Five reasons why Guy Fieri should drive to Douchebagistan and never come back
1. Guy Fieri reminds me of the douchiest parts of the 1990s I'd rather forget.
I can understand why Guy Fieri was popular in the late '90s -- it was a time of shiny shirts, Night at the Roxbury clubbing, neon laser-colored melon martinis, men who wore seashell necklaces when they'd never been to Hawaii, Limp Bizkit and women exploring the idea that friends with bennies could work for them when they didn't want to buy the bull -- and his shee-it -- but get the meat stick for free. Guys like Guy Fieri were so my type in those days. Their brash, sweaty charms and shallow dude-brah jokes were aphrodisial: Their semi-regularly washed, tousled hair styles, flame-decorated running shoes and chunky gold guido jewelry earned my undivided attentions, and I could always spot them in a dimly-lit room because they had sparkly rhinestone dragons on their shirts.
But I grew up and moved on to live in the 2000s.
Watching Guy Fieri gives me PTSDD (post traumatic sick of douches disorder) and every time I hear him speak, I'm flashing back to some ghost-of-douches-past convo about how "last night was DOPE!" or "Imma get my grub on, brah!"
The beauty of the past is that after enough time has passed, we can all look back with fondness and cherish our memories without breaking into hives. We cannot ever have tender past recollections of Guy Fieri if he refuses to GTFA, though. His douchedom continues to live in the present, and haunt the omnivorous landscape like a sphincter-specter.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's eve, sir? For thou art a douche.