The Douchebag-beard
It was the beard.
That’s how it all began; with a Douchebag beard. You know the kind you’ll find on a Nooblaani, Twitlani, or Dickchandani, on any given Friday night; in one of the 5000 clubs in Bandra. Carved with a spirit level by His holiness Lord Jhulelal himself; when the Douche-bag beard enters the club, you know it’s not the regular douche. It’s the Maximus Douchias of the royal legion himself. Though knock-kneed, he is an athlete of the first order, he does shadow MMA with society’s 80 year old guard till follow-me-home lamps of Daddy’s 5-series die out. The Douchebag-beard is a closet DJ too, but when he comes out, the World wishes he had stayed in, but the World is too timid to tell him for obvious reasons. You see, every time the Douche-bag beard opens his mouth and spouts the Doucheland Anthem (read ‘Abbey @%#$&’), somewhere down under, a baby koala does coprophagy.
So, yes, the Douche-bag beard entered the club. He was in the zone now. The same crowd which loathes a Virar local was busy rubbing skin against skin; cologne mixed with cologne, hairy arms velcroed with fortnight old forearm barbs and ignored upper lips. Curly chest mops entangled with straightened & dyed ones. Dancing stilettos dug into faux leather upholstery, as coitally deprived marathi bouncers watched with nervous clenched rectums. There were universes and galaxies and gated communities in 6 x 6 inch spaces. The Douche-bag beard moved like an ichha-dhari nag, through this bipedal grass. A human Tetris, turning, fitting, discarding, accepting, armpits, arches of the back, matching limb for limb. Eyeing, scanning, sizing all Sarah Connors and the maushis in the house, the Doucheminator made its way to the bar, and photo-bombed a bunch of dead-eyed pouting sirens. It was an emotional moment. An unparalleled homecoming in the suburban Gomorrah, punctuated further by his war cry, Abhi toh party shuru hui hai!
In the spirit of liberty and freedom, the Douchebag beard started the ritual of base-jumping into plunging necklines. The closest ones first. Indiscriminate, all loving, all serving nuzzles. Transcending race and colour, Fabindia kurtis, Zara tops, Forever 21s, and Masaba Gupta’s bhola ka maal-induced fashion ramblings. Along the way, the Douchebag beard left quite a few red rashes and broke Baumgartner’s record too. Everything was going fine as per the Douchepuraan’s first Adhaya; the next chapter was about explaining the business plan on some inner thighs with the index finger. Alas, this evening, that part of his luck had gone to gaon, just like his 80 year old society guard. And in that vulnerable moment, just when he got back from the Nalasopara end of the neckline to Walkeshwar, his cheeks said ‘Kem chho’ to a palm coming at him with the velocity of a Hero Puch. With ears still ringing, the Douchebag beard touched his cheek and looked up. The slap was soul hemorrhaging as it came from a kin; yet another Douchebag beard.
“Oh…@#$%% …tere…saath hai…Sorry bro”, he managed to assemble.
“Bro hoga tera baap %@$#”, said the incoming haymaker.
Douchebag beard vs Douchebag beard. Ting ting ting. Friday night live.
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The crowd parted like ocean, with one Douchebag beard Moses on each end.
6×6 inch spaces shrunk to 3×3. Dancing stilettos stepped down from faux leather gingerly. Forced by an archaic chivalry wiring, some chest mops pulled dyed-straightened-hair heads, further into them. And last but not the least, snapped away from their existential reverie, Marathi bouncers unclenched their rectums. Suddenly the Universe held meaning for them. All the boiled eggs, all the protein powder from Bhavnagar, all the countless grunts in Pathare’s gym, were for this one moment. This one night. They tottered towards the mosh-pit on matchstick legs, smelling of Fogg mixed with talcum powder, muhajirs in the cloud of Gucci Pour Homme, Chanel no. 5 and two metric tonnes of @#$%..
The dead-eyed Vishkanyas screamed at a cat disemboweling frequency. Buttons flew out of torn collars, seek-kebabs flew out of the platter, scalps got pulled, and the Douchebag beards passionately exchanged hair-gel and hair wax. By the time the bouncers arrived, both the Douchebag beards had chugged a tower full of bloody merry, litres of which was still seeping from what used to be their respective noses. Or so it seemed.
Like the famed tea-leaves, gathered from lush mountainsides in Henan province by virgins, both the Douchebag beards were picked up by the Pathare bouncers.
Gently placed outside, exhausted and wounded, they looked at each other with bloodied collars. Now that the shirt buttons were out of the way, their belly buttons were smelling the salty carter road air and were smiling. For lack of patience, a face and a shirt to wait for their 5-series, they hailed Auto-rickshaws. A pity, there would be no shadow MMA tonight, and the beemers would just have to follow-them-home.
As the rickshaw meters turned and clinked, they called out to each other, and parted on a healthy nutritional note, “Maa ka doodh piya hai, toh ruk idhar…@#$%'”
Sadly, there was none of that in the drinks menu for the night.
It was the beard. That’s how it all ended.
With a crimson, Douche-bag beard.
