Please note, folks:  This is, and is intended as, a piece of COMEDY.  I don't hate customers, I don't hate humanity, I don't hate my job, and I don't even hate douchebags, which 99% of people who walk in the door to the gallery are most certainly NOT.  Wearing items of clothing I personally find ridiculous will not earn you the title of "douchebag."  You really can only earn that title in my eyes by behaving in a boorish, obnoxious, inebriated, and/or completely oblivious manner.  Even then, even if you cuss me out for being unable to make special-order pictures appear out of thin air, I will be nice to you.  I have to.  It's my job.

1.  The Frat Boy.  Self-explanatory.  If spotting douchebags in New Orleans is like birdwatching, these are the Common Starlings.  They’re everywhere, in their pink polo shirts, plaid shorts, spilling their Huge Ass Beers™ and not realizing it, as their eyes are too bloodshot to see out of and they are too wasted to do much of anything beyond stumble into the gallery, lean on the counter, leer down my shirt, and slur, “Soooo…where’a good bar round here?  One without fags and douchebags in it…You gotta boyfriend?  You’re not a lesbo, are you?  But that’s cool if y’are…”

2.  The “Author.”  This is the genus of douchebag who has a business card printed with a picture of himself in an open-collared shirt and his name and the title PUBLISHED AUTHOR printed underneath.  (Oh yes.  I have not one, but a COLLECTION of said business cards.)  Though he would never admit it, in his younger nerdy days, he wanted to be a Frat Boy.  Now he just leans on the counter, leers down my shirt, talks about his PUBLISHED BOOKS, and tries to get me to let him buy me a drink.  Often, I can sell him a photograph of Pirate’s Alley by pointing to where William Faulkner lived in the 1920s and then mentioning that I once dated a guy who lived in Faulkner’s old apartment, and that the apartment was the best thing about that relationship.  Occasionally, this can backfire, as I risk him reciting, word-for-word, the entire scene from The Wild Palms in which the protagonist loses his virginity.  This does not weird me out—I’m the type of person who, when given an underground freebie “alternative” newspaper out of San Francisco entitled Anything That Moves, the first thing I will notice is that in the ad for the transsexual house-call making dominatrix named Mistress Goddess Cleopatra, “dominatrix” has been misspelled twice, in different ways—but it does piss me off, as Faulkner sentences are like three pages long each and he is taking up valuable time and scaring off other customers.

3.  The Very Important Hollywood Director.  I’m not going to give his name because I’m pretty sure he Googles himself and then googles himself, if you catch my drift.  Let’s just say he may be  Finnish.  Let’s just say he may once have been married to Geena Davis.  Let’s just say he may have made some movies, the most critically acclaimed of which starred a post-Rocky, post-Rambo Sylvester Stallone and included a scene in which soccer is played using a human head as a ball.  Let’s just say he may have been in New Orleans filming an explosion-heavy movie about a cop on the trail of a serial killer, and said cop was played by an ex-professional wrestler.  Let’s just say that he may have came into my gallery, possibly hopped up on cocaine, and demanded to buy the ugly painting of a pug flying an airplane that we had on the wall because pug people have money and no taste and we have to pay the rent, but he “could not afford” to pay $1800 for the original, nor could he afford $800 for the giclee on canvas, but he would pay $400 for a framed paper print.  Let’s just say he may have been very, very upset that I could not materialize this out of thin air but informed him that there would be a three-week turnaround time, as I had to special-order it from the artist.  Let’s just say that he may have refused to put any money down, even though this was a special order, because this “is not how you run a business!”  Let’s just say that the only reason I didn’t reply “You mean you may have made Die Hard 2:  Die Harder with no up-front funding?” was because I had no idea who he might have been at the time.  Let’s just say the fact I didn’t recognize him might have really, really, really agitated him.  Let’s just say that when his special-order picture DID come in three weeks later, he may have tried to walk out without paying for it, as he insisted he had already done so.  Let’s just say that he may have threatened to sue if he found that we’d double-billed him. 

Let’s just say that I may have his personal private cell phone number, if anyone’s interested in making prank calls.

4.  The Loyola Sorority girl.  (Douchebaggery is not limited to the male of the species, oh no!)  The Loyola Sorority Girl wanted to go to Tulane, but she’s not smart enough and Daddy’s not rich enough.  She is easily spotted—she is rarely found apart from her herd.  When she does become separated from her sisters, she whips out the cell phone and drunkenly screeches “Where ARE you guys?  I’m SOOOOO lost.  We were supposed to stick together so we didn’t get lost! (long pause) I have NOOOOO idea where I am!” even though she is 1.) in her own damn city, 2.) at three o’clock in the afternoon, 3.) three blocks away from picking up the streetcar that brought her down to the Quarter and, for $1.25, would deposit her back at her own front door, 4.) could SEE said streetcar if she’d look to her right, and 5.)  standing right in front of a door marked “304 Royal Street.”   

Though it’s now 2009 and she was born sometime between 1987 and 1991, she is a fan of dressing like an extra from Flashdance.  When she is being less fashionable and not being content or secure enough to let her ass advertise itself, she wears super-tight short-shorts with phrases like “Juicy” or “Sexy” printed across the rear.  Her hair is always highlighted and blown perfectly straight.  Even if she is a natural blond (and few of them are), her eyes are always rimmed in black, with jet-black unnaturally long and thick eyelashes.  She is tan in the wintertime.  If she is in the final stages of getting her MRS degree, she talks a lot with her left hand.  No matter how much she has spent on her wardrobe, she wears rubber flip-flops.  With everything.  And unless it’s pouring down rain, the Loyola Sorority Girl for some reason channels my high school chemistry teacher Mrs. Wilson and/or Agent Scully cutting open yet another dead mutant by shielding her eyes with a pair of giant, one-piece, nearly clear wraparound sunglasses that bear a disturbing resemblance to Visorgogs.  She mainly mates with members of the Frat Boy class of douchebag, thus assuring that the world population of douchebags remains steady.

5.  The tripping gutterpunk with the facial tattoos.  I know the colors are pretty and amazing, and the air-conditioning is nice and cool, and you’re an artist too, but you have not bathed since Inauguration Day.  Your cloud of stench is scaring away potential customers, and I’m working on commission here.  Also, you need to take your dog outside.  Also, I can’t give you any money for the good stuff.  Also, I don’t know where to buy it since your guy got picked up last week.  Also, we’re not hiring at the moment. 

6.  The guy who says “What happens in New Orleans, stays in New Orleans.”  If by “what happens” you mean the vomit, beer cans, and empty bottle of poppers that you left in the planter in front of the gallery at some point between 6 pm yesterday and 10 am today, the only reason it’s staying in New Orleans is because I don’t have your mailing address.

7.  The Croc-o-Deal Hunters.  These are middle-aged couples in Hawaiian shirts and Crocs (which look hideous on anyone over the age of six), who have decided to “take a day” to see New Orleans before their cruise ship departs for Cancun, or after it returns.  They will pick up the cheapest thing in the gallery (a 5x7 signed photograph, matted to fit an 8x10 frame) and ask the price ($35) even though it’s clearly posted.  Then they will huff, “Is that the best you can do on this?”

8.  The Bluetooth guy/member of The Borg.  I know you are too important to hang up your phone, or hell, even HOLD your phone, while you are asking me about various pictures, but basic human politeness is calling.  Assimilate.  Resistance is futile.