It's almost Friday evening, and you know what that means.

Somewhere, in a moldy smelling suburban Long Island basement, Tighty Armani's ready to throw some doucheballs at "the ladiezzz".

He might even snap their necks through the sheer scrotal pull of his hat tilt.

What are you gonna do about it? Just sit there?

Well, yeah. Probably.

But there's lots else you can do. Get out there. If you're a guy, offer to buy blondie a neck-brace and a beer. If you're a girl, trip up T.A. by sticking out your foot when he heads to the bathroom to make sure his hairspike is still perky.

And so I ruminate on cute girls with neck problems. I contemplate another smoggy afternoon in smoggy-ass Los Angeles. I sip my cheap bum wine and I ponder our collective presentational displays of name-brand merit. Armani's social construction embedded within our notions of "self." Cultural capital in our market-based competitive mating pools of urban wanderlust.

And I realize the douchescrotes still haven't learned. Collars still pop. And hotts are still confused.

But then there's the flip. The reassurance whispered in my ear, tinged by alcohol and sugar rush. This too shall pass.

Or, at least, the power of cheap wine and boobie staring to soothe another week's sand grains slipping past.