Mind Of Man: “Guilty Pleasures” Are For Uptight Chumps
Men don’t have “guilty pleasures.” We own, nay, celebrate what’s bad for us. Our obsessions are points of pride, not shame. You’ll never see a guy wolf down a small mountain of waffles with a side of pig and squeal, “OMG, I can’t beliiiiieeeeve I ate everything! Tee! Hee!”
We will shamelessly sit in a nest of pizza crusts playing video games for endless hours. Unabashed tears will crawl out of the corners of our eyes when the hometown team chokes at the last minute (tears so manly, of course, that they leave little craters in linoleum). Beer will be quaffed, their caloric potency mocked. These are the things that make life worth living. That, and never ever getting bored of slyly peeping springtime legs stretching out from under brand-new short skirts.
Feeling bad about feeling good, even if the good is short-term, is for puritan chumps. If I could, I’d go out everywhere in my sweat pants. Damn you, society, and your feeble rules. Of course, overindulging has its price. Sloth and gluttony are venial sins for a reason. But the whole idea of “guilty pleasures” is something that is lady-specific. Y’all feel shame over even tiny little hedonistic infractions. I dated a woman once who was very much my type — hot nerd — who was deeply embarrassed over her celebrity trash magazine addiction. She hid US Weeklys around her apartment like they were hardcore Eskimo poop porn. Eventually, I staged an intervention that went a little like this:
“For the love of Zeus, woman, own your love of snickering over pictures of Hollywood stretch marks!”
This is not to say dudes aren’t susceptible to social pressures, and masculine stereotypes. There are things that, while not “guilty pleasures,” are … minor vices. Things we are into that don’t contradict standard bro-operating procedure. After all, one cannot live on bacon, boobs, and beer alone. I mean, it’s possible. And not that bad. But a lot of guys find themselves infatuated with hobbies, media, and creature comforts that don’t really fit the lumberjack mold. I’ll wager many of you ladies are the quiet guardians of your man’s not-really-secret, but not-really-public, quirks.
I am not ashamed of anything. Men roll, and roll hard. This is why I will admit to the following minor vices, and in the process, teach all of you, my sisters from different misters, that you can be loud and proud when it comes to the hours you spend rehearsing pucker faces for your digital camera. Boldly rock your “guilty pleasures.”
Bubble Baths: Anyone got a problem with that? Because I will wreck you with kung-fu rage. I love bath salts, bubbles, fizzy crap that promises to magically transform your bathtub into a sauna. The whole kit and caboodle. There is nothing DeVore loves more than a good, frou-frou soak. Hell, maybe I’ll light a votive candle up next to my hot suds stew. I am perfectly fine with everyone knowing this. I even have a rubber ducky. Named “DeathKlaw.”
Quiche: I ate it this past weekend, in fact. That’s right. I shoveled French egg pie into my talkhole. Yes, quiche, a food that sounds like an inappropriate bodily sound. It was delicious. It had spinach in it, and I washed it down with sparkling water. Sure, I could have eaten something drenched in cheese or deep-fried. But the moment called for something sensible, delicate, and … flaky, OK? What? What was that, dudes? I will knuckle-dance on your teeth. Quiche is effing awesome.
Reality TV Shows About Shallow Women: A recent minor vice has actually entered my life. Apparently, every Tuesday, I eat Chinese food and IM Amelia while we watch “The Real Housewives of New York.” [You just need to come over! I’ll bake you a quiche and draw you a nice bubble bath! — Editor] Fine, this admission makes me feel like, at any moment, boobs will spontaneously spill out of my button-down. Have you seen this show? It’s like an open invitation to hate on women. Is this really, like, popular female wish fulfillment? All that chattering and glittering? One of these alleged housewives has a tapeworm! And the one who looks like a designer ostrich called an economically disadvantaged tween fat! And there are a couple of other bedazzled banshees that suddenly made me understand why the French guillotined all the rich aristocrats!
What am I talking about? Yes, I am talking about a Bravo reality television show. Ugh. How can anyone NOT tune in? It’s like watching the Hindenburg in 3-D. Read up on Freud’s concept of the “death thrall.” While I’m not overly susceptible to gender norms, I think I need to go to the comic book store, or hit the dive early for a couple pairs of shots and bottles, or at least take a porn break. Shout out to my brodawgs: No, my legs
are aren’t shaved.
Screw it. I’ll see you on GChat next Tuesday, Amelia.