect. Don’t let a guy get away with being a jackass merely because he can write you a poem.

Make sure the man has something to contribute. His being quiet and detached may not indicate mystery, it may just be that the lights are on and nobody’s home.

These are just a few suggestions that seemed especially relevant given my good friend’s most recent experience. Seriously ladies, know why the nice guys always finish last? It’s because so many women would rather spend their time sporting with the bastards. If you’d like to not waste time wondering what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, where he’s been, or how he feels about you, stop dating choads. It really is that easy.

It’s pretty amazing how much variety there is in the choad world. Anyway, I love to travel, but the actual getting there sucks ballz, particularly if you have to fly to get where you’re going.

If you’re Donald Trump or Bill Gates, I’m sure flying is a blast. The food is probably decent, the plane is undoubtedly spacious and comfy, and there’s very likely an adorable 19-year-old model attending to your beverage and blanket needs. But if you’re like the rest of us, a good travel day for you is getting upgraded to business class on Southwest because they’ve overbooked your flight. You’re schlepping through airports carrying your own luggage, racing to make connections, standing in line after line only to be told about the delays holding up your flight. Oh it’s fun stuff, and I’ve been doing a lot of it lately, so I’m intimately familiar with the hassles of air travel.

In the interest of public decency, I’m offering up this brief tutorial on how NOT to be a choad when you’re traveling via plane. These are just guidelines of course, but I promise you, the people around you will be incredibly grateful if you follow some simple rules:

1. If you’re sick, wear a doctor’s mask. The dude next to me recently was hacking up a storm and spreading his viral nastiness all over the place. It may not look cool, but you have no idea how appreciative your plane neighbors will be when they get home and don’t come down with the flu 2 days later.

2. I know you’re a big dude, and those tiny little chairs aren’t very accommodating for a man your size, but do everyone a favor and try not to spill over too much into the seat next to you. I’m a slight sized female, but dammit I paid for my whole seat, and I’d like all of it for myself.

3. If your neighbor is wearing headphones, don’t try making small talk. That’s the universal signal for “fuck off I’m not interested.” This goes double if they’re wearing headphones and a sleep mask over their eyes. (Sounds obvious right? Some people don’t actually understand this.)

4. Don’t give anyone on a plane a sales pitch. They don’t want to hear it. I don’t care how cool your think your product / company / idea is, the poor sucker sitting next to you isn’t interested, they aren’t going to email you about it next week, and they don’t care what your plan is. If they pull out headphones while you’re doing your shtick, shut your mouth immediately.

5. If you get up mid-flight for any reason, don’t use the chair in front of you to help yourself up. Lean on the back of your own chair. You’re probably shaking the hell out of someone trying to catch a quick nap.

6. Always have gum or mints with you when you travel. Use them. Frequently. You have no idea how pungent bad breath can be in confined spaces like the cabin of a 737.

7. If you plan on catching up on sleep while you fly, and you happen to know you snore like a chain saw, bring along some of those nasal strips to assist your breathing. If anyone’s trying to get work done around you, that snoring is about as helpful as someone constantly kicking the back of their chair.

8. Don’t read over anyone’s shoulder, stare at anyone’s computer screen, or look at anyone’s iPod while they’re using it. It’s creepy. Really creepy.

9. Don’t hit on the girl next to you. You’re not in a bar, even if you are drinking a $5 shot of Jack Daniels out of that little plastic cup.

10. Don’t make snide remarks about crying babies or restless children. I promise you, nobody feels worse about a kid making a racket than the kid’s parents. It’s not the baby’s fault; he has no way of articulating his feelings other than to scream. And keeping a child quiet and still in a confined space for long periods of time is damn near impossible. Children under the age of 8 are not meant to sit motionless for hours on end.

I was 21, and completely unaware that this was a phenomenon I’d have to deal with for the rest of my twenties. It stunned me so much that I didn’t even move at first, I just stood there thinking to myself that surely it had been an accident. I didn’t know the guy; I’d never even seen him before. I thought maybe he just hadn’t realized what he’d done. Or maybe he was just drunk. Or maybe he thought I was someone else. Whatever the deal was, in about 30 seconds I’d come up with 10 reasons why I shouldn’t freak out about it.

That attitude carried me about 2 months, until it happened again. I was standing at a bar trying to order a drink when I distinctly felt someone’s hand on my ass. I whirled around to see who it could have been, but saw no one even looking in my direction. Had I imagined the whole thing? Was I losing my mind? Or was this the work of some elusive stealth choad that I just couldn’t catch in the act?

