Last month I took a dip in a pool of Douchebaggery. I had been called "Bro" for the very first time in my life by a dude who could have easily stepped out of a casting session for VH1's Tool Academy . Greased hair. A tan on top of a tan. Shirt unbuttoned well below the chest. Corona in hand. All that was missing was an Ed Hardy trucker cap and a T-shirt reading "Megan Fox, Call Me." I'm sure this fine young gentleman had the best intentions and was well accomplished beyond his achievements in beer pong and Grand Theft Auto . I was introduced to said greaser and several of his characteristically similar friends when I stopped by Julie's apartment in Studio City to drop off her belated birthday card and kill some time before my Saturday night plans started to take shape (gone was the plan to meet up with Swaga at a BET party somewhere in the hills). When I arrived, Julie was prepping herself for a night on the town with a bunch of girlfriends. When sai