Call me The Brostrologer. I can tell how a woman will be in bed just by finding out her astrological sign. It’s true. I’m not a student of astrology. I actually know very little about it. To me, stars are just what your father stole from the sky and put in your eyes. They are also giant balls of nuclear fire burning brightly in the inky infinity of space. Besides helping ancient mariners navigate, they serve no practical Earthly purpose, save to twinkle and occasionally fall. But enough about celestial aesthetics. In fact, I don’t even really believe in astrology (no offense to house sorceress Kiki T.). I also don’t believe in ghosts, Bigfoot, or conspiracy theories. To add to that list: I don’t believe in reiki, the prophecies of Nostradamus, or the words “fat free.” Keep reading »
Brevity is the soul of relationship talks. The shortest distance between two hearts is a straight line. Don’t be a blabbercheeks. I don’t think I’m being clear: When you are discussing important issues with your significant other, keep the conversation short and sweet and to the point. One of the great male stereotypes is that men loathe having to talk about anything serious. That dudes would prefer a forced eel colonic to sitting down and hashing out our feelings. Part of this stereotype is the notion that men are scared of their emotions. This is actually partially true. We are scared of our emotions, and that’s why we respect them. Emotions can make a man feel like a soaring kite one moment and a gym sock full of warm parfait the next. Keep reading »
I always wanted to grow a mustache. Fearsome pimp whiskers. To me, the mustache is to masculinity what long, flowing tresses are to femininity. Aphrodite’s long hair was the source of her sexual authority, which she’d comb while sitting inside her pet oyster “Chester.” Aries, God of the pointy phallus and the shield, wore a ‘stache no doubt soaked in the blood of a minotaur. This ideal was implanted in me at a young age. Growing up, there were three men who defined manliness. To a little kid, being manly was being a hero. Not that a woman or a girl couldn’t be a hero, but it was more likely that I grew up to be a man who helped those in need than a woman who would help those in need. Keep reading »
I recently made a gay joke, and I should know better. Actually, I made two, and one of the jokes backfired. For guys, the term “gay” is an adjective that means “not masculine.” Chamomile tea? Gay. “Wicked: The Musical”? Gay. Capri pants? Gay. In the new bombshell Rolling Stone article about General Blabber and his knitting circle of kvetching combat hens, one of his aides refers to a diplomatic meeting with the French as “gay,” as if the talks were to be conducted with mimes wearing pink berets. I’ll kindly remind that while the French can be over-intellectualizing flowers, they did manage to invent the fist execution machine, write the blueprint for the modern military dictator, and ran a colonialist, mercenary army. Not to mention, inspire the first cartoon skunk rapist.
“That’s so gay” is an insult, a pop cultural punch-line, and a casual, socially acceptable form of prejudice. Prejudice is fear on the offense. It will never cease to amaze me how even the beefiest, baldest, baseball-cap wearing frat-beast is utterly terrified, and convinced, that every gay man in a half-mile radius has a zombie hunger for his junk. To be fair, it’s terror, and just a little bit of vanity … that traditionally feminine vice. Keep reading »
According to highly scientific polls, 15 percent of women think staring is cheating, 45 percent have tried the “fingernail” diet, and 99 percent rate a sense of humor as the sexiest trait a man can have (the remaining 1 percent picked “sparkle”). When such pop statisticians ask men the same question, they usually respond “boobs.” Judging from this inequality of opinion, one could conclude that women are selfless flowers who find self-awareness attractive and that men are shallow. This is not entirely untrue. That women prize a guy who can laugh at himself and all the unpredictable absurdities that life throws at you is great news to bros with bellies who can belch the melody to “Paparazzi.” I like to think of this as an evolutionary gift; otherwise, the females of the species would have been left having to choose equally matched mates by their ability to fling poop. Keep reading »
The best part of a breakup is wallowing. There are five stages immediately following a breakup, and they aren’t denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. They are as follows: shock, blubbering, wallowing, staring blankly at walls, and finally, dancing. The final stage is usually preceded by a music montage featuring upbeat adult contemporary music, a shopping spree, and a night out with your best slutty friend. But of all these stages, the one I enjoy the most is wallowing. It’s the best part of breaking up or getting dumped, because there is no such thing as a “mutual breakup.” That concept is strictly for the press. One party always wants the breakup a little more than the other party. Not that I’m advocating dramatic split-ups that resemble NASCAR fireballs. But one person is always left sniffing a forgotten, leftover sleeping shirt, searching for a whiff of their lover’s familiar funk. The wishbone never cracks completely in two. Keep reading »