Bachelor parties are a little bit like funerals, which are not for the dead but for the living. Bachelor parties are not for the groom; they’re for his male friends. Like a corpse in a coffin, the groom is actually just a kind of living prop. An excuse for a group of men to gather for a night of heavy drinking so they can ask themselves existential questions, like “Is commitment the antithesis of the male identity or its most perfect expression?” Funerals are places to say goodbye to loved ones; they’re ancient rituals that allow us to let go. Likewise, a bachelor party allows a man to break up with what he has known, and prepares him for an adventure that, if pop science is to be believed, has only a 50 percent chance of succeeding. Those are terrible odds, but you can’t win big unless you go all in. Keep reading »
Men don’t have a passion for sweet treats the way women do. If given a choice between a sugary confection and something savory, men will choose the latter. This is not some kind of random, sweeping gender generalization I just made up. I have scientific proof. Like many big cities, New York has seen the arrival over the past few years of novelty food trucks. These trucks sell everything from waffles and tacos to schnitzel and BBQ. Yesterday I walked by two such trucks. One sold cupcakes, the other Asian dumplings. Women stood eagerly in line for cupcakes, but I made a beeline for the dumplings. They were delicious, meat-stuffed globules of delight. Dumplings are my anti-cupcake. Keep reading »
I can’t wear skinny jeans, because I have beefy man legs, mighty logs of muscle and sinew, the end product of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. Ancient man spent his days running from prehistoric beasts, jumping with simian fury and squatting around the fire. Here’s a short list of the men who can wear skinny jeans: Iggy Pop, The Pumpkin King, moody beanpoles with eating disorders and those with unusually narrow pelvises. If you own and wear a cape or a top hat, you can wear skinny jeans. If you need skin-tight pants that hug your hips, then do as Batman does and wear tights. Regular men should not wear skinny jeans.
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My big sister’s favorite game to play with me as a child was a simple one that I’ll just call “Lure John into the dark basement, then race up the stairs and lock the door.” It was a game that I always lost, and she always won. I’d beg her to open the door, and she’d just cackle. My sister had a wicked snicker. She wasn’t sadistic. This was just the law of the jungle. The price I paid for her not smothering me in the cradle. The door would eventually open like her arms and her laughter would be a sprinkler on a summer day, soaking us both. So we’d both end up laughing, and there would be no grudges. Because there really aren’t any grudges between brothers and sisters. Brothers and sisters are as close as peanut butter and jelly. Keep reading »
How do you compliment a naked man? You don’t. The Golden Rule of Sex is usually do others as you would have them do you, but not in this case. Women enjoy sincere compliments in the bedroom. Not over-rehearsed grunts or snippets of porno dialogue like “Oh baby, you’re so baby, baby.” In my personal experience, women also aren’t into dudes who’re effusive blabbercheeks. My poet’s heart was in the right place, but she informed me that I didn’t need to barf up bargain basement Byron. Keep reading »
Hi. I just met your boyfriend. He’s a goatsack, but I don’t blame him. Doucheberries are born, not made. However, I judge you, because you’re supposed to be smarter than this. If the girlfriend of a friend of mine is a soulless sorority monster with vodka gills, I usually think “she must lick a mean ice cream cone” or “so I guess he really isn’t gay.” But when I meet the boyfriend of a female friend and he’s a macho pressed ham, I can’t help but judge her. Keep reading »