Nothin’ says d-bag like letting your clothes do the insulting. (Thanks to the SkepTick at www.wayofthewoo.blogspot.com for the heads up.)
Once a long time ago d-bags were content to wear T-shirts that said “I’m only 2 girls short of a 3-some”, “I’m not a gynecologist, but I’ll take a look”, and “It’s not a bald spot; it’s a solar panel for a sex machine”. That was a simpler age, when the threat of communism had worn off but before Islamofascism and autism had taken its place.
Not only is it OK in d-bag America to say things that would have been condemned by our grandparents, it is obligatory to wear them on your chest as a way of identifying yourself to other d-bags.
The charm of d-baggery isn’t joining a junta, persecuting innocent people just because you think you’re bigger, or even exploiting those who nurture and sustain you to prove you’re a pimp (though those are perks). No, the icing on a d-bag’s nuttsack is the ability to insult people to their faces, daring them to fight back.
And when they do fight back, you can accuse them of breaking the rules of social decorum.