#dramatic foil

“He  remained in this state of vacant and peaceful contemplation until the tower clock struck the third morning hours.  he was still alive when the world started to become brighter outside the window.  Then his head involuntarily sank down altogether, and his last breath issued faintly from his nostrils,” (49). Or at least, that’s what I imagine.  

Hi, this is Gregor’s sister, Grete!  I found this post half completed and thought I should publish it.  I never knew he had a blog... its pretty depressing. 

“... the sister, who had taken work as a salesgirl, was learning stenography and French at night so that she might possibly get a better job some day,” (39)

I’m finding the contrast between older SHIELD agents and younger SHIELD agents very striking. Because all of them are very loyal but older SHIELD agents (think May and Coulson and Bobbi) are loyal to ideals where younger ones (think Skye and Fitz and Simmons) are loyal to people.

And it occurs to me that probably the older SHIELD agents were like that once, too, but now they’re okay keeping secrets from and lying to people they love in the name of what they believe to be, or perhaps what they believe should be, the principles of SHIELD.

Installment eleven of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

The other night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type K, “Dramatic Foil.”

The psychology of the Dramatic Foil hinges on the presence of a Boobytrap. For some reason, this gent decided to take his lady friend to the club. And since this particular lady is a Boobytrap, she's not too interested in being there, and he's not too interested in being there: he's interested in upping his chances with the lady he brought.

It's been awhile since I had a new douchebag to catalogue, but the Night of the Living Douchebags highlighted this specimen for me. We were overrun with Boobytraps of all sexual preferences and orientations. This guy came in with some of them.

The Dramatic Foil isn't actually interested in the girls on stage—and heaven forbid he should be, because that would ruin his brilliant plan. You see, he believes that by bringing his girl to the club, he can ego-boost her and use us as playing field for comparisons.

"Oh baby, you're so much hotter than that girl."

"She doesn't even do anything for me. I'm only looking at you."

"You dance way better than her!"

"I'm glad you're not like these girls. You're different."

You get the idea. I'm sure the tactic sounds better when some of the words are drowned out by enigmatic thumping bass lines. Anyway, he's trying to impress her, and it doesn't do so well with impressing us, especially since neither of them want to be there and neither of them want to tip. Awkward!

[Douchebag Count: OVERWHELMING. || $hift Grade: B-]

Okay, so, according to Strippers On The Internet, there was some kind of bizarro time warp where all of Saturday's usual douches multiplied times 3 and came out Sunday night instead.

This was particularly frustrating because it was raining really bad where I'm at and just getting to the House was a smile from the powers that be. I don't know what makes people incapable of driving in rain. I had a moderate PTSD issue over it.

But I breathed, and I survived, and I went to work, and I scored 4 dances right off the bat (ever have your dancer 'sixth sense' kick in and you can just kinda 'feel' who to walk up to? I love that) along with some champagne, so I thought it'd be a good night.