You Might Be Married To A Douche Bag If....

Your husband is walking in front of me at the entrance to the Union Square subway station. How do I know he's your husband? Because he's on his cell phone apparently trying to get out of the doghouse. "BABE! BABE!" he shouts into his stupid cell phone, doing nothing short of strolling down the stairs that I would normally hustle down.

I would be willing to overlook the fact that he's wearing a Yankee's jersey if he were an 8-year-old or an actual Yankee, but he isn't. He's a major douche bag who is walking extra slow while SCREAMING INTO HIS CELL PHONE THAT HE'S LOSING SERVICE apparently unaware that yeah, that's what happens when you walk UNDERGROUND.

I'm tempted to push him down the stairs, but I'm momentarily blinded by the fact that he's wearing more gold chains than Mr. T before he gave up his chains for charity, gold chains that nestle into his black neck hair, and perfectly compliment his awesome rub-on tan. I know it's a rub-on tan because underneath the hair and the gold chains you can actually see marks where his clumsy fingers tried to rub in the bronzer. Normally I wouldn't have noticed such minutiae but THAT is how slow your husband was walking down the stairs while shouting to you over his cell phone. THAT is how big of a douche your husband is.

Now your fake-tanned husband has hung up his cell phone, and is meandering slowly in front of the subway turnstiles, blocking the influx of sweaty people who are JUST TRYING TO GET HOME and not dodge body contact with YOUR husband, who, by the way, is not only wearing a Yankee's jersey and a pile of braided gold chains, but is also wearing khaki shorts and blinding white sneakers.

If this description resembles the man you wake up next to in the morning, the man who gave you his last name and a mini-van full of gold-chain wearing kids, then congratulations: you married a douche bag.