Caught on Tape: The 10 Types of Dude You Don't Want to Be

If I vomit on my friend's shirt and then my friend tackles me, causing us to crash into a swimming pool and it's pretty sweet (the resulting splash is), and afterward she sees how tight my friend and I are, because we come out of the water with hair slicked back and our arms around each other, already teasing in the familiar ways that might make the blond girl in the sundress and glasses I've been peeking at all night see how tight we are, my vomited-on friend and I, tight in that way she associates with kindheartedness, and if the water washes away the vomit and the red embarrassment from my cheeks, will she fall for me a little bit? Will she think that, because I'm forgoing everything that would readily signify cool—composure, the ability to keep down 12 ounces of liquid, shirts that aren't made by Billabong—will she think that I'm actually cool, in the way that cool can often mean doing what's not cool, like irony? My heart's strained against my ribs and I'm sweating. I can see myself reflected in the lenses of her glasses that sit atop her slightly large nose, a quirk I'm already seeing as beautiful. Did this work? Am I cool?

No.

Even if he were gifted with all the game in the world, the stout and balding and kilted man shouting "Lightning bolt!" while hurling wads of fake magic at a man dressed like an ogre has a steep uphill climb away from being that guy. Put him in street clothes but you can't make his palms stop sweating or the stories of his fantastic exploits from tumbling out of his mouth in a quivering voice pitched uncomfortably high for every non-deaf person within earshot. You're just trying to do a keg stand and this guy's all in your left ear with paladins and chaotic good while your boy is screaming "Drink!" in your right. And it's like, what are you gonna do? You're upside down with guys you don't know all that well holding your ankles, just trying to ball.

Chocolatepanther, the intriguing moniker of the man with the video camera, has one thing going for him: Sergio may be a kitchen pisser but he at least isn't a belligerent drunk. Because if he had been this would have stopped being a harmless night in the life of the charming lush Sergio and his best friend Chocolatepanther (think a City Guys style sitcom, but real raw instead of neutered a la Tyler Perry), and turned very quickly into: "Yo Sergio, I think you're pissing in the kitchen," at which point crazy eyes Sergio cocks his head to the side, icegrills the lens and then roars "Am I?" right as he turns his flow on CP and splatters him with urine. "AM I PISSING IN THE KITCHEN, CHOCOLATEPANTHER? OR AM I PISSING IN YOUR FACE?"

The differences between various permutations of that guy, in this case the kitchen pisser vs. the wild pisser, are scary subtle.

On a roulette wheel of awful response one might have following flinging a drunk down a full flight of stairs, resulting in the loss of consciousness on the drunk's part and possibly irreparable damage done to the drunk's neck, which is the worst?

"Dude."

"I didn't think that was gonna happen."

"He shouldn't've been fuckin breakin my house apart."

"Let's just give him a pillow, dude."

"Don't move his neck."

"I was watchin him fall and I don't think he really hit his head that hard."

What's your pick for today's proof that people are the worst? In the huddle around the body, are you the guy suggesting a pillow? Or are you the guy who carefully watched the arch the drunk cut across the air as he tumbled like a rag doll to the very bottom, noting that he didn't "hit his head that hard"?

The biggest unanswered question here is whether or not she is a fixture of his act, if whether or not every night that he drinks a fifth of vodka and then takes to the stage to DJ another soul-deadening Bar Mitzvah or wedding he is accompanied by his faithful assistant, whose entire purpose is to let him smack away at her breasts as an aberrant sort of therapy to the awfulness that is his means of living, being the worst wedding DJ ever. If that's the case then we need entirely different ways to categorize human beings. Just throw out everything we know about psychology and sociology and start from scratch.

What's a possible outcome for five dudes, all striving for that guy status in some drab, Senior Week-style rental's kitchen?

Possibly, these five guys later smashed their souped-up Hyundai into a divider while Finger Eleven poured loudly from the car speakers embedded in the doors. As a result of the crash, the wiring became compromised in such a way that made it impossible for the arriving paramedics to turn off the CD player, which had become stuck playing the Canadian group's smash single "Paralyzer" in a loop consisting entirely of the opening riff between 0:05 and 0:08 seconds. Weirdly enough, this riff, pounding and scraping the insides of the paramedics' brains like the hooked tool dentists use to remove plaque from teeth, eroded away the sanity of the paramedics so effectively that no one in the Hyundai could be saved by the now bumbling and inept hands of the stricken paramedics.

That's just off the top of the dome, though. You know. Other things might've happened too.

As we assemble this list, "softcore beastilty 420" (sic) has 185 views. We're guessing that this is a variety of that guy you haven't encountered either. Think back to the worst moments in high school or college, times when your eyes were like marbles in your head, blind and glassy because of all the shots. Not to mention how tough it was to see in those dark basements, the ones with low ceilings and puddles in corners that could have been pipe drip, urine, mostly liquid vomit, or any combination of those, basements where the all the lights save one had been unscrewed to better facilitate random sex and face-kissing, groping and dry-humping—even thought it's difficult, think back to those moments: Do you ever remember someone standing out because he was sexually assaulting a pet?

It would've stood out, say, if you wandered into the kitchen, looking to raid this stranger's cupboards for a loaf of bread or a really interested magnet, and instead you found a dude belly-down on the linoleum with his face buried in the underside of a striped tabby? Nuzzling the underbelly like a hyena dipping into the newly hollowed-out guts of a zebra. You'd remember that. Even blacked out like the windows in a war-torn city your subconscious would take crazy mental notes reminding you to avoid this guy next time you saw him coming near. You'd have filed and enforced the restraining order the only functioning part of your brain just drew up. Because here's a guy, who with his thing for cat molestation, is using up all the interaction with a living creature he's been allotted for this lifetime.

There's a special place in hell for the Randroid varietal of that guy. The guy whose idea of sacrifice is paying a poor person to kill them self. And really, how irritating is it, all these questions about John Galt? Next person we see with a "Who is John Galt" bumper sticker, we're leaving a note underneath their windshield wiper blade that reads "Go fuck yourself." (Also, props to Ben Affleck for mad good ideas about what to write on little notes left on unattended cars. Best reason to see The Town right there.)

John Galt, the capitalist boogeyman, exorcising the spirit of humanity from human beings since 1957.

Experiencing Sean riff on "feminism and all that" while swaying back and forth in the manner of someone with autism is like resurrecting your great-great-grandfather to have him discourse on homosexuality. Most likely, you, the listener, will become trapped in a maelstrom of casually tossed off slurs, incorrect statements that, at best, are only mildly offensive, and good old fashioned hate.

So welcome to Sean's bathroom funhouse, a place supportive of "equal rights for women and shit," but also a strained place where, because the scales have been flipped, "men are still expected to be chivalry." Sean, we'd be pissed off if we'd suffered so poorly at the hands of whoever gifted us English, too.

Essentially, Sean is a very old that guy archetype. He should be looking into the mirror and saying, not "You don't have to make us samitches any mo'," but rather: "You taught me language; and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse." That's straight Caliban status, Sean. The Big Shakespeare invented you.