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.

I can’t get a table at my favorite coffee shop anymore. Ever.
And it’s not because I got blacklisted or anything. It just happens that no matter what time of day I go there, all the tables are already taken with people working on their laptops. One person sits at a table for four, sets up his pretty white Mac, plugs his headphones in, and goes to pounding his keyboard for hours and hours. They sit there completely oblivious, vaguely focused, ignoring the masses of people around them all trying to balance cups of coffee and plates of pastries while they wait for someone to finish their meal, or their screenplay, and vacate a table.

This has always annoyed me. But lately it’s gotten to a point where I’m no longer feeling inclined to be polite about it. My reasoning is as follows:

1. You’re taking up useful space that is specifically designated for restaurant patrons. Paying for that $3 cup of coffee doesn’t entitle you to 3 hours at a table that people need to put actual food on.

2. You’re engaging in a solitary activity. Do people need to SEE you writing in order for you to be considered a writer? In that case, go to a library. Real writers have been doing it for years.

3. As if writing weren’t already an isolating occupation, half of you plug your head into earphones to listen to whatever emo-garbage you downloaded onto your computer last night. So you’re ignoring the people around you anyway. Folks, a restaurant is a social venue. If you’re going to pointedly block out your surroundings, how ‘bout you ignore the walls of your studio apartment and let the rest of us enjoy our lunch and a little conversation.

4. No, you don’t desperately need to be at a coffee house for the caffeine supply. Any real writer owns his own espresso machine. Besides, you’re drinking a latte, which is basically just chocolate milk for adults.

I thought the days of angsty coffee house brooding got left back in the 90’s along with flannel shirts and black lipliner. Apparently it just morphed into a new generation—whiny weenies with hard drives instead of journals.

So just out of curiosity, last time I couldn’t get a table, I did a little tour of the building to see what people were doing on their computers. Of the 8 (yeah, 8) different computers I peeked at, 2 were working on Word documents, 1 was opened to a spreadsheet, and the other 5 were surfing the goddamn Internet. IMDB.com, Facebook, and Myspace were all represented.

Really people, go be a cliché somewhere else. I’d like to enjoy my biscotti while sitting down.

That’s pretty hilarious since no one knows who the hell I am. Anyway, it provides me an opportunity to divulge a few random pieces of personal information to my wonderful readers. I’m supposed to list 10 random, odd, curious, or otherwise inane facts about myself, and then spread this viral love to other bloggers. However, just to jazz it up a bit, I’m only going to list 5 things about me that are actually TRUE. The other 5 “facts” will be crap I made up. Extra points if you can figure out what’s real and what’s BS.

1. When I was 12, I finished the Rubik’s cube someone had given my brother for his birthday. It took me 4 hours.

2. I once kicked a high-ranking government official in the groin when he grabbed my ass.

3. Babies scare the ever-living shit out of me. I’d feel more comfortable holding an atom bomb in my arms than I would a newly spawned human being.

4. I could eat pasta every day for the rest of my life and be completely happy.

5. Peter Mayle books make me hungry for good food, good wine, and good living.

6. I have voted in every national AND local election since I turned 18.

7. I collect rosaries from places to which I’ve traveled that have Catholic histories. But I’m actually an atheist.

8. My refrigerator is never full. My wet bar is never empty.

9. I am incredibly allergic to eggplant. One bite can put me near death, as my poor mother discovered early in my childhood.

10. I was thirteen the summer I jumped off a 55 foot bridge into a river just to prove to my father I wasn’t afraid to try scary things.

5 cold hard facts, 5 pieces of silly misinformation, 10 bits of the most useless knowledge anyone could ever hope for. You are very welcome. Now go add a choad.

As for those who must follow in my footsteps—I’m selecting my dear Miss T, the crassest man alive, also known as TescoMFVee, The Dude Man, The Dark One, and The consummate Asshole.

It’s not difficult for the moderately trained eye to pick out a choad upon first sight simply because choads aren’t known for being understated. Something about them will tip off the casual observer almost immediately, whether it’s wardrobe, demeanor, or just a painfully stupid look about them. And because they’re not too adept at hiding their choadarific personality, anyone in the vicinity can mentally prepare themselves if contact and interaction with said choad is unavoidable. Basically, because you can see them coming a mile away, you can “fight or flight” your way out of just about any situation involving a choad.

However, in a world filled right to the brim with choadtastic characters, there are some that are so pestilent they leave unfathomable carnage in their wake no matter where they go. Their weapon? Camouflage. There is a unique strain of choad out there that is almost completely undetectable, except by the most skilled and experienced veterans. They are stealth choads, fully equipped with the latest in choad technology, but cleverly disguised as regular dudes. And like the malicious predators they are, they stalk and ruin their unsuspecting prey and get away with countless evils before (if ever) being found out.

