At AskMen, it’s our goal to understand exactly what it means to be a man. It’s a goal we pursue every day through our articles and our interaction with readers, and it’s why we’re once again turning to our readers to ask: Who is the modern man? We invite you to participate in our annual Great Male Survey to find out what has changed, what is new and what remains constant about being a man. Start with Part 1: Dating & Sex. Part II: Lifestyle launches May 31. Part III: Men in 2010 launches June 14. Check back for all the results on July 13. Read more … Continue reading
Yesterday, we warned the ladies about 19 Secrets You Shouldn’t Tell Your Boyfriend, although we’ll admit to missing two: 1) You can see a bald spot starting; 2) You think his penis is small. Yikes! Anyway, today we’re going to clue you gents in on how to prevent yourselves from saying something equally heinous to your special lady. Isn’t it amazing how one little sentence can shatter a whole relationship into pieces? Well, not anymore, buddy. Continue reading
Men don’t cry. We squint. Boys might be made out of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, but men are made out of leather and steel and “Hungry Man” meals. Kick us in the baby wallet and we might keel over. Let forth a grizzly’s roar. But cry? Men have three basic emotions: The Wave, Hulk, and whiskey. Our hearts are fist-sized beer kegs. Tears are just cowardly beads of sweat too scared to jump off our brow when sawing wood.
When a woman does us wrong, do we weep? Ha! We turn up AC/DC. Pull the curtains. Turn off the lights. Stand in the shower with our clothes on. Oh, did you think we got misty when you laid us off from the love factory? Well, you were completely right. Women have two tear glands: one to keep their peepers moist, the other to flood whenever Nicholas Sparks gives someone cancer. Our eyes were misting because that’s how they work, like automatic sprinklers on a golf course. That’s how we keep the ol’ skull cams lubricated in their sockets. When I buried my first dog, I bravely bid little Falkor good journey to Valhalla, the Viking afterlife. The last time I went to the optometrist, I sucked the medicinal eye droplets that were rolling down my cheeks back up into my face. I am that disciplined.
But as always, when it comes to platitudinous declarations, there are exceptions.
I suppose some cry at movies like “Rudy,” or “Braveheart,” or any of the “Friday the 13th” movies. Those dope-smoking camp sluts killed Jason’s mommy! I remember watching that scene in “The Empire Strikes Back” when Han Solo bravely prepares himself to be carbon frozen. My right eye twitched. It’s theoretically possible that men cry listening to country music, but dive bars are dark for a reason and no one can see you in your pick-up truck, the window rolled down and the night air whipping past your face. There are dogs worth crying over, I suppose. Living proof that licks are the real language of love.
Did I mention there are aberrations to my theory? At least personally? I didn’t? Maybe I’ve cried. I can’t remember if I’ve written about instances where such an improbable, but not impossible, event occurred. I don’t actually know how to read, so I can’t really tell you. Okay. So. Here it goes. I didn’t exactly cry when my father died. I snuck into the ICU and touched his cold foot and then I politely removed my skin and wrung it dry. And I’ve wept for a very simple reason. Because I wasn’t the man I wanted to be. A good man. An honest man. A man who didn’t keep his promises. Only the future cares about apologies.
A man who failed to cradle a loved one’s heart as if it were a football made of glass. Who is forced to keep the company of wreckage. Whose regret turns his bones to ice. A man sobbing softly because the road before him is long, dark, lonely, and there’s no turning back. The fire was set, and his words can’t extinguish them. But he sobs because he’s afraid that deep down, he never will be that man his father told him to be. I have been that man. Those tears will never be shed again. I can still feel their scars on my eyelids.
Follow John DeVore’s preening narcissism on Twitter.
Rejoice, nerds everywhere, you will finally get to grope a breast. And not just any boob, this one is pretty dang powerful. Rest your hand on the soft rubber top for that real feel. Tweak the nipple to make the arrow squirm. I can’t say what messages the iTit will send to your penis, but your computer will obey its every command. Isn’t it amazing how technology keeps finding ways to improve internet porn?! But you one-handed typers out there, if you do actually ever get a woman to come back to your place, you better hide this. [Yanko Design via Trend Hunter] Continue reading