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| More frightening is what's in the purse. |
I want a decaf nonfat no foam carmel mochachino with whipped cream.
I tried to be a real man and although I haven’t completely given up, how far off could that be after ordering a cup of coffee that requires more instructions than a kitchen remodeling job? And to think that I used to drink coffee, regular fucking coffee from a pot. Remember that? I used to go to a barber shop for a haircut; now I go to a salon. I have highlights. What the hell is happening to me?
The so-called men’s magazines that I read have articles about how to blow dry your hair and exercises that will make your butt look cute. No wonder Hemingway blew his brains out. Guys who run with the bulls in this day and age probably carry purses and use their free hand to read text messages about hair growth products. Maybe now it’s called “Sauntering” or “sashaying” with the bulls. Maybe the bulls aren’t as tough as they used to be. I hope not, because the old bulls would have eaten wimps like me for breakfast. This whole thing is giving me a headache. I’d take a Xanax, but I’m out of Perrier.
I’m not sure where this long inexorable slide into metrosexuality—or whatever you want to call it—began, but I have a pretty good idea of where it will end. I see the Village People adopting a new character in their act who dresses in Kenneth Cole and has a fresh manicure. He can keep everyone’s schedules straight on his Palm Pilot. I’d rather walk around with a tool belt or a tomahawk any day. America’s new male archetype will be the sissy in the Village People.
In an incident in which a man was beating a woman on a busy street corner in Philadelphia, male witnesses to the assault called police and some even boldly took pictures on their phones. Most dudes probably just turned up the volume on their iPods to drown out the screams and kept walking to the mall. Not exactly knights in shining armor. If I’m ever getting my ass kicked you can forget about the Kodak moment; just split the guy’s head open with a tire iron. They keep those in the trunk of the car for all of you pansies who have never changed a flat. Maybe you’ve been using the tire iron to increase your cell phone’s antenna when you call the towing company.
What’s next for men? Exposed midriffs and thonged asses hanging out of our pants? Are we going to give up our weekends in Las Vegas in favor of shopping vacations in New York? Instead of trying to figure out what to do with the dead hooker in the room, we’ll have to worry about paying for excess baggage on the return flight. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery, but not in the face. I just put on an exfoliation mask. And wait until after Dr. Phil.
*This is an old bit I wrote that seems to have been deleted. I found it somewhere else.
