Sunday, August 28, 2005

"Guys I'd Probably Like To Do If I Were Gay, Which I'm Not."

For the first installment of this cutting edge new feature, the man I'd like to highlight for my nomination of "Guys I'd Probably Like to Do, If I Were Gay, Which I'm Not" is:

Matthew McConaughey

And not just 'cuz he's the flava o' the minute for one Penelope Cruz.

Matt seems to me to be the kind of guy who probably always wonders what all the fuss is about?

Watching him in his various roles, I can't help but get the image of a pretty down to earth guy who is serious about his art. He loves the attention, but kind of laughs about it, and maybe figures, "Hey, they want to take my picture? Go for it. It's your film..."

You know, Matt and me, we'd be buds. It would probably help that I'm not ACTUALLY gay, and as such, wouldn't keep making leading suggestions about a quick dip in the hot tub and just one more glass of Pinot Noir.

Yeah, Matt and me, we'd hang. I'll bet he drinks domestic beer. Probably a Microbrew, though, cuz, well, he IS Matt McConaughey. Why Drink Schlitz when there's Hale's Moss Bay Extra?

And that accent, I'm telling ya, if I was gay (which I'm not) that rolling, laid-back drawl of his would get me all a twitter. In theory, of course.

I usually can figure a guy is good looking if I find myself thinking, "Damn. I'd give my left nut to wake up one morning and look like that guy."

So, I think I can safely say that Matthew McConaughey is one of those guys.

Hat's off to ya, Matt. You virile, manly stud you. Er, I mean, well, uh....

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Your esoteric word for the day



Monday, April 18, 2005

Funniest damn thing I've ever read.

Red pills found behind the sofa cushion.

But then, I have a wacked sense of humor.

Thanks to Jeff Goldstein at Protein Wisdom.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

In defense of the the Man Purse

I have to ask, is it wrong to think that a Man Purse is an idea whose time has finally come? That {he glances askance, left, then right} I really want one? That, okay, I have all sorts of design ideas for one rolling around in my head that I think would make me a million $$ if I had a heavy duty sewing machine, a couple of yards of heavy duty nylon webbing and a bunch of velcro? Oh, and if I knew how to sew worth a crap?

I don't know how many times I've come home at the end of the day and it takes a full 15 minutes just to empty out my pockets onto the corner of my dresser. Wallet, keys, change. Wups -- pens in this pocket. That's right, stuffed my checkbook in cargo pocket. Along with those two handy coupons I found on the bulletin board in the lobby, now crumpled nearly beyond recognition. More pens, my palm pilot, the wrapper from my power bar, and that cool looking piece of rock I found by the construction site. Four receipts of various size and description.

All told, I'm about 7 pounds lighter now.

Then I think about all the times I needed this or that, and with a quick "D'oh" followed by the requisite smack on the forehead, I realize that I've left it in a pocket of the jeans currently at some unknown depth in the laundry pile back home...a good 20-minute drive away.

Chicks have it easy. Chicks have it figured out. One handy, multi-pouched and pocketed receptacle for all the various odds, ends, and random effluent and leavings of their frenetic lives.

Men still labor under the social stigma that carrying a purse is, like, totally gay. I say enough! Let me clarify here, however, that I am not proposing that men be cleared hot to develop the same irrational obsession with a nice designer Gucci handbag that leads an otherwise rational woman to spend $800 "holy-shit-you-gotta-be-kidding-me-800-frickin-DOLLARS-fer-a-friggin-PURSE?!" dollars on a purse, just because it goes nicely with those new pumps she just bought.

That would be gay.

Men need a bag, but a Manly Bag. Call it a tote. No, wait, I have it: men need a satchel. Satchels are not gay. Satchels are manly. John Wayne himself threw uncountable numbers of satchel charges into uncountable numbers of enemy pillboxes, usually doing so under a hail of murderous gunfire.

Quintessential manliness.

Even the WORD "purse" is inherently unmanly; you almost feel the need to lisp just saying it. "Satchel," on the other hand, is a virile, rugged, squinty-eyed-from-staring-into-the-desert-sun-for-too-long, fist-clenching, teeth-grittin', tear-off-a chunk-of-raw-meat-from-the-carcass-of-the-vicious-carnivore-you-just-killed-with-yer-bare-freakin'-HANDS kind of word. No lisping involved whatsoever.

In a crisis situation, women will often hit muggers with their purse. For men, in a crisis situation we toss our satchels into the enemy bunker and save the entire platoon.

Fundamentally different approach to problem solving.

Think of the convenience, the increase in productivity and efficiency of having all of those scattered bits of this and that in one, handy location that you carry with you wherever you go? No sissy little strap, but a three-inch wide strip of industrial strength webbing with a thick slab of leather for the shoulder. No prissy gold buckles here; just big plastic snap clips like you'd find on your top-of-the-line REI survive-the-worst-friggin-blizzard-in-the-history-of-summit-attempts-on-Everest backpacks.

Inside you'd have compartments for your PDA, keys, fourteen different kind of pens and pencils, aftershave, thumb drive, handheld GPS, small arms ammunition, K-bar fighting knife, survival rations, and tickets to the Mets' next home game. Don't forget pockets on the outside for your cell-phone, Leatherman, a short strand of piano wire and two hand-grenades.

The color would have to be black or olive drab. Camouflaged, perhaps. Eggshell and Taupe are definitely out.

