My brother had this girlfriend once who liked to play the role of a super hippie poser douche.
I don't have anything against any of those things individually. Things that are super? Super! Hippies? If they use deodorant and don't wreak of too much patchouli, okay! Posers? Rarely tolerable, but sometimes entertaining! Douches? I personally feel that vaginal lavage is unhealthy, and I've never been comfortable with the idea of having an enema, so, no! That's where this girlfriend fell short. She was a douche.
I laboured over the decision about whether or not to use the word douche. I don't like using gender-related nouns as a means to insult people. I prefer not to use words like twat, prick, or boob to describe how much of a loser someone is. It degrades the sex to which these parts are attached. I worried that using the word douche might malign those of us sporting vaginas, but upon some cursory research, I found this definition for the word: "A stream of water, often containing medicinal or cleansing agents, that is applied to a body part or cavity for hygienic or therapeutic purposes." For the purposes of this entry, we will pretend that The Free Dictionary is the last word on language. I have decided that since douche refers to a treatment used on people of any sex and does not refer to a particular body part, I feel comfortable tossing it around to describe my brother's ex-girlfriend.
So, my brother had this girlfriend, and she was a total douche. I wanted to like her, because my brother liked her, and she was all kinds of things things that I liked. For example, she taught theatre to little kids at a community centre. No, scratch that. I have rarely gotten along well with actors or their hangers-on. She did have this really engaging way of talking so that it always sounded like she was telling you a fascinating story. Oh, wait, no. That was because she was either inflating something for shock value or lying outright. Okay, I have it. She had this really cute, medium-length hair that bounced around when she moved. I always wanted hair like that, and that was about all I liked about her, but I was going to keep giving it all the effort I could muster, because my brother liked her.
At breakfast, she poured orange juice that she had brought for everyone to try. "It's organic," she said.
When I complimented her on her shirt, she said, "It's organic cotton!"
Then, she gave someone in the family a pair of beeswax candles. As the family member unwrapped them, she said, "They're organic." When the family member looked at her quizzically , she said, "The bees were raised in organic fields, so the wax is organic." I said, "How did they keep the bees from flying into neighbouring, non-organic fields?", because I felt like being an asshole.
At supper, when she brought out some bread to share with us, I was cringing before the platter hit the table. It's organic, I thought. I know it is. Her shoes are made out of some kind of animal-friendly organic pleather, her hair products are made out of organic hemp. She is going to say it again. I know it.
She passed me a slice of the bread after three other slices had already been passed around, so I was hopeful that we might just be able to eat of the earth's great bounty in ignorant peace, but no.
"It's organic!" she said, grinning at me like this was the best thing ever.
I've got nothing against things being organic. I like organic. I'm all for it. It was just grating as all hell when the first thing she had to say about anything she was responsible for purchasing was "It's organic!" I wanted to bloody well shove her organic whatsits somewhere dank and feel my fist hit her inorganic teeth.
In hindsight, I know that she was young and, therefore, more easily exciteable, and that maybe I should have extended her a little more leeway as far her being a complete douche went, but this had to do with my brother's welfare, and I wasn't crazy about him dating such a complete douche, especially a complete douche who could reduce me to shallowly making fun of her roots where the dye job had grown out, her organic henna dye job.
Luckily, my brother is now married to a very different sort of woman who is in no way, shape, or form a douche. What a relief. Especially since we can eat, dress, and gift in peace at family gatherings without having to establish whether or not each thing is, indeed, carbon-based.