I’m certain that everyone thinks that being married to me would be a little slice of heaven, that every day would be like getting a champagne sponge bath from Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp while Oprah gives you a caviar enema, and 6 burly yet finicky Greek men clean your house and an albino monkey whose farts smell like chocolate feeds you grapes, at the same time Stevie Wonder arranges roses to spell your name, his hands bleeding from the thorns, and your name horribly misspelled and not actually resembling any word or language that you’ve ever seen, but hey, it’s Stevie Wonder.
I’m not going to lie to you. Being married to me is exactly like that. But it’s not all bleeding blind guys and farting monkeys. No, I’ve really had to work to be this perfect. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes And since you are all my friends, I will give you my tips for a successful and happy marriage. And please bear in mind that it always helps if you are vomit-inducingly attractive and well-nigh irresistible, such as I am.
I could’ve provided more (or frankly, after you’ve read them, you’ll see I could’ve likely chopped a few), but ten is such a nice, round number.
1. YOUR COMFORT IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER’S FRAGILE NERVES: If it’s somewhat late, and the kids are all asleep, and your significant other is still up puttering around while you lay in your bed, all warm and toasty and comfortable and sleepy, and if you notice that the bathroom light is on, and it starts to bother you, I mean, just really get on your nerves, and you start wondering who left that light on, and you suspect that it was your significant other, and you don’t want to leave your comfy little haven, DON’T scream as if a limb has just been severed in order to gain your significant other’s attention and have her run into the room so that you can ask her to turn the light off. Yes, it seems like a perfectly ordinary solution to a perfectly ordinary problem, but you will find that the resulting tongue-lashing further hinders your sleep. Though it’s understandably a struggle, and your significant other is up anyway, it’s best just to get up and turn it off yourself.
2. YOUR JOKES ARE NOT ALWAYS FUNNY: Realize that any joke, no matter how hilarious, does have an expiration date. The first time your significant comes home after a visit to the hair salon and doesn’t look noticeably different, some gentle chiding will be seen as all in good fun. The 40th time, not so funny. I will admit that I have not taken this lesson to heart.
3. JOKES ABOUT YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE ALWAYS FUNNY: As a corollary, jokes about YOU have no expiration date. You will repeatedly have to hear the story about the time that you were sent to the story for a gallon of milk, and returned with an enormous block of cheese, a half-gallon of Cholula, and a 12-pack of Coke, and no milk. You won’t understand why this is noteworthy, but you will look appropriately sheepish each time the story is told. You will also have to hear about the time that you swallowed a very old antibiotic pill found by itself in a pill bottle in the back of your medicine chest because you said “Hey, I paid for it.” Luckily, though, your drunken escapades will most likely not be fodder for jokes at your expense, as long as you don’t bring up your significant other’s drunken escapades.
4. HOUSEWORK: Occasionally, DO a little housework, and then scoff if offered any thanks. Say things like “Hey, it’s my house, too.” This will reinforce to your partner that you are 1) responsible, and 2) willing to do a little housework every now and then. If you are willing to do a little, hopefully, your partner will not expect a lot. And removing your belt from your pants does NOT qualify as housework, though it should.
5. DIRTY DIAPERS: No one’s falling for it. Everyone can smell the dirty diaper, and since the kid’s in your lap, you should just bite the bullet (which seriously brings up some disgusting mental pictures) and change the diaper. DON’T ignore the dirty diaper. Also, DON’T scream in disgust while changing the diaper. DON’T try to describe the smell, and the havoc it’s wreaking on your olfactory nerves. And most of all, DON’T try to parlay the one time you changed a diaper into not changing the next ten. I mean, you’re good for like five or so. DON’T be greedy.
6. THE MARITAL BED IS NOT JUST YOURS: If your bed is big and comfortable, and you yourself are likewise big and comfortable, it’s not kosher to fake a communicable illness so that your partner feels that they should sleep on the couch and allow you to hog that big old bed all to yourself. Yup, that’s a DON’T. Among the infectious diseases that you shouldn’t fake include: Spanish Influenza, whooping cough, the plague, scurvy (which I don’t think is actually transmittable), smallpox, and just a general vague malaise. Also, don’t fake restless leg syndrome in the hopes that your partner will simply get the hell out of bed just to get away from your jostling person.
7. DROPPING F-BOMBS: DON’T use excessive profanity. The quandary is, of course, the definition of “excessive,” which will undoubtedly differ between partners. Here’s a hint: your definition is far too liberal. Your partner’s draconian definition of “excessive profanity” is correct, damn it to hell.
