A Faceful of Douchebag

I was at a party last night with The Missus’ peer group. Well-educated, well-to-do folks from the staff and faculty of the University of Christmas Island.

That’s right. I didn’t know a soul outside of the people with whom I had arrived.

But as a “Trailing Spouse”—which is what they actually refer to their colleagues’ spouses and partners as if they don’t also work for the Uni—it’s my job to suck it up, pull a smile across my face and make small-talk with strangers until I’m told we can go home.

So I’m chatting up this one guy about pop culture (the only area where I feel confident I can hold my own in such heady company) and I clink our plastic cups together and say, “Here’s to Dennis Hopper.”

The guy goes, “What, did he die? I’ve been at a conference the last couple days.” (I can tell in his mind, Conference is spelled with a capital C; somehow, I fail to be impressed anyway.)

So I go, “Yeah, just this morning I think.” And I wait for him to raise his cup to mine.

Instead, this college boy peers at me over the top of his glasses, makes a little face like he’s just smelled something icky, then looks confused and asks, “Wasn’t he a Republican, though?”

Ah douchebaggery, you wear so many faces!

I guess this guy slept through Simple Human Decency 101 and paid someone else—perhaps an under-employed Trailing Spouse—to do his homework for him.

I wanted to reply, “Yes, and Gary Coleman died this week too,” then lower my voice to a confidential level, “but I understand he was a colored boy.”

But I didn’t do that. I also didn’t mention Mr. Hopper’s passing again to anyone else at the party because I didn’t want to lose my shit and embarrass my wife.

Plus, this way I get to save the title “For a Few Douchebags More” to report on the next Left-Wing Intellectual party I attend. Should I ever be invited to another one after this post.