Men need to step forward and embrace this brave new vision for masculine liberation. Demand your satchel, and carry it with pride!

On sale soon at most local surplus stores, Sportsman's Warehouse, Home Depot, and that delightful little boutique across from Nieman's down on Main!

Thursday, February 24, 2005

A Horror Story :

"Terror at the Mini-Mart"

"Do you take checks?"

"I'm sorry, sir, no checks." He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, the first hints of a panicky fear. Oh please, no.

"Credit Card?"

"No, sir. Cash Only, I'm afraid." The tightness became a vise around his ribs, crushing against his heart. He gulped once, then twice, and with a trembling hand, drew out his wallet and fished out a couple of bills.

"How much was it again?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer.


The vise slammed shut, and a blackness descended over him. He handed her two "ones". The third remained pinched between his trembling fingers. She tugged, then she pulled, but the last dollar wouldn't come free. "Uhm, sir? I still need 35 more cents."

His breath was coming in short, desperate gasps, and his hand was shaking convulsively. "FINE!" he yelled. "FINE! JUST TAKE IT!!" He threw the dollar bill at her, grabbed the handles of the plastic bag holding his half-gallon of milk, and spun away from the counter, lurching towards the door. He had to escape the voice, had to get away before she said it...said what he knew, just KNEW was coming. He staggered towards the automatic door, the heels of his hands crushed against his ears, the carton of milk still clutched in his fist slamming painfully against his chest with each stumbling step. Don't say it....please dear god don't saaaayyy iiiiiittt!

"Sir!" she called out from behind the counter. "Sir? Your change! You forgot your change!"

There it was. There was no escaping it now. Well, maybe....maybe..."Just keep it! It's fine!" he called back over his shoulder.

"Sir! No, I can't. Here...!" She was coming. Why wouldn't she just let it go? She was out from behind the counter now, pursuing him, relentlessly. The doors! There they were. They slid apart like the gates of Heaven, and he ran through them like a damned soul pardoned from Hell. "Sir!? Wait!"
The huntress after her prey.

The heat from the parking lot slammed into his chest like the fist of an angry god. It was strangely welcome, as it meant he was out of the store, closer to safety. His car was just a few steps away. He fumbled frantically with the keys, cursing in frustration when his shaking, panicky fingers couldn't seem to grab the right one. Then he was there, the car, his haven, his sanctuary. He could hear her footsteps coming closer, faster, the heavy tread of the Grim Reaper. The key skipped across the lock face once, then twice. Damnit! Finally it slid home and he jerked the door open, threw the milk into the passenger seat and nearly leapt behind the wheel, pulling the door shut behind him. "Siiirrr!" She was there, at the car, banging on the window with...with...IT clutched tightly in her fist. Only a thin piece of glass between him and that terrible evil he could never seem to escape . He jammed down on the powerlock button so hard his finger stung, but the reassuring "thunk" of the locks engaging filled him with such relief that he quickly forgot the pain. He stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles glowed white. Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone, he muttered over and over in his head.

"Sir, I can't keep this. Here." Her hand was extending, slim and pale, like a claw from some skeletal apparition, the fingers slowly opening like the petals of some poisonous flower.!

He felt his head turn as if of its own volition. His eyes locked onto her palm, the horrible sight revelealed there burning into his mind. His eyes filled with tears -- he wouldn't escape this time. Sometimes he did, sometimes there was a tip jar, sometimes he was fast enough to get away, but not this time.

She stood there, staring at him with that concerned yet confused look they so often had. She meant no harm. She didn't know.

Slowly, his left hand relaxed its death grip on the wheel, and moved slowly, hesitantly to the button for the power windows. With a sobbing sigh of resignation, he exerted the small amount of downward pressure that would bring him face to face with his nemesis. With the brokeness of a man facing a firing squad, he extended his own hand next to hers. Tears streamed down his face as she turned her slim, fragile hand upwards and slid the two quarters, a dime, and a nickle into his own clammy palm. They burned against his skin like hot coals, little silver disks of loathing.

"Sir? Sir? What's wrong? What's the matter?" It wasn't her fault. She meant well, she was only doing her job. So kind, yet so unknowingly cruel.

The words came out as whispers, croaked from a parched, aching throat across dry, quivering lips. "Can't...can't you..." He paused, took a breath, and continued. "...can't you t-t-tell?"

Her innoncent young face took on such a puzzled look. "Can't I tell what?" she asked.

He looked into her unworldly blue eyes for an eternal instant, and in a voice heavy with anguish, spat out his terrible, shameful secret. "Can't you tell?" he asked pleadingly, paused, and then, there it was.

"I'm...I'm frightened of change."

Monday, February 21, 2005

Surreal Life? More like the Twilight Zone....

Okay, seriously though. Does anyone else think that maybe Brigitte Nielsen has had one too many drinks out of an aluminum can to go anywhere NEAR a broken-down, inbred-looking, gold-toof-havin' nutcase piece of road pizza like Flavor Flav? Maybe she took one too many hits in the head with a broadsword when she was doing her own stunts in Red Sonja.

Rumor has it there's a spinoff in the works (entitled, appropriately enough "Strange Love") with just him(it) and her (other it). There's one to clear yer calendar for!

Headlines You Can't Make Up

"Doctors Remove Baby's 2nd Head"
Weekly World News? Nope: It's actually a pretty heart-wrenching story, but MAN what an headine!

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Daily Profundidiocy

Winners are just whiners who have dropped the h and added an n.