8. ANNIVERSARY GIFTS: When it comes to Anniversary Presents, DO religiously stick to the traditional Anniversary Present scheme. Your significant other will think that you are hopelessly romantic to give traditional gifts. This is true. What else is true is that you have to put little to no effort into deciding what an appropriate gift will be. Some wonderful schmuck came up with a list for you! The great thing about this particular tip is that you can admit it to your significant other and he/she won’t care. (Who are we kidding? There’s no “he.”)
9. SUGARPIE HONEYBUNCH: Avoid pet names for each other at all costs. It’s just sickening. I do call my wife by her maiden name, but avoid “babe,” “lover,” “fancy face,” “fancy feast,” “toots,” “stinkfinger,” “shifty,” “honey,” etc. This will likely not save your relationship, but it will make me not hate you. Or hate you less.
10. SAY IT OFTEN: Most importantly, tell her that you love her every day. Make a game of it. Try to find the most inappropriate time. She’s changing a diaper? “Love you.” Left the door open when using the restroom? “Love you.” On her hands and knees cleaning vomit off the floor? “Love you.” Up to her shoulder in a cow’s ass? “Love you.” Screaming at a telemarketer? “Love you.” The spontaneous admission of love is the most sincere, probably.
I hope that you can use this to improve your relationship. I’m no Dr. Phil because I’m not excessively overweight, I have a full head of hair, a relative dearth of homespun wisdom, and I don’t have a PhD in Home Economics (which may or may not be true about Dr. Phil). What I do have is almost 38 years of being wonderful, and 43 years of a successful marriage where I have rarely been referred to as an asshole.
Enjoy friends, and remember the most important rule regarding long-term relationships: your partner knows all your dirty little secrets, your secret anxieties and phobias, everything embarrassing about you, and is still willing to call the pizza place because you‘re uncomfortable on the phone. Do you really want to let this person out of your sight?
And please keep my wife in your thoughts as she tries to clean out the caviar.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sometimes, it can only get better.
This morning, after an anxious two-year-old had climbed into our bed during the night while wearing a subpar diaper, I was awakened when I felt urine running down my back. It had an interesting effect on my attitude. Frankly, if you start the day by getting peed on, things can only get better.
Friday, May 21, 2010
In which I explain that I did not use the Princess Potty
We have a two-year-old is currently undergoing the world’s most laid-back potty training in the world. It’s a method that worked on the older two, and it seems to be working on her. Essentially, we provide a small potty, and if she uses it, fine. If not, we continue to change her diaper. No incentives, just options. Slowly, she’s introduced to underwear, which she completely soaks with urine, but is slowly preferring to her diapers. Eventually, she’ll wear only pull-ups to sleep in, then WOO-HOO, only one more to potty-train.
We bought the potty some time ago. For this kid, we went all out and bought “The Princess Potty:” a little throne-shaped potty that has two sensors on the bottom of the bowl. When the sensors are touched, an adorable little fan-fare is played, and it changes each time. It’s adorable until you realize that it’s a turd or a cup of pee that is spanning the sensors and triggering the fan-fare.
I think we got this potty from Sears, and had given our two-year-old the choice between the princess potty, and a frog potty. (My wife was pulling for the frog potty because it would’ve matched the bathroom’s décor, but she was willing to honor our daughter’s choice.) Our daughter chose the princess potty, and ever since it’s been installed in our front bathroom next to the toilet.
As I mentioned before, we’ve had this potty for some time, and Lord knows how long it sat on the shelf before we bought it. It works fine except for. . . sometimes. Sometimes, the fanfare plays when no one is in the room. In the middle of the night, we’ll hear the electronic fanfare. Walking by will sometimes set it off, and sometimes . . . well, you’ll see.
I use that bathroom on occasion. We have a bathroom in our bedroom, but this one’s closer to the living room and my precious, precious TV. The other day, I was using it in the usual manner (I won’t go into details. You’re welcome.) when the Princess Potty, nestled right next to the toilet, played it’s regal fanfare.
Hmmm, I thought, and continued my bidness. Then it played again. And again. Luckily for me, I was not the sole audience. My two older daughters were right outside the door.
“Don’t use the potty, Daddy!”
“That’s not your potty, Daddy!”
Then raucous laughter. I hollered my denials, but it only fanned the flames as the tiny toilet continued to play.
“Mommy, how come Daddy can use the potty when he said that we can’t?”
“Don’t sit on it, Daddy! You’ll break it!” And the fanfare played on and on.
Tiny fists beat at the door as the two-year-old realized that her potty was playing, and that she wasn’t on it. Eventually, I reached over and dismantled the cursed thing. I don’t know why it played over and over again. It was like something out of a Poe story. I put new batteries in, and it stopped malfunctioning. I don’t know if that was what the problem was or not, but it was all I could think of to do.
