Engines revving, tires squealing, the intrepid drivers race one block at a time, one red light to the next. They are The League of Extraordinary Douchebags.

Normally, the aural terrorists alight downtown sometime in early spring, not retreating to their parent’s basements until the first snow falls. Roaming the streets, their targets include, but are not limited to, babies in strollers, older couples out for a stroll, outdoor diners, and generally anyone who is trying to enjoy conversation at a normal volume. Indeed, to the casual observer it would seem their purpose, their raison d’etre if you will, is to ruin dinners and keep residents from sleeping.

As far as it is possible to determine the reasons behind the League’s annual invasion, the consensus amongst the locals is that they enjoy the reflected sound from the surrounding buildings. In other words, the Douchebags view the amazing architecture in Over-The-Rhine as a tool, no more valuable than the interior of the garages from which they have been expelled by their parents. The downtown denizens complain but the Cincinnati Police do precious little to deter the Douchebags, either because they don’t want to be party to a high-speed chase on city streets, or else they just have bigger fish to fry.

Regardless, some measure of justice was finally realized late Friday night, when the authorities finally apprehended one of the Douchebags. This particular Douchebag was driving a 2019 Dodge Challenger, and was captured only after he blew through two red lights and hip-checked a pedestrian in a crosswalk. Catching wind of the arrest, I begged the police for an audience with the Douchebag. My request was granted and the police presented the Douchebag to me in an ante-room in the police station, I on one side of a small table, he on the other. As I suspected might be the case, the Douchebag was obese and unshaven, his mouth never quite closing, likely because he had yet to learn how to breathe through his nose. The body odor was overwhelming, my revulsion such that I had to force the bile back down my throat in order to conduct the interview. The following is a rough transcript of our interaction.

“So, uh, Steve, you’re a Douchebag, correct?” I tried to look him in the eyes, but only one of them seemed able to focus on me. The other was wandering around the room.

“Yup.”

“And is it true that all the members of the League of Extraordinary Douchebags are virgins?”

“Yup.”

“And that all the motorcycle and car owners of the Douchebags are, in fact, impotent?”

“Um…no. I don’t think we’re that important.”

“And how long have you been a member of the League of Extraordinary Douchebags?”

Steve’s good eye floated upward. Clearly, he was attempting to do math as he worked to determine his length of service with the Douchebags.

“Um, about two years, I think.” Steve ciphered.

“That’s a long time, Steve. What was it that drew you to the Douchebags? What was it about the group you found attractive?”

Steve scratched his belly. His wandering eye stared at the door on his left as his good eye tried to focus on me. “Not sure. Maybe the noise?”

“So, you joined for the noise?”

Steve took a moment to answer. “Um, yes?”

“Anything else?”

“Um, yeah. I have to go to the bathroom.” He pointed vaguely at the door with his non-scratching hand.

“No, Steve, what I meant was, is there anything else, other than the noise, that attracted you to the League of Extraordinary Douchebags?”

“Oh, that…” Steve hadn’t stopped scratching his stomach. Given its enormity I assumed it would take a while to scratch its entirety. “Well, I didn’t really have any friends, but I had the car, and my neighbor has a car, too. A loud one. So I told him my car was loud, too. That’s when he told me I should be a Douchebag. So then I asked him what a Douchebag was, and he told me the Douchebags are the people who race around downtown in their loud cars and motorcycles.”

Given the fact he had to take breaks to catch his breath, I was surprised Steve was able to string so many words together. “Steve, can you stop scratching your stomach for a minute?”

“But it itches.”

“Just for a minute, please.”

“Ok.”

“So, Steve, why don’t the Douchebags just drive their loud cars and motorcycles out in the country, where it wouldn’t bother so many people?”

“I don’t know, maybe because it wouldn’t sound so loud?” Steve asked. “Plus, there aren’t any people in the country. Nobody notices us.”

“So it’s important to you to be noticed?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I guess. Nobody pays attention to us most of the time, but when we’re revving our engines while people are walking around or trying to eat, you know, they notice. They notice the Douchebags.”

“So it doesn’t matter that you annoy everyone trying to have a nice evening, or even just trying to get some sleep, or that you nearly killed someone?”

The Douchebag had to think for a minute. “Well, I kinda feel bad about that guy. But the cops said he’s fine.”

I was sure Steve noticed the steam coming out of my ears. His good eye stared blankly at the left side of my head.

Abruptly ending the interview, I left Steve in the room by himself, at which point he returned to scratching himself.

In the end, the opportunity to chat with a Douchebag was not as satisfying as I had hoped. I walked back to my condo that afternoon disappointed, realizing nothing had changed from the day before. Meanwhile, the sounds of screaming engines and stupidity continued to meander among the buildings, waiting to assault me as I drew closer to their origin, the League of Extraordinary Douchebags.