Upon entering the nightclub, I was thrilled to find myself surrouded by young males attired in half-way unbuttoned button-up shirts, popped collars, useless ties, beanies, scarves, fadoras and a variety of designer $40 V-Neck t-shirts purchased at local Abercrombie&Fitch, Hollister, American Eagle, Von Dutch and Ed Hardy retailers. Success! I was in the right place...
My study proved to be fruitful. Among my most captivating findings: the D-bag's mating call ("Yeah we're having a kickback back at our pad after we bounce here, you and your friends should totally cruise on by..."), the manner in which the D-bag displays his dominance over the rest of the herd ("Yeah I'm raking in at least 100 g's now..."), and the D-bag at play ("Yeah I'm all about the weekends. I'm a weekend warrior! Who's down for some fuckin' Jagerbombs?!")
The D-bag was clearly a master of his pompous domain. To my amazement, the local females were completley enchanted by them. But what was it that the finer sex found so irresistable? Perhaps it was the plastic smile, the exorbitant amount of hair product and cologne, or the ever-so-clever sense of humor ("I'm gonna head to bathroom, don't slip anything in my drink while I'm gone... actually, please do.")
One noteworthy deficiency of the D-bag that intrigued me was his striking ineptitude when it came to quality music, which often left him bewildered and unsure of himself ("Fuck yeah! ...Sex Pistols!" - upon hearing the opening riffs to "Blitzkrieg Bop" ...by The Ramones.) However, when more familiar tunes were played, the D-bag was naturally in his element ("Fuck yeah, Lil' Wayne!")
Ah, the D-bag: an enigma wrapped in a paradox... wrapped in a bag of douche.