The funny thing is, when I first assembled it, I had kinda, just a little bit, wanted to try it. It’s not something that had been nagging at me, or that I was obsessing over. It was just, you put something together, you want to try it out. Take it for a test drive. Be the first to use it.
But please know and believe, as my oldest three children don’t, I did not use the Princess Potty.
We bought the potty some time ago. For this kid, we went all out and bought “The Princess Potty:” a little throne-shaped potty that has two sensors on the bottom of the bowl. When the sensors are touched, an adorable little fan-fare is played, and it changes each time. It’s adorable until you realize that it’s a turd or a cup of pee that is spanning the sensors and triggering the fan-fare.
I think we got this potty from Sears, and had given our two-year-old the choice between the princess potty, and a frog potty. (My wife was pulling for the frog potty because it would’ve matched the bathroom’s décor, but she was willing to honor our daughter’s choice.) Our daughter chose the princess potty, and ever since it’s been installed in our front bathroom next to the toilet.
As I mentioned before, we’ve had this potty for some time, and Lord knows how long it sat on the shelf before we bought it. It works fine except for. . . sometimes. Sometimes, the fanfare plays when no one is in the room. In the middle of the night, we’ll hear the electronic fanfare. Walking by will sometimes set it off, and sometimes . . . well, you’ll see.
I use that bathroom on occasion. We have a bathroom in our bedroom, but this one’s closer to the living room and my precious, precious TV. The other day, I was using it in the usual manner (I won’t go into details. You’re welcome.) when the Princess Potty, nestled right next to the toilet, played it’s regal fanfare.
Hmmm, I thought, and continued my bidness. Then it played again. And again. Luckily for me, I was not the sole audience. My two older daughters were right outside the door.
“Don’t use the potty, Daddy!”
“That’s not your potty, Daddy!”
Then raucous laughter. I hollered my denials, but it only fanned the flames as the tiny toilet continued to play.
“Mommy, how come Daddy can use the potty when he said that we can’t?”
“Don’t sit on it, Daddy! You’ll break it!” And the fanfare played on and on.
Tiny fists beat at the door as the two-year-old realized that her potty was playing, and that she wasn’t on it. Eventually, I reached over and dismantled the cursed thing. I don’t know why it played over and over again. It was like something out of a Poe story. I put new batteries in, and it stopped malfunctioning. I don’t know if that was what the problem was or not, but it was all I could think of to do.
The funny thing is, when I first assembled it, I had kinda, just a little bit, wanted to try it. It’s not something that had been nagging at me, or that I was obsessing over. It was just, you put something together, you want to try it out. Take it for a test drive. Be the first to use it.
But please know and believe, as my oldest three children don’t, I did not use the Princess Potty.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Traumatizing Children by Killing Animals in Literature; or Why I Hate “Where The Red Fern Grows”
Sometimes I just like to yammer about things. This is one of them.
My daughter’s third grade class is currently reading “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I remembered being forced to read this as a child. I only remembered the one scene where a boy falls on an ax and dies. Lucky for me, I had an older brother who warned me about the axing. Of course, since he was an older brother, he had to tell me about it in gruesome detail, adding nasty, blood-spurting touches that weren’t in the original. God, I miss him.
Anyway, I likewise warned my daughter that there was a disturbing scene in the book, and explained it to her very briefly, depriving her of the hilarious trauma that my brother dispensed to me. Her teacher had also warned the class before reading that section. But I remembered nothing else about the book.
She has been enjoying it so far. Over dinner tonight, she told us the plot that she had been told, about a young boy in the Ozarks who wanted nothing more than two hounds. After dinner, she wanted to watch the movie, despite the fact that her class had not yet finished reading the book. She was worried about how it would end, having overheard a snippet of conversation among classmates about the death of a dog. Jokingly (as is my wont), I told her that it ended Hamlet style, with everyone dead. I then reassured her that I had no memory of how it ended, so it probably wasn’t as dire as that.
So, we watched in on Netflix. Turns out, I wasn’t far from the truth. Along with the previously mentioned death of a child, one dog was killed by a mountain lion, and the other died of a broken heart, refusing to eat until it starved to death. My daughter was bawling. Trying to comfort her by telling her that she was crying over the death of fictional dogs only made me look like an asshole. Which I so wasn’t. I was the realistic dad. Thing is, though, when your kid’s crying over something sad in a movie, they don’t want realistic dad, but sympathetic mom. But I digress.
