The Broadway Douchebag

LA does not have a monopoly on people who are annoyingly eager for stardom.

You see the zesty baristas hoping some Hollywood big shit will discover them as they wait for their reverse osmosis filtered cap with .854 pumps of caramel syrup. That's a pure shit PA waiting on that cap, bro. If you are not swapping genetic ooze, you will not be discovered in this town, no matter how dope you think you look wrapped in a green smock.

Yet, New York has its insufferable asses as well, albeit of a different sort. Among the mix are the movers and shakers on Wall Street who went long the financial stocks just before they started shitting chunky writedowns. Then there are the depressive intellectuals, writers and poets forever waiting on Knopf, who make up the city's network of criminally unhelpful booksellers.

But there is another pustule among the people of New York: The Broadway Douchebag or BD.

The BD is no pussy when it comes to being gay. With one airkiss, his glossy lips can trounce ordinary fags. He is wildly contemptuous of metrosexuals because they only flirt with gayness (though they find common ground in driving v-dubs). As for "hets," the BD believes they are as evil as an ipod that doesn't include the "Phantom" and "Les Mis" soundtracks.

At some point in your life, you knew a burgeoning Broadway Douchebag. He was that guy back in the 7th grade who excitedly remembered everyone's lines in the school play (especially the singing parts). He'd also sashay into the boys' locker-room whistling a potpourri of showtunes. His locker was the one wallpapered with Bop Magazine centerfolds of Kirk Cameron in awesomely tight acid wash jeans. He even bragged about singing and dancing on Star Search.

Even as an adult, the Broadway Douchebag boasts that back in junior high his gaydar sensed Doogie Howser made a fabulous candidate for sleepovers and wrestling matches.

Should you wonder where you can find a BD, the answer is Xanadu, baby!