The Biggest Douche In The Universe

"I regret that I have but 14 collars to pop for my country."

In an increasingly cloistered and withdrawn society, Craigslist is the one great equalizer – it’s basically the largest and most public means by which you can invite a complete stranger into your home to buy your couch for $50, or be filmed having sex with two fat chicks for $50.

Craigslist gives you the opportunity to meet people you’d never even come close to meeting in your day-to-day life by stripping personality and social status away and reducing everybody to what they’re buying or selling – I wouldn’t ordinarily hang out with a couple of obese chain smoking Mexican dudes I’ve never met before, but if they’re going to sell me a minifridge for $80 cash I’ll totally drive to their house. It’s proof that capitalism really can bring people together.

My roommate Tim and I are currently in the market for a new roommate, so we’ve posted about our apartment on Craigslist and gotten a fairly healthy response. Near the middle of last week a seemingly normal guy named Neil contacted us because he was interested in looking at the room, and we invited him to come by for a tour on Friday. Little did Tim and I know that Neil was, in fact, The Biggest Douche In The Universe.

After spending ten minutes on the phone coaching him on how to find our apartment, he texted that he’d arrived and I went to the door to let him in. Stepping out onto the walkway leading to my complex’s stairwell, I laid eyes on Neil for the first time – a moment I’ll never forget.

I couldn’t tell if he’d bought a pair of acid wash jeans and disheveled them himself, if they were a normal pair of jeans that were just so disheveled that they looked acid washed, or if he’d made some kind of special order at Fred Segal for a pair of heavily disheveled, acid wash Wranglers.

He’d popped the collar on his sport coat and the skinny tie around his neck was knotted loosely, falling nonchalantly across his flannel shirt. He’d used approximately a quart of Pomade to grease his dirty blonde hair into a faux hawk, and he glided up to me on a noxious cloud of Old Spice, his blinding white smile contrasting his artificially orange skin.

“Hoo-wee!” He grinned, extending a massive hand with sausagelike fingers. “It is cold out here!”

What I wanted to say: Listen, chucklefuck, it’s 53 degrees right now. Where I come from, we break out the sombreros and cabana shorts and start making rum drinks with fruit in them when it’s 53 degrees.

What I actually said: “Sure is! Hi there, I’m Truman.”

I ushered him in as he explained to me that he was Neil, Biggest Douche In The Universe. He met Tim, and we showed him around the apartment as he explained to us about how he was launching his own cell phone technology company, and their ‘top secret’ product that was about to go global was going to completely revolutionize the industry and make him rich – which explains why he was looking for a rent-controlled room in the San Fernando Valley.

I had started steaming some broccoli over rice for dinner just before he arrived, and as he walked into the kitchen he stopped, sniffed the air, and grinned.

“Okay,” he said. “Now be honest: Which one of you farted? Did one of you fart?”

I pointed to the steam rising from my rice cooker. “That’s broccoli. That’s what broccoli smells like.” Unlike you, I don’t subsist on a diet of Red Bull and cocaine.

Tim and I showed him the room and explained about rent, utilities, Internet, etc. As we wrapped up, Neil nodded with a cocksure grin, surveying our apartment, and let loose with this gem:

“Yeah… So I’m thinking of scoring some OC ass tonight.”

Tim and I glanced at one another in a moment of confusion. Were we having a simultaneous stroke, or did this guy just segue from ‘the laundry room is downstairs on the left’ to ‘I was thinking of driving 50 miles to Orange County to try and get laid’?

“Oh, are you?” I said, for lack of any better response. Oh, you get your ass in Orange County? I prefer San Bernardino ass, myself. Helluva drive, but you can’t beat that quality!

“Yeah,” he said, bobbing his head proudly. “I’m just getting sick of these stuck up LA bitches, you know? They’re all uptight and think they know shit, but they’re just boring.”

“I’ve noticed that about LA bitches.” I said, in hopes of drawing this quote factory out as far as I could.

“Chicks in OC are more laid back. I mean, all there is to do down there is surf and suck cock anyway, right?”

He burst out laughing and I joined in. “Totally! That’s all I did last time I was down there.”

As Tim desperately tried to wind the conversation down to get this piece of shit out of our home, I tried to imagine the sorts of passive aggressive notes I’d have to leave for Neil if he moved in.

Neil – PLEASE wipe off the coffee table after you and your friends do lines. IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT. – Truman

That bail bondsman called when I was trying to take a nap. PLEASE PAY HIM so he’ll stop calling us. Please and thank you, Neil. – Truman

Woke up this morning to find a dumpy blonde girl with hair extensions crying in our kitchen. Did you really tell her you were Channing Tatum’s manager!? Her name is Tricia and the way she tells it her father was never really there for her back when she was growing up in Wyoming. Anyway, she didn’t have a ride home and you didn’t pick up the phone so I had to give her a ride back to Irvine. Protip: Abandoning a one-night stand in the morning doesn’t work so well when you do it AT YOUR OWN APARTMENT.

PS: Cocaine. Coffee table. How many times do I need to remind you!?!

“Thanks for your time, bud.” He said as we trekked up the hall to the door. “Lemmie know when you make a decision, alright?”

“Sure! Will do. Goodnight, Neil!” Although I’ll level with you: I’m really hesitant to put myself in a living situation where I’ll feel forced to intervene in attempted date rape on a regular basis.

I shook his gargantuan hand again and watched as he walked out the door and down the stairwell toward his car. Once he was as far from me as possible, I stepped out onto the walkway and looked down at him.

“Oh!” I said, as loud as I could. “And good luck with the Orange County ass!”

Neil chuckled nervously, ducked into his car, and drove out of my life forever.

Truman Capps readily admits that broccoli does have a rather farty odor when you steam it.