You know, we really weren’t intending on handing out The Doucheys this year; as good of an idea as it admittedly is, we’d also like to give other awards, based on actual merit and things worth celebrating. But God damn it, Philadelphia, you’re forcing our hands. At lunch time, I’m conveying AN EMERGENCY MEETING of Phileb staff and interns to discuss the how, why and wherefore of the FIRST ANNUAL PHILEBRITY DOUCHEY AWARDS. You give us no choice! You hear me? WE LOVE YOU, BUT YOU GIVE US NO CHOICE!
What then, pray tell, was the straw that broke the camel’s back? It would have to be the services offered by something called Philly G Spot. Ponder not the images culled forth by the unfortunate phrase “Philly G Spot” (shudder), nor Philly G’s sideline work in chronicling the comings and goings at well-established “Pure Douche Zone” clubs such as Denim, G Lounge and O.N.E. Rittenhouse. Meanwhile, I’ll try not to invoke this anymore than I need to. Instead, let us muse on what kind of person — if “person” is even the word — would pay between $500 and $1000 to have paparazzi follow them around: A person, mind you, who isn’t even, say, Danny Bonaduce or Steve Obadashian. BECAUSE NO NORMAL HUMAN BEING SHOULD BE THIS INTIMATE WITH THIS LEVEL OF DESPERATION. Oh, Doucheys, we didn’t wanna do you, but fate has taken our small, sweaty palm and pressed it hard into its beast fist. The die is cast. Fuck.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 17th, 2008 at 12:37 pm.