Many years and about a hundred roving hands later, I take a far more assertive approach. The second I feel a hand on me I grab the wrist and bend it backward. I then get up in the asshole’s face and ask loudly why the hell he thinks I don’t have the right to walk by him without feeling his tickle-dick paws somewhere on my body. That usually does the trick. A bouncer will come running, a friend will step in, or the molesting little coward will slink out the door as quickly as possible muttering a word of apology. Still, making the situation right doesn’t make up for the fact that there is a breed of choad out there that doesn’t understand that women’s bodies aren’t their personal playgrounds.

I can’t say for sure how this kind of behavior starts out, but I’ve got a couple theories. Maybe Daddy was a perv who left mom and kiddo for the 20 year old secretary at his office. Maybe mom started dating men with anger issues who treated her like crap, and Junior never learned that treating women like chew toys isn’t acceptable. Whatever it is that allows this kind of behavior to germinate, there’s got to be a way to squash it before the little shit gets old enough to be feeling up women in bars.

I call it the “Grabass Plague,” and unfortunately the responsibility for stopping it seems to fall on women. Every time a gal lets some slimeball get away with grabbing the goods, it only reinforces the idea that it won’t be a problem next time the loser tries it. Ladies, SPEAK UP!!! I know MTV and Playboy tell us daily that it’s practically our God-given obligation to be sex objects, but you still have the right to determine what happens to your person.

And if you’re one of those shady fuckers dragging your mitts across rows of skirts in crowded buildings, consider this– Right now some like-minded circle jerk jackass is looking at your mom, your sister, and your girlfriend with the same intentions.

Take a look around at choady Myspace or Facebook profiles and tell me I’m not right. When choads gather together for photographs, the shirts come off, the chins tilt up, the gang signs get thrown, and at least one person in the group flashes the Blue Steel. The irony of this would have me rolling on the floor laughing were it not such a tragic commentary on our times.

Remember Zoolander? Of course you do. He was beautiful, well dressed, charming, and one of the dumbest characters Hollywood has ever spit forth. And the film was a hilarious parody of the fashion and modeling industry, complete with drama, attitude, after parties, killer make up, superstar cameos, and an assassination plot to kill the prime minister of Malaysia. And Derek Zoolander, the creator of the legendary “Blue Steel” facial expression, was the painfully obtuse protagonist who was manipulated, cajoled, and corralled into being the fall guy in an evil scheme by the Fashionista powers that be.

So I wonder… am I the only one who finds it utterly hilarious that choads are imitating the lovable stooge’s facial expression in their photographs now? Do they realize they’re glorifying a character that was a specifically designed mockery of all the things they try to embody? Let’s go down some of Mr. Zoolander’s choady qualities:

Sound like any of the choads you know? I don’t want to crack on the character too much, as he did show some growth toward the end of the film, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that Zoolander IS in fact a choad. If you remember in the opening scene when the forces of evil are trying to select a model for their criminal deeds, they describe their subject as “a beautiful, self absorbed simpleton that can be manipulated and molded like Jell-O.” Sounds like a choad to me. And before you argue with me, think about the MTV culture of commercialism around us that has guys shaving their chests, hitting the tanning salons, and sporting clothing labels they can only barely afford. Choads really do want to be Zoolander these days don’t they? It’s more important to be beautiful and well attired than intelligent or talented.

Oh well. I get a giggle out of the fact that Hollywood made fun of pop culture and then, as if on cue, the masses picked it up and started celebrating the very thing Hollywood mocked.

In sports there is a phrase that describes the best place to connect with a ball if you’re swinging a bat or racket or club.

If Alex Rodriguez is standing in the batters box and he swings too high or too low, he’s going to either ground it to an infielder or pop fly it for an out. However, if he finds the sweet spot on the bat, that ball isn’t going to land until sometime the next day. There is a similar concept in Choadology, since choadism isn’t so much a quality as it is a measurement. All dudes have a little bit of choad in them, but it’s the amount of choadiness they have that determines if they are actually a choad.

As we’ve already established, choadiness is defined by arrogance. Arrogance is totally different from confidence in that one is backed up with substance while the other is not. A confident man is attractive to almost everyone. An arrogant man is usually only attractive to other arrogant dudes, and a handful of naïve choad bait. On the other end of the spectrum is the man who has neither confidence nor arrogance. He’s generally overlooked completely, but if he is noticed, he’s regarded as limp noodle.

On The Choad Network our users rate choadiness on a scale from 1 to 10. Too little choadiness means you’re probably a weenie, used to getting dismissed, ignored, even occasionally spat on. Too much choadiness, and you’re that obnoxious idiot terrorizing your social surroundings. It’s a tricky equilibrium to maintain. So how do you find the Sweet Spot? Where does that elusive domain lie? If you’re a 4.0 on the choad scale, is that enough? Is 7.0 too much?

In order to answer that question, take a look at other beloved choads who have made their mark on the world. “Beloved choads?” you might ask. YES! Think about it—how many totally choadtastic celebrities are out there, positively oozing with choadiness, who are celebrated media darlings? I’ll give you some examples.

