(His friends were concerned he might be taking the whole ’spirit of the lion’ thing a tad far, but really, he was just looking for an excuse to nom on a zebra corpse.)

Be vewy vewy quiet. We’re hunting douchebags. Astute reader Mif alerted me to this little fashion innovation hipster monkeys are calling Spirit Hoods, and thought I might be able to dissect some live human trash for the entertainment of civilized folk. Spirit Hoods are hats you usually see on red faced, crying babies in forced winter-pastoral family photographs, upset because their parents are aiming the scary flashing box at them instead of attending to their itchy soiled diapers – only they’re for 20-somethings with loft apartments in Williamsburg and a post-colonial soft spot where their concept of spirituality ought to be. There’s a real festival-going culture revolving around these faux-fur costume pieces your 9 year-old would call “a little gay” if you suggested he wear it for halloween, and they even have a blog that – - well, here, check it out:

In a bubble of collective excitement and passion our Sasquatch festival tribe duly named, “Sasq-whaaat?!” set out for the epic 3-day journey ahead.  Our tribe consisted of two Pandas, a Polar Bear, and a Zebra.  I rocked the Panda with my best friend Kristina and together, we became the Sasquatch “Panda Girls” to other festivalgoers that captured our wild moments throughout the days.

How fun! Watch out Zebra, we’re gonna eat you! Haha jay-kay! Somebody needs to throw an enema party after this! I swear, there is not enough ecstasy in the world to justify this shit. Unless there’s some fashion minority using these things as gateway articles for the furry curious, but when those freaks come around all I see is an extended sentence for hate crime in my future. But, these are the people we’re dealing with here. If you have a couple hundos just laying around not going to your favorite charity (you’ve got enough pot to last you into early August), are .05 Native American with no concept of their culture outside of scalping and peace pipes – and if the phrase “hand wash cold air dry only” gives you a huge chubby – maybe the Spirit Hood is for you. If that’s not incentive enough, each hood has its own spiritual profile, so you’ll know you’re picking the dismembered pate of the animal that best suits your personality. Or your leggings.* Whatever.

Red Wolf: Loyal » Social » Teacher

“Those with a wolf spirit are fiercely loyal creatures. They are team players and work well in groups. The wolf is a social animal and a great communicator, often teaching those around it.”

I’ll bet this little wolf works well in groups. In fact, I think I saw this chick in a gang bang video a couple weeks ago. It’s easy to be a team player when your adorable little asshole is getting perpetual tongue baths from people too paralyzed by your subjective shtuppability to tell you you’re a condescending little twat that’s never had an original idea in her life. The fortune cookie spiritual profile sort of falls apart when you realize the company’s main customer base will be frumpy chicks with horn rimmed glasses that never developed social skills beyond squealing about kitties – if not full-on level ten half-orc shamans that want to add a bit of realism to their mothers’ finished basement, but I’m willing to run with it. That face looks like they just threatened to cancel Grey’s Anatomy, or whatever the idiots of your gender watch now. If your perfect, hairless curves don’t convince them to keep it on the air, the addition of the impossibly colored head of a dangerous predator might convince them you are just crazy enough to do something about it. “This wolf head is stained bright red with the blood of the bitch that married Edward Cullen instead of me! Cross me and feel my ambiguously sexy wrath!” This product should come with a massive disclaimer: “It’s not the hat that’s giving you the erection, it’s the megababe we got to wear it. This product will only serve to make your awkward, mousy little girlfriend look like she has the mind of a 2 year-old. Go rent a porno and try to get her to do some of the freaky stuff. That will work out better for everyone.”

The male wolf is notoriously indiscriminate with spray tan, and refuses to apologize for that.

Leopard: Intelligent » Free Spirited » Leader

“The Leopard Spirit is able to blend in to many different circumstances with ease. People with this spirit find comfort in many different social situations yet also appreciate being alone. Often territorial and protective the Leopard naturally commands respect, without needing to demand it.”

When I see topless simulated fellatio on child’s candy, I think respect. The kind of respect commanded – but certainly not demanded – by future dead-eyed housewives that regularly fall down the stairs or bang their heads on doors. The kind of woman that should have t-shirts made that say, ‘He respects me so much that he couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t correct me for getting all mouthy. I really do get mouthy. It’s my own fault,” for the amount of times it comes out of her mouth. I would commend you for recognizing the subtle difference between ‘command’ and ‘demand,’ but I just realized you put your hat on before your shirt, and that’s something only retards and strippers do.

If the leopard easily blends into any circumstances and social situations, why does this guy on the right look like he is constipated with regret that this picture can not be untaken? His facial expression just screams, “I just lost my last bet, because I am going to commit some serious suicide when this is over.” It’s probably for the best man, but take off the Spirit Hood first. The only thing a mom likes less than finding their kid hanging from the curtain rod, dead from asphyxiation in a masturbatory experiment gone awry, is finding out her son is gay.

Zebra: Strength » Balance » Individuality

“The Zebra‘s spirit is unbridled and free. A social animal, the Zebra thrives in groups, able to blend in without losing its individuality. Individuals with the Zebra spirit are often the protectors of loved ones and tribe members.”

