“Any chance in hell you could rescue me from a bad decision, I chewed my arm off but left my car downtown, ordeal?” When a girlfriend calls for help, I’m there. No questions asked. Except for this one: What kind of choad doesn’t give a girl a ride back to her car the next morning?”

Now, see, that’s just bad manners.

It’s in the rule book boys and girls. Section 3 of the hook up code—if someone comes home with you, you’re obligated to help them leave afterward if they need assistance. That means you give them a lift home or back to their car, or at least give them fare and call them a cab. You’re not required to feed them or give them your number or help them rinse the vomit off their shirt, but helping them get out of your home is mandatory. And it’s not something you can pass off as a rookie mistake either. Only the lowest of the turbochoads doesn’t help a gal make her exit after an evening of festivities. Besides, if word gets around that you’re the kind of dickhead that can’t be gracious after getting lucky, you risk taking a ride on the train to no-nookie-land. Chicks talk, trust me.

I’m in the drive through line at a fast food restaurant last night hungrily anticipating my bucket of chicken when a white F-350 comes roaring through the parking lot, screeching to a halt 10 feet away from me. Out stumbles a fat, middle aged, white-haired, surly looking Neanderthal of a man in khaki shorts and threadbare collared shirt who slowly ambles toward the front door with a vacant expression on his face.

Pay no attention to the fact that you took up 3 of the lot’s 6 parking spots with your gas-guzzling beast, you lazy thoughtless turd. I’m sure the handicapped person who might have needed that spot won’t mind parking in the lot across the damned street. Just a thought—less KFC in your diet might mean less belly for you to have to cart around in your penis-compensating ride. Seriously start considering salads you fat bastard.

And many a woman suffers because of this.

Running around the playground at recess a boy could chase a girl into a mud puddle, shove her down, and lift up her dress so everyone could see her underwear, and people would know he liked her. Try that anytime after puberty and charges will be brought against you. Still, some dudes never figure out that harassing a woman isn’t necessarily the best way to seduce her.

How is that lesson never absorbed by some dudes? When you poked a girl with a stick in elementary school, she smacked you, told the teacher, or cried. What kind of choad thinks that the grown up versions of those responses are going get him laid?

“Y’know, you should think about getting some breast implants.”

Sure, you can say these things to a woman and make a memorable impression with her. What you won’t be making with her, however, is any good nookie.

Walking past a bar one night recently, my buddy and I ran into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a while. We stopped to say hello, and were introduced to a handful of other people all standing around outside either smoking or chatting on their way to somewhere else. At one point someone introduced me to “Miguel,” a reasonably attractive dude who seemed to speak no English, only Spanish. I offered a greeting in Spanish, made my introduction in Spanish, and then switched back to English to inquire as to how Miguel was connected to the group.

I stood there for a few more minutes listening to the conversation that was happening between Miguel and some of the others. Was it just me, or was his Spanish pretty feeble for a guy who claims to speak only his native tongue? I jumped back into the Spanish conversation and asked him a few more questions. His responses were unintelligible. Was that because my own understanding of the language is pitiful, or because Miguel here was bullshitting us? After he spouted off for a few minutes about how Antonio Banderas was his first cousin, several people began asking him how long he’d lived in the States. He responded that he’d lived here for 5 years.

How does one live in the U.S. for 5 years and not pick up a word of English? After that, I pretty much decided he was feigning the language barrier for some purpose of his own, and regardless of what that was, I was done with the conversation. I walked away after another minute to find more interesting company. A few minutes later, my buddy followed.

“So, as soon as you walked away from ol’ Miguel, so did everyone else,” he said, throwing a nod to the bartender.

“Doesn’t surprise me. I’m fairly certain that guy was jerking everyone around with that whole Spanish nonsense.”

“He was. As soon as everyone was gone, he burst out laughing and screams ‘Oh man, I totally HAD you guys! I can’t BELIEVE you were all so easy to dupe!’”

“Are you kidding me? No one in that group believed him, and several people called him out on it!”

“And that’s exactly what I pointed out as I walked away leaving him standing there by himself on a street corner.”

Wanna pull a fast one for the sake of a giggle, fine. But this is Austin. We’re one of the biggest Hispanic markets in the country, and those who didn’t grow up speaking Spanish learn pretty quickly that it’s a handy thing to be bilingual here. Guys, take a note.

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.

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.

I had a 20 minute errand to run, and one of the perks of my last job is having decals I put in my car windows that allow me to park in those coveted spots for short periods of time. The rule is that both decals have to be stuck on the inside of the front two windows, but they’re a little on the large side, so they tend to fall out if you slam either door too hard.

Upon completing my errand I walked toward my car to find a short and indignant meter man in goofy shorts and stenciled shirt writing me a ticket. I quickly ran up to him and gave him my biggest and toothiest smile and said, “Is there a problem?” Without looking up from his pad he mutters, “You’re in a commercial zone with only one decal visible.”

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I looked in my driver’s side window and saw that the laminate had fallen from its perch and was lying face up on the driver’s seat. I pointed this out to the stout little man. “I guess I just shut my door too hard and the decal fell out. See, it’s sitting right there in my seat, face up.”

“It needs to be in the window ma’am.”

“But the other one is clearly visible in the window, and it’s obvious I have both decals in the car.”

He doesn’t respond. He hasn’t looked up. He’s still writing the ticket.

“Sir, surely you can see this was just an accident. The decal fell out of the window. I’m allowed to park in these spots!”

“I’m just telling you what the law is ma’am.” He continues writing, finishes with a flourish, and hands me my ticket.