I live in a tiny, quiet ‘burg, so the shouts and loud conversations that are a particular part of everyday train journeys and city life for most people usually don’t make it down my way.  Today was a different day.  Today was the Day of the Douchebag.

I get on the train, as I usually do, but I get on to hear a man berating someone.  At first I think it’s a phone conversation. Because, most of the time (in this digital age) when someone’s going off on another person they prefer to not do it face to face.  I was astounded when I got off the train a few stops later that this man was not on the phone but speaking to his girlfriend; then out shuffles this man’s girlfriend.  (Don’t get me wrong about the ‘shuffles’ comment this girl was no slouch- this chick was B-E-A-utiful.) They had managed to stop fighting for the two minutes it takes to exit the train/station, but you could see on his face he wasn’t done telling her off.

I learned the truth of my initial assessment when I saw the two of them at the pub about 30 minutes later.  I stopped in for lunch.  He apparently stopped in for a few drinks and some verbal abuse.

In the end, I overheard (eavesdropped) what the argument was about.  Apparently, she had shown a nasty text he sent to her to one of her girlfriends while they were having a row and he was wicked pissed about it.

Okay, I get it dude, you are pissed that your girlfriend vented your personal problems to someone other than you.  You’re mad that she shared your ‘issues’ with one of her mates.   Which, sorry, women are wont to do from time to time.  But then you proceed to call her out, repeatedly, in a public forum for strangers to hear?  Hypocrite much?

He seems to let it go, asks her if she wants some crisps.  She says yes.  He eats all the crisps.  Happily. Not sharing them with her. Shithead.

Non-sharing-crisp-motherfucker.

After he finished the crispy deliciousness, he then starts in on her again. He’s having a proper piss fit about the same old shit that he was going on about twenty minutes before!  Seriously, asshat?  You deny your lady some crispy cheese ‘n onion delights and then have another go at her over something you seemingly resolved?

Fuck off.

I wanna smack you.  I want to shake your lady out of her lack-of-cheese-and-onion-goodness coma.  Because she’s sitting there, obviously hungry nodding and ‘okaying’ your tosspottery, like a good little lamb. You. Absolute. Fucktard.

If she was smart, she’d tell you to take your text message bullshit and stick it right up your overly tight ass.  She’d let you know you’re a cockhole.  She’d use all the swear words, wit and charm her momma gave her to leave you sitting there crying over your pint to your friends about ‘the one who got away’, cos you’re a fecking imbecile.  But she doesn’t.  Sigh.

She forgives you…cries her tears and leaves with you.  Ugh.

You, Mister Douchebag Boyfriend, must have a ridiculously huge penis, or have retardedly specialised lingual skills.  Because any sane woman would need a proper excuse to put up with your sorry ass.
For reals. You blonde-bearded poopchute.

May you crap razorblades for the next four days.  As it were.