Nothing says inconspicuous like a hot chick in a stupid hat. Remember when James Bond wore all that makeup so he would look Asian, and nothing in the world could have made him more of an unbelievably honky candidate for a bamboo manicure? That’s you. That’s you blending in. I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though. I’ve watched the Discovery channel. Your ass is destined for a mauling by your girlfriend, the one who took too much acid and will soon be howling “The Circul uv Live” with her mouth full of your toned, tanned rump. I bet you feel like kind of a dick telling your “loved ones and tribe members” to count on you for some kind of protection when your only role in life is to be part of a striped buffet on the Serengeti.

Black Cat: Luck » Independence » Wisdom

“The Black Cat spirit is one of mystery and intrigue. Some say a Black Cat can bring good luck. Others say the Black Cat brings mischief – you decide! One with the Black Cat spirit might seem unpredictable to others, but in reality they know exactly what they are up to.” [That last sentence beat my brain senseless with 700 stupid sticks]

No. No, I think I’d like to know beforehand whether the outward expression of my spirit animal is going to bring myself and others good luck, or if its going to result in finding myself raped and beaten in a filthy gutter. If you could just throw a clarification bone to your product description, because I don’t want to show up at Sarah’s Halloween party in lingerie and cat ears only to get some kind of STD. The bunny ears I got last year must have been the chlamydia kind, and I don’t want to get burned again.

Seriously though, I’m worried about this chick. Either someone just turned on the vacuum, or the cat magic didn’t work, and the photographers are subjecting her to vuvuzela torture. Maybe she’s being haunted by the spirit of the zebra she killed to make that skirt, but she looks like she’s in some serious pain. Eh, that’s unpleasant to think about. Let’s just all assume she’s in heat, and start poking her bajingo with Q-Tips.

Brown Bear: Brave » Curious » Gentle

“The brown bear spirit represents bravery and strength. People with this spirit tend be curious and playful creatures. Although very affectionate, they won’t hesitate to protect their own.”

“Um, excuse me, that’s fabulous bravery and strength. Rowr! I’m going to eat your picnic food, you silly campers. You should have strung them up in a tree like they teach you in Cub Scouts. Oooo, I made a pun, how fun!” Jesus, these Spirit Hoods might replace assless chaps as the new “lifestyle choice” garment. I mean, do what you want, just realize that when you click the ‘check out’ button, you are making a statement. I bet if we saw a picture of this model anywhere else, he would look like a first string lumberjack pussy pounder. He doesn’t even wax his chest, which is rare in the sissified world of modern male fashion iconography. But wearing that hat? It makes me think you’re taking the secret language of the homosexual scene just a tad literally.

Despite the fact that these spiritual profiles as a whole contain like five facts total, pulled randomly out of a hat and mixed and matched, you have to admit they probably fit pretty well with the kind of people that would buy these things. Just once, though, I want somebody to have the balls to take this all the way. I’m envisioning Spirit Game Preserve. Can you picture it? You pay a hundred bucks to get in, and you can have the bloody scalp of anything you can kill. The hunting knife is extra, but you get a neat rubber key chain made in China as a souvenir. You can even sell the scalps of the visitors the lions and leopards got the best of, right there in the gift shop. They deserved it anyway, for thinking they could wear the skin of an animal without earning it. Faux fur is stupid, because it suggests some kind of decadence that isn’t really there. I say, let’s make real fur politically correct again, but you can only wear it if you killed it with a blade, and ate its heart to absorb its courage and honor, Michel de Montaigne stylee. In the hizzouse. Nerdy white kids can have that now, right? You brothas are done with it? Aight, cool.

... acceptable.

*Ladies, leggings are not pants. Maybe with some knee length boots and a really long t-shirt,  you can get away with it without looking like your brain had a big, sloppy wet-fart when you were getting dressed that morning. I’m not opposed to showing some thigh. In any other circumstances, however, I will assume you have given up on life, are on your way to jump off something really high, and your stereo is up for grabs.

(Story-board from Under The Smallpox Sheets, a period piece. The dialogue will be something like, “What are you doing with that Maize?”)

So much of the Internet pornography library is devoted to what we will call “Erotic Schadenfreude,” the feeling watching somebody suffer can offer another person. But where can a scumbag go when he’s seen the same stable of lesser beings beaten over and over with the same riding crop, or a redundancy of the same humiliated losers in tutus watching their purported wives get boned? Where does the jaded, discriminating erotica enthusiast go when the rape scenes seem forced and insincere and every french maid on the planet seems to have been spanked? And seriously, does anybody find those ridiculous leather and metal and latex suits sexy anymore?

I have an idea. It’s not a long term solution, but something to hold us over until the next genius of perversion invents a genre that will sprain wrists for at least a decade. I call it “Disillusionment Porn,” and you are going to spend hours in the company restroom thinking about it. It is all about the moment when you see all innocence drain from someone’s face in the course of thirty seconds, or the horror of having a life-long belief ripped from the very bowels of your soul and the resulting mess. Only disillusionment porn will take it to the next level, and use sex to make sure each subject’s internal concept of virtue and goodness is reduced to the part of the animal the dogs won’t eat off the floor.

