Today I’d like to take public something that has so far existed only in the annals of my e-mail history: The Daily Douche.

I can’t take credit for The Daily Douche; it was hatched by sorority sisters (not mine) at a school I didn’t go to — but I take partial credit for its continued existence. In the simplest terms, The Daily Douche is a journal of sorts — an ongoing saga of egregious male behavior that serves as a cathartic means to vent, a hilarious read for recipients, and a cautionary tale for those swimming in Houston’s so-small dating pool.

Past issues have included two friends being textually harassed by the same creeper while we were all sitting next to one another, first dates refusing to explain their (probably non-existent) “oil and gas” jobs because it’s “too complicated” for our pretty little heads, and an inexplicable/incredibly annoying affection for neon sunglasses and/or jam bands.

One offender, we’ll call him “Dr. D” (he’s an endocrinologist — like House, except less curmudgeonly sexy and equally useless in an actual emergency) idiotically put some early feelers out for a late-night rendezvous with one of our friends, saying that he was stuck at dinner when he was, in fact, in plain view at a bar across the street holding court with a different girl.

Which brings me to the point: how stupid can you be, D-bags?

Besides being moronic enough to miss out on a woman of that caliber, how socially suicidal must you be to handle it so piss poorly? Spare us the senseless bullshit, and we’ll spare you the public calling out when the entire entourage rolls across the street, introduces themselves as awkwardly as possible to your auxiliary girl and puts all their drinks on your Doctor tab.

Handling things like an adult begs civility when paths cross and you inevitably collide. Stunts like that result in, at best, a published chronicle of your inane antics that may or may not go viral and, at worst, well-placed questions about your sexual health.

We’re all grown ups, or should be. Shit happens, you meet someone else, we get it. And we know how awkward it can be because we’ve done it: Explained ourselves more honestly than we’d have liked to, met for follow-up coffees, let ourselves be scapegoat so someone else can move on.

So in the name of common courtesy, or at least for the sake of your social life, be a man. Grow some of those balls you seem to think are like chocolate-drizzled macaroons and learn to play the game with some finesse.