I know, it sounds grossly exaggerated. Most choads can’t find a clever statement with two hands and a flashlight. So how could a choad ever be so calculating? Most men smart enough to be that clever are smart enough not to be choads, understanding fundamentally that being a choad is nothing more than a silly way of masking a total lack of character and/or self esteem. Sadly, the smart ones don’t always make that connection. Thus, the stealth choad is born. Smart enough to be normal, but low enough to be choad.

You may wonder what’s so dangerous about a stealth choad.

If he’s so under the radar, what’s to worry about, right? WRONG. It’s the stealth choads that make the world an untrusting and difficult place to maneuver through. How many girls have you dated that got fucked over by some Über-douche, and then turned cold and bitchy about the time she decided she wanted to date you? How many of those bastards are right now copping a feel on some chick you’ve been trying to get to go out with you for months? And make no mistake, their treachory doesn’t end there. Stealth choads are the guys in the group that conveniently head to the bathroom every time the check hits the table, or when it’s time to buy the next round. He “accidentally” leaves his wallet in the car, never brings a six pack over for the game, and is probably at this very moment telling your girlfriend how amazing the view is from his loft downtown.

And if you’re a chick, you’re doubly fucked. He’s got moves, but they’re so subtle you’ll never even realize you’re being hit on. He spoils you rotten with compliments while YOU pay for dinner. He convinces you that consistently being 30 minutes late to pick you up is totally fine. And every chick who runs up to him while you’re out together and hugs him without acknowledging you, THAT’s who he’s seeing on the nights you can’t get him on the phone. He’ll dazzle you with spotlight attention, so that you’ll be blinded to the fact that you’re one of the many who’s taking care of him. They leech so badly it’s a wonder the women they date don’t turn white and shrivel up.

It’s the basic rule of life. If something seems too good to be true, it almost always is. No man is nice to everyone all the time, it’s just not humanly possible. Even the sweetest puppy dog occasionally takes a snap at the hand that feeds him. Anyone who’s pulling off this little “I’m the nice guy” charade should have a regular guest spot on Days Of Our Lives.

Is it that they’re overwhelmingly convincing, or just so charismatic that people automatically bend over backwards for them? Either way, the stealth choad has people accommodating him at all times. Even the most unyielding sorts bend to the will of the stealth choad, sometimes without them even noticing.

The secret to stealth choadiness is not looking the part, and that means keeping the appearance muted and played down. That doesn’t mean sloppy—a choad is still a choad after all. But he won’t be the flashiest dude in the room. The key to getting away with murder is not to look suspicious.

Do they ever talk about their friends, their family, their girlfriend, their ex-girlfriends, their parents, their job, their DOG? Part of the trick to being elusive is not revealing too much of your life to anyone. You don’t know who they hang out with, you don’t know where they work, they’re just kind of… there.

In a nutshell, trust your intuition. Most of us, being reasonably trusting people, want to wait until someone screws us over to dismiss them even when we smell something fishy beforehand. Don’t worry about being polite—if something seems sneaky about them, your instincts are trying to tell you something. Guard your wallet, your bar tab, and your girlfriend immediately.

The sad part is that even when you’re prepared for these bloodsuckers, they can still find a way to stick it to you. Don’t take it personally if suddenly you find you’ve taken it up the exit door from a practiced choad artist. It happens to the best of us. But live and learn, and pass on the knowledge to others.

Only together can we win the war on choadism.

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.

No, not for those tragically narcissistic reasons that you might think. Sure, it’s fun having a place on the internet where you can erect a shrine to yourself, but why bother with a little Myspace page when you can create a whole website that people can check out and have some fun with, where you alone are the reigning voice and personality?

No, Myspace is fabulous for other reasons, my favorite one being the Friend List numbers game. Everyone uses that network to communicate with friends, meet new people, spy on old flames, pursue their crushes etc., but one of the most telling things about an individual isn’t deliberately put on display along with their likes, dislikes, and other useless trivia. How many friends do you have? Is it a huge list? Is it tiny? The size of your friend list can be an interesting indicator as to what kind of person you are.

Obviously in this respect I’m referring to choads. One of the seriously choady Myspace moves is to run your friend list into astronomical numbers. Sorry guys, there’s no way you’re actually acquainted with 3000 people, especially when 2500 of them are half naked 19 year old attention whores hoping to be “discovered” by a modeling agency. I’m sure it took a nice long time for you to rack up those numbers, but what’s the point of having that many faces on your list? You’re not fooling anyone into thinking you’re that cool. You’re just putting your inferiority complex on biiig flashy public display. Nice move rookie. Put up a couple pictures of some cars you can’t afford, some Grey Goose bottles you’re not old enough to buy, and some Victoria’s Secret models you’ll never meet, and you’ll have cemented your place in the halls of generic choaddom infamy.

Does the never ending stream of “thanks for the add!” comments make you feel important? Does perusing the millions of faces associated with your page help to fill the tremendous void that is your life? Awesome. Keep it up. I need more material for my blog.

