It’s summertime. I’m hot, hormonal, and cranky. Which is not unlike my wintertime self, only sweatier and with fewer layers.
I digress. It’s time for a rant.
Dear Males of the Species,
I’m pretty sure that isn’t how you greet one another. How about dear sirs, fellows, homies (do they even say that anymore?), gents, lads?
I suppose if I were of the youngish male persuasion, I’d say something along the lines of How they hangin’? Perhaps How’s the package? would jazz things up a smidge for those grammar nerds. Who-wee, I’m already feeling apologetic and there’s so much that needs to be said here.
The point is, we need to discuss how you manage your, ahem, man bidness.
Listen, I completely get that it’s summertime. It’s hotter than a two bit hooker on a payday weekend and we’re all sweating like pigs before a big luau. Clothing sticks to our sweltering flesh, booties cleave to vinyl seats (leather if you’re uptown). But…how to put this delicately?
Eh, screw it.
Please stop handling yourselves like there aren’t women and children running amok.
Because, we are, you know. And I’d like to think I speak for most women when I say, dammit, lay off that crap!
I watched a fellow stroll through the parking lot the other day, his hands never still, the action almost unconscious. It was like watching the aftermath of a car wreck. Grotesque, yet riveting. Like a Tom Cruise movie. Same difference.
I ask you, whats with all the rummaging about? Did you lose ’em?
I don’t see how as the good Lord saw fit, in His infinite wisdom, to physically attach them to your bodies. Unless you find yourself in a nursery rhyme, the dish is unlikely to run away with the spoon, my friends. They are, in fact, still there. Surprise!
Take that somewhere private, tend to affairs and then rejoin polite society. If it’s an absolute must, be advised there is a time limit for a must-do public rearrangement of your personage. Anything beyond 2-3 seconds constitutes fondling. Again, they are physically attached. If you’re having to hunt them down like wild game, your britches are too big.
I’ve been told by confidential informants that sometimes The Business gets in a ‘bind’. Unless you are having to reel it in like a garden hose (brief pause for hysterical laughter) the best I’ve got is…well, I’ve got nothing actually. I’m too busy retrieving the eye orbs that rolled out of my head.
Want to talk about binding? Try wearing a bra. You’re in a bind?! My fat fanny. Harness your beloveds like ladies truss up their girls and get back to me, m’kay? You won’t catch me juggling my bodacious rack like a circus clown juggles bowling pins. Know why? ‘Cause I take that hot mess to the ladies room.
And last, but not least, is the sweat excuse. You, sirs, aren’t elephants and, as such, your sweat production shouldn’t rival that of such a large creature. Do elephants even sweat? Never mind. Let me refer, yet again, to women and two words you yourselves will never use.
Breasts are heavy, pendulous pains in the tucchus. And the shoulders. And the back. You wanna talk sweat? Die and be reincarnated as boobs.
Bottom line: I’m happy as a clam you’re a dude. We need y’all for stuff like opening that stuck on lid or driving around for hours because you’re too stubborn to ask for directions. We don’t need you rooting around like hogs after truffles. Knock that mess off.