Column:

Beware the popped collar and Axe

By Dan Friesen

Published Feb. 5, 2008

Holy shit, children. I’ve found out where Columbia’s douchebags hang out.

Yes, I have stumbled upon the bastion of beef-heads. I’d long wondered where these skeezy creeps lurked, stalking their scantily dressed female prey, and now I know.

I think I always suspected this to be the case, but now I know without a doubt that Déjà Vu is the local depth of douche-nozzle depravity. It’s the only place I know of that has more popped collars and spiked, bleached hair tips than Tonic.

I went to the Vu this weekend to see a comedian who is definitely in my top three, Lavell Crawford. Many of you might know him as the guy who got robbed last season on “Last Comic Standing.” I, on the other hand, know him from his “Comic View” days and his CD Taking a Fat Break. Yeah, that’s right, I watch BET.

So, my friends and I went on Saturday night, and as fate would have it, that night happened to be “Party Gras.” There were signs everywhere that said “Bacardi Gras,” but for some reason, the SoCo girls were on patrol.

I grilled the bartender about this incongruence, but I never did get to the bottom of it.

It seems that the entirety of the “Party Gras” celebration was jack-offs throwing beads all over the place, and greasy dudes begging the skanks dancing on the dry bar to flash their tits.

You see, the beads could be exchanged at the bar for various high-end gifts, such as gift certificates to Moe’s or Forum 8.

If I had lived in a bubble for the past few weeks and you told me that you went to Déjà Vu and women actually flashed the crowd for a chance to get some free southwestern style cuisine and that Heath Ledger had died, I would have a hard time telling you which story surprised me more.

That goddamn bar was so full of douchebags. I would estimate that there were about 500 people in that bar, and I would say that on Sunday morning, there were at least 60 really ashamed women.

Of that, I estimate that at least 10 were victims of something bad.

Fifteen of them were over the age of 35, and the ticking of their biological clocks drowned out their voice of reason, telling them to stay away from the kid with the popped collar and pinky ring, wearing shades on the dance floor.

The other 35 were just out-and-out whores who do this every week, hooking up with a new random guy each week, never giving more thought to it than to say “not again” each Sunday.

Some women seem to be pretty much unable to tell when a guy is full of shit.

When a guy sees another guy with a tight pink shirt and a spiked faux-hawk, he knows to steer clear of that guy. Nothing good can come from engaging that tool.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ll be out at Déjà Vu on Tuesday for the proper Mardi Gras party. I’ll be the hairy guy bumrushing the dry bar, trying to flash my sac for some beads.

I know what the ladies like; they like seeing the underside of my balls.