And with that being said, for you fabulous folks out there who (like me) spend too much time puttering about the ‘net, shoot me a friend request next time you’re on the Space. My own number is a little dismal.

For those of you who haven’t seen our site before, I’d like to welcome you to this happy and mischievous corner of the web and encourage you to keep looking around. We’ve only been out here for a couple weeks, and already we’re getting tons of positive feedback from people all over the ‘net. We’re pretty happy with our first few weeks of being live, and have ideas coming out our ears for the near future. We’re updating stuff all the time, and you never know who’s going to be (or post) the next million dollar choad, so keep checking back to see what’s new and hilarious in choadland!

Some of our faithful members have already put up some real gems of choadiness, and there are sure to be more really soon. If you’re already a member and have contributed to the choad database, thank you for getting on board with us so quickly. Without bold and daring souls like you, this humble little website would be merely the wet dream of a handful of web designers. Thanks to you, it’s a wet dream that stands a chance of being something more than a just a stain on a sheet. You have no idea what that means to us, really.

And for those of you who’ve been checking us out for a while but haven’t added any choads of your own, well there’s no time like the present! Be the first on your block to say “I bitch-slapped a choad on the world’s premier antisocial network website!” You can paraphrase that if you want, but doesn’t it sound like a really cool thing to say? We certainly think so. And don’t worry, you don’t have to “own” your choads if you don’t want to. We understand that not everyone wants to be known for outing idiots on bad behavior (even though it IS practically a public service,) so we’ve created a little feature that allows you to disassociate yourself from any choadfiles you put together. Once you’ve got the file created, you can simply abandon it, and no one will know it was you that posted it. Neat, huh? Yeah, the boys here are smart like that.

BUT, if you’re one of the fearless, you can leave your signature attached to the choadfile and let all your friends know that you’re doing your part to combat choadism. The world can check out your hit list of choads and know that you’re the creative mastermind behind the artistic dismemberment of the world’s lowest species. Think of it, fame and glory as one of the world’s first official choad warriors… not such a bad title, is it?

Not interested in adding choads? No problem. Make fun of the choads that are already on the site! There are plenty to choose from, and the list is growing daily! But we think you’ve got a really creative streak in you, and it’d be a shame not to put it to good use. And by “good use,” we mean “embarrassing the fuck out of arrogant assclowns on the Internet.” C’mon, they deserve it. And now there’s a place to do it.

However you decide to enjoy the site, we hope you’ll keep coming back. Soon these little blogs will become a Monday through Friday occurrence, so there’ll be something new to check out as soon as you get to work each day. And our members are getting more and more enthusiastic which each new choad, creating more outrageous choadfiles with each attempt. You’re not going to want to miss what happens here in the next few months guys, I promise! Sign up, out a choad, leave a comment or two, vote on your favorites, and let us know how we’re doing! The more we hear from you, the better this site will be, so don’t be shy!

I’m Miss Debater, your web mistress and commentator on choadism. I’m hijacking this little corner of the Internet because it’s about time someone spoke the truth about a phenomenon we all know of and wish we could ignore. I’m talking about CHOADS.

It’s the frat boy with the attitude. It’s the 45-year-old lecher hitting on sorority pledges. It’s the pompous ass with the spiky hair, fake tan, and whitened smile who believes deep down in the depths of his empty soul that he is, without question, the coolest thing to ever cruise a bar. Choads come in many varieties but no matter what their purpose or motivation, their style or status, what they all have in common is an ego so enormous it needs its own zip code. The defining quality of a choad is arrogance folks, boundless and unapologetic arrogance.

The dictionary defines the word choad as being synonymous with “penis,” or more specifically, a penis that is wider than it is long. It’s also rumored that the word itself comes from the Hindi word chodna, the Indian vernacular equivalent to the word “fuck.” If you ask me, there’s no better word in the English language to categorize these living underwear stains. The word itself sounds fat and bloated, kinda like the sense of self-importance these assclowns tend to have.

Who do they think they are? What causes such amazing delusions of grandeur? Why does a pretentious punk with no redeemable qualities think he’s God’s gift if he sports a nice watch and a pound of hair gel? These are just a few of the questions this humble little web log will be grappling with. The rest of the time, I’ll just be making fun of them.

The truth is I’m merely a fan and connoisseur of human folly. First off, I’m a female. And since I’m under 120 lbs. and my face isn’t stricken with some kind of fungus, I get lots of attention from men. And while not all men are choads, a very large percentage of the ones hitting on women when they’re out with friends are. Second, I spent 10 years working behind the bar, where some of the choadiest behavior in the country takes place. If you ever want some real entertainment, ask a bartender about the best pick up lines she’s ever gotten. Finally, I’m just flat out tired of these little shitheads getting away with their idiocy. Friends are required to call one another on their bullshit. Someone needs to be doing the same for the social morons who force themselves on others.

So here I am, denouncer of all things choady. This is my territory, and I welcome you all to make it your personal space for calling out the choads of the world.