I can’t stand the concept of the “man cave.” It’s like a grown-up version of the word “cooties.” One is something you catch from yucky girls. The other place is a spider hole you scurry to in order to escape girls with cooties.
First, don’t confuse the “man cave” with a “caveman.” Generally, I think cavemen are awesome, even if 40 percent of Texans think ancient man rode dinosaurs. I am pro-caveman — the hunting, the grunting, the freely flapping testicles, the whole kit and caboodle. However, they lived short, brutal lives of constant terror. Not the same thing as what I am ranting about. Keep reading »
When I’m ill, I drink whiskey. More specifically, a hot toddy, otherwise known as “Irish Nyquil.” My beloved local bartender from North Ireland taught me her old family recipe — just hot water, a couple jiggers of whiskey, and lemon wedges studded with cloves. One of those, spicy Kung Pao chicken, and bed. I behave like a dying animal when I’m sick. I like to suffer alone, in the dark. I hate to be fussed over. Can’t you see I’m in mortal combat with the sniffles?!
This frustrates my girlfriend because she sees it as unfair. Well, life is unfair, Toots. When I fall ill, she wants to rush to my apartment and dote on me. Nurture me back to health. And I refuse to let her. I can’t stand being pampered. It drives me crazy. I am a man. Like Batman. And if Batman can sew his own wounds shut in his crime-fighting bunker, I can blow my nose in bed without help from anyone. For the record: I blow my nose with toilet paper, not “Kleenex,” the way the cavemen did. I appreciate her attentions, of course. But it’s my fight. Keep reading »
The truth is: men don’t expect much on Valentine’s Day. We know that this is a holiday for women. Most of us accept this as a manly duty, like chopping wood or boxing grizzly bears. There is a quiet sort of pride in making your woman happy. Sure, many of us drag our feet, roll our eyes, and bitch like a junior chubbo with an empty bottle of chocolate syrup. But then we buy flowers, make a reservation, hold your hand, and you light up like New York City at night. Then it’s not so bad. The wine helps.
Keep reading »
This Sunday is the Academy Awards of Football and, believe it or not, there are a lot of people who couldn’t care less about this High Holy Day. But if you’re dating a pigskin junkie, you have very little choice: You’re going to be dragged to a get-together where jerseys and body paint are the fashion. Normally, I don’t get wildly excited about football, but this year is a little different for me. I usually just inhale nachos until the Halftime Show, then return to carbo-grazing. Occasionally, I’ll look at the score, or ask if anything is broken.
But for those women (and men) who dread an entire day dedicated to cheering human freight trucks slathered in spandex, please consider that Super Bowl Sunday is a day when you are allowed to eat with your fingers, wear fat pants out, and not actually have to talk to anyone. Just grunt. These are positives. Just show up and do your best dinosaur impersonation. Keep reading »
If a hood is good enough for Batman, it’s good enough for my penis. Uncircumcised joints look gross, like a cross between a tentacle and a trunk. But the word on the street is that it feels better to have a foreskin. My zipper cudgel is cut, and therefore less sensitive than a man who’s packing a frightful sex nozzle. I mourn the loss of that little flap of skin. I think I would have preferred to have had the choice to be circumcised or not. Keep reading »
A recent issue of GLAMOPOLITAN magazine instructed its female readers to surprise their boyfriends by showing up at the dude’s apartment wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath. Don’t do this. And I’m not telling you not to do it because a silly girly magazine said so. I kind of enjoy those trash-diculous publications: they’re like Maxim with mood swings. Where else am I going to learn to love my curvy body? (But seriously, diet anyway. Did you know there are no calories in a hangnail?) Keep reading »