Why the hell is animal death so prevalent in classic juvenile fiction? And why the hell do teachers make us read it? Really. Old Yeller? He was a good dog. Got shot in the head. Sounder? That was another fun one. Charlotte’s Web? The dread specter of death loomed large for almost the entire book for that damn pig, but it was Charlotte who got it in the end.
I had a book once, an anthology of short stories for 8th graders. There was a story in that was seriously, for lack of a better phrase, fucked up. A young boy befriends a kitten and takes it home. His parents, not animal lovers, tell him to get rid of it. So the boy makes a noose out of a shoelace and strangles the kitten to death.
This was in a book for children. Dear God, why? I wish I still had the book. I’ve told people about it, and, horrifically, everyone believes me, because we’ve all read those sorts of stories as kids.
I absolutely understand that children shouldn’t grow up in a vacuum, believing the world to be a carefree charming place where only bad people in Batman movies die. And animal death is still less significant than a human death, and Disney slaughters parents by the hundreds in their movies.
But still, when trying to instill in children a love of literature, shouldn’t we try to preserve their sense of wonder a little while longer? Do we need to cram death down their scrawny little throats at such an early age? I lost various relatives throughout my childhood, including my brother when I was 15. Reading about it as a child? Not a barrel of laughs. More like a keg of lay-awake-at-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-contemplating-your-own-mortality-in-your-Spiderman-Underoos.
Why are these books classics? We all (barring teachers, naturally) have read them exactly one time: back in school when we were made to. And then we never read them again. Who’d want to?
Of course, as adults we read these sorts of things, because they are made for adults. “Titanic” is one of the top-grossing movies of all time. Women love to watch it and weep. For men, it’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2.” (Why did it have to suck so bad, Quentin? WHY?) We can separate cinematic or literary death from real death. But kids can’t. Everything is so realistic and immediate for children.
If I were a smarter man (and I’m already pretty smart), I’d figure out a way to get these books out of schools. Kids should be reading much lighter fare, like the “Wizard of Oz,” or “The Phantom Tollbooth,” or Chilton’s manuals. Let them wait a little while before death rears its ugly head in their lives.
Still, I suppose my up-coming children’s novel “Death Zoo” should at least sell well to schools.
My daughter’s third grade class is currently reading “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I remembered being forced to read this as a child. I only remembered the one scene where a boy falls on an ax and dies. Lucky for me, I had an older brother who warned me about the axing. Of course, since he was an older brother, he had to tell me about it in gruesome detail, adding nasty, blood-spurting touches that weren’t in the original. God, I miss him.
Anyway, I likewise warned my daughter that there was a disturbing scene in the book, and explained it to her very briefly, depriving her of the hilarious trauma that my brother dispensed to me. Her teacher had also warned the class before reading that section. But I remembered nothing else about the book.
She has been enjoying it so far. Over dinner tonight, she told us the plot that she had been told, about a young boy in the Ozarks who wanted nothing more than two hounds. After dinner, she wanted to watch the movie, despite the fact that her class had not yet finished reading the book. She was worried about how it would end, having overheard a snippet of conversation among classmates about the death of a dog. Jokingly (as is my wont), I told her that it ended Hamlet style, with everyone dead. I then reassured her that I had no memory of how it ended, so it probably wasn’t as dire as that.
So, we watched in on Netflix. Turns out, I wasn’t far from the truth. Along with the previously mentioned death of a child, one dog was killed by a mountain lion, and the other died of a broken heart, refusing to eat until it starved to death. My daughter was bawling. Trying to comfort her by telling her that she was crying over the death of fictional dogs only made me look like an asshole. Which I so wasn’t. I was the realistic dad. Thing is, though, when your kid’s crying over something sad in a movie, they don’t want realistic dad, but sympathetic mom. But I digress.
Why the hell is animal death so prevalent in classic juvenile fiction? And why the hell do teachers make us read it? Really. Old Yeller? He was a good dog. Got shot in the head. Sounder? That was another fun one. Charlotte’s Web? The dread specter of death loomed large for almost the entire book for that damn pig, but it was Charlotte who got it in the end.
I had a book once, an anthology of short stories for 8th graders. There was a story in that was seriously, for lack of a better phrase, fucked up. A young boy befriends a kitten and takes it home. His parents, not animal lovers, tell him to get rid of it. So the boy makes a noose out of a shoelace and strangles the kitten to death.
This was in a book for children. Dear God, why? I wish I still had the book. I’ve told people about it, and, horrifically, everyone believes me, because we’ve all read those sorts of stories as kids.
I absolutely understand that children shouldn’t grow up in a vacuum, believing the world to be a carefree charming place where only bad people in Batman movies die. And animal death is