The man is an intern-banging imp who spent half of his presidency being interrogated about his adventures with a slimy cigar. He manipulated the English language so beautifully that he escaped being booted out of office by single-handedly redefining the phrase “sexual relations.” What’s he doing now? Campaigning to be the inaugural “First Gentleman” of the U.S. Being leader of the richest nation on the planet wasn’t cool enough I guess.

His ex-wife alleged that he beat her in her biography, though he adamantly denies these allegations. But in 1987 during a Barbara Walters interview, he publicly stated that he believed it completely acceptable to slap a woman, “to keep her in line.” And though he’s played roles as an Irish American cop, an English king, and a Lithuanian soviet submarine commander, he’s done them all with a Scottish accent. What the hell makes this guy so charming? Three words—“shaken, not stirred.” For better or for worse, he’ll always be renowned as the smooth talking, danger dodging British secret agent ‘007 who defeated the bad guys, seduced the ladies, and drank martinis.

He wears white suits! He sings higher than AC/DC’s Brian Johnson! He topped the charts with a tune that is nothing more than the repetition of the words “Damn Girl!” And let’s not forget, he fronted a friggin’ boy band!!! Need I continue? He’s little more than an overproduced adolescent with a great PR agent. Take away the glitz and glamour (and exorbitant wardrobe) and he looks like the kid next door my parents used to pay to mow our lawn. But oh, the magic of stage lighting and hip hop moves… his last tour was attended not by a bunch of shrieking 11-year-old girls, but by worshipful grown men and women alike. He received 5 Grammy nominations last year, and his latest album FutureSex/LoveSounds debuted at #1 in the U.S., was the biggest pre-order album in i-Tunes history, and broke the all time record for one week sales of a digital album. He is, by all measurable standards, irresistible.

Choadiness isn’t all bad. It’s kinda like cholesterol. You need a little of it to survive, but when there’s too much, it’s lethal. It’s okay to be edgy, and it’s okay to be bold. Just don’t get so wrapped up in your own image that you forget there are people out there who remember when you thought Vanilla Ice was cool.

Long as you’ve got the right number of syllables (5,7,5), it doesn’t matter how much your writing sucks. So who can do better? C’mon, gimme your best Choad inspired Haiku. Leave’m in the comment section and we’ll see how much more creative than me my faithful readers are.

I know that ponytails on dudes were once a sign of a rebellious spirit and a daring fashion sense. But think about it—when was the last time you saw a ponytail on a guy who didn’t look like a cartoon character?

I pondered this the other day as I watched an old hippy with a long gray ponytail purchase a soy chai latte at one of my favorite coffee shops. He was probably 65 or so, and wearing stone jewelry, a linen shirt, and sandals that had obviously seen a lot of mileage. I don’t want to critique the guy. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice dude, and he was probably taking shrapnel in the ass in Vietnam long before I was even a zygote, but the ponytail got me to thinking about how other younger guys are trying to sport the long locks these days. 99 out of 100 times, it’s an exercise in choad absurdity.

Leather loving Harley riders have been doing it all along, but that’s a look all to itself. No one picks on the dude who rides a Hog no matter how silly he looks. But there’s a whole new group of guys out there thinking that ponytails are a smooth way to go, and they haughtily flaunt their choice as though it separates them from the rest of their choady brethren. Know what they look like? Choads with no style.

The art student, for example—you’re not counter culture, you’re cliché! Half the art department at the local university has ponytails, and they all need to be WASHED. What, were you afraid that merely studying art wouldn’t make you hipster enough? Felt the need to wear a badge of eccentric independence to announce how you reject conformity? Nice move. You’re as dull and two dimensional as your paper machê collage series.

Or the dude in the band—guys, the 80s are long dead, and fortunately for style and music they are NOT coming back anytime soon. Have you seen Vince Neil lately? How about Axl Rose? No? Whaddya think that means? It means it’s time for you to get a friggin haircut you tragic wannabe. Try and keep up.

But my favorite is the dark and brooding rebel—the guy who plays the mysterious card for as long as possible. You don’t know what he does for a living. You don’t know where he lives. You don’t know who his friends are. He makes vague references to past experiences, but never blatantly says where he’s been or what he’s done. But he wears that ponytail like it’s a symbol of dignity, like he’s one of a dying breed of independent thinkers. Please, spare me the Jack Kerouac routine, you’re just some dude that serves coffee at the local boho spot.

The ponytail needs to be left in the 60s when it meant something.

These days it’s a bull’s-eye for choad seeking missiles. Your choad stature would be less obvious if you wore a sign around your neck that read “I drive an SUV to make up for my impotence.”

On the other hand, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that choads are wearing ponytails. It certainly makes them easier to pick out.

This way we don’t have to worry about branding them.