Here are some treatments I’ve devised to give you, the reader, an idea of what I mean, and a starting block for producers in case they want to gank my idea and give me moneys. You’ll notice that several of them will fit neatly into various sub-categories and niche genres like granny porn and incest. We’ll start with the obvious:

Holly Bears the Frown – Setting: A Catholic school classroom, December. Holly (played by a member of the barely 18 set, I’m not going to jail for this) is very excited for Christmas this year, and expounds to her classmates all the goodies she hopes to receive from Santa Claus for being such a good girl. Her classmates taunt her for believing in Santa Claus at an age when she is clearly able to develop curves and get breast implants. They point out all of the reasons Santa cannot exist, and tell her it is actually her parents putting the gifts under the tree. Holly’s eyes widen, and begin to tear up, her lip starts to tremble; she is clearly devastated by the news. Her classmates then bend her over a desk and take turns fucking her, using her tears of disillusionment as lube, as she retreats into herself, contemplating why anyone chooses good over evil without the omnipresent moral compass of a fat slave driver with flying reindeer. (Alternate idea: “White Christmas.” Same scenario, only all of Sally’s classmates have big black cocks exclusively. I know, it’s niche.)

Somewhere Obscene - Setting: American Suburb. Throughout Dick’s courtship of Jane, she has been an attentive, loving companion. She cooks delicious meals, and even cleans his shoddy bachelor pad while he’s at work. She’s even a pretty good lay. He sees no reason he shouldn’t marry her. Fast forward to nine months after the marriage. The house hasn’t been clean in weeks, they’ve eaten Taco Bell every day, and Jane’s pregnancy has started to show. A new round of layoffs is coming at the office, and Dick’s mother-in-law is coming to live the spare room that was originally designated as his office. It has all been coming for months, but never before the moment his shitty, cheap gin runs out while surveying the new nursery does the magnitude of how screwed he is hits him. He falls to his knees, yells “WHY?!” at the ceiling, before his mother-in-law’s Mahjong group comes in and rapes him with strap-ons.

Play My Guy - Setting: Santa Monica. Jimmy spent his entire childhood playing video games, learning the ins and outs of every aspect of the industry, forsaking the outside world, a social life, and his volunteer work. His mother said he was wasting his time and that it would lead to nothing, and Jimmy was determined to prove her wrong. One day, his hours of gaming paid off and he landed his dream job: a video game tester at Blizzard headquarters. He would be able to play his games all day — and get paid to do it! On his first day on the job, he soon realized that being a video game tester amounts to hours and hours of tedious, mind-numbing work, playing the same levels over and over again looking for minute, insignificant glitches. At the end of the day, he is tired and disillusioned. As he picks up his coat to leave, his mother bursts into his office dressed like Bowser and power rapes him while yelling “I told you so!” over and over again.

Modern Magdalene – Setting: Wherever, US. Sheena is a good Christian, and wants only to witness Christ’s goodness to anyone that gives her an opportunity. All of her acquaintances think she’s a pious little twat. When, at one time, Sheena quotes the gospel verse in which Jesus says that people are blessed who persevere in their belief in him even when people challenge them or make fun of them, one of her friends points out the unbelievable ridiculousness of that statement, and all of the color runs out of her face in one moment of terrifying clarity. She then turns to vile Requiem For a Dream style prostitution because there really is no reason to try anymore, and her friends like her now because of what she will do for a quarter and half of a three day old tuna sandwich.

Too Old to Rock and Roll - A DJ whose life has just moved up from Bat Mitzvahs to running the local karaoke bar thinks he has done pretty well for himself until a patron points out to him that his artist directory for “Tull, Jethro” makes him an insufferable retard who should not be trusted with dispensing music to anyone. Disillusioned, not only by the fact that Jethro Tull is a band and not a person as he believed his whole life, but by the fact that his life’s ambitions have been nothing but fraud, the DJ quits his job, loses his studio apartment, and ends up homeless ally’s new prison bitch. (Sorry, the first part of that actually happened recently, and I wanted to express my dissatisfaction.)

Fail to the Chief - Setting: Washington D.C., the White House. An idealistic young senator is elected President of the United States under a platform of progressive reform, only to find out that the system of special interest groups, campaign contributors, and incompetent financial management techniques he has inherited will force him to deal with war and depression instead of the issues he promised his constituents he would work on. Staring down the barrel of four years of declining faith in Humanity, and the ultimate powerlessness of his office, the President huddles fetally on his desk sucking his thumb, while an endless train of pundits and politicians is run on his ass, each thrust pushing him closer and closer to the fabled Red Button that will finally put him out of his misery.

If you made it this far in one sitting with both hands above the keyboard, you have more restraint than me, good reader. Remember, the trick is to make the sex angle the insult that compounds the injury, and it is always better if they cry. When I win all kinds of Woodies for this, and they shower me with more money and bitches than I know what to do with, I promise to hire a team of monkeys to continue to provide quality Scumbag Style entertainment.