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.
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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 »
Women don’t clamor for guys with ripped six packs. Am I wrong? We’re talking about those toned, well-defined abdominal muscles that grace the covers of magazines for hairless men who drink liquid protein. Clean pants, yes. Dandruff-free hair, definitely. I know for certain ladies appreciate a healthy dude, or at least, a dude who doesn’t have stubby, greasy egg roll fingers and a beer baby bump. But abs you can shave wood with? No. At least, I don’t think so. Ugh. I’m slowly coming to the realization that this might be a lie I’ve told myself. Proof that I might be self-deceiving is in every episode of MTV’s epic anthropological documentary series “Jersey Shore,” where primped pretty people strut and rut in the wild. I watch it purely for research purposes. Keep reading »
”Open relationships” are like snowboarding. There are people who can do it very well. And then there are people like me, who will end up breaking something. I was in an open relationship once. It lasted for a couple hours and abruptly ended with me storming out into the cold, crestfallen that she had actually taken our agreement literally. I had started the evening’s revels a sophisticated libertine and finished the night a blubbering spaz. Not to mention a hypocrite. Keep reading »
When it comes to New Year’s resolutions, I suggest aiming low. Reach for your shoelaces, not the stars. For instance, this year, I resolve to eat more donuts. Crullers, coconut, apple and spice. I can handle this and am fairly confident that come next year, I will be able to look at my fat face in the mirror and wheeze to myself, “Good job!” When I aim low, I am never disappointed. Sometimes, I aim even lower, like resolving to wear pants or use electricity. All of these achievements are possible. You know what’s probably not possible? Running a marathon, learning to speak Chinese, and becoming an astronaut all in the next 12 months.
There’s a fine line between resolutions and prayer. In both instances, you hope someone is listening. Be it Morgan Freeman, Zeus, or That Thinner, Healthier, More Successful You who’s been curled up dormant in your guts your whole life, waiting for a chance to burst out of you like a spring-loaded alien. Better yet, resolve not to resolve anything. Be Zen. Let life happen to you. A surfer can’t make her own waves; she has to wait for them. Then it’s up to her to know what to do with them when they show up. Keep reading »
I did something I’ve never done this holiday season: I bought The Girl I’m Currently Dating a necklace for Magic Space Baby Day (i.e., Christmas). A silver, heart-shaped locket to be exact. I did this because she has a beautiful, graceful neck and I wanted her to be able to show it off. And I think this necklace does that — it’s subtle. It merely accents something that was gorgeous to begin with. I’m proud of the gift. But I’ve never purchased jewelry before. I was under the impression it was a lame, cliché choice. Keep reading »
So, Tiger Woods cheated on his wife. For those of you who don’t know, Tiger Woods is a professional golfer worth a billion dollars. He is involved in a sex scandal, much like your average politician, rock star, or preacher. I have no opinion on the topic. Except that Tiger Woods has the fashion sense of a middle-aged suburban father who screams into his clenched fist every time he surveys the smoldering ruins of dreams that dot the empty horizon of his soul. Which might be the standard plight of golfers, as the sport is just an expensive version of lawn darts for plumpers with platinum cards.
Wait. That’s an opinion. I hate golf. I blame golf for giving us Tiger Woods in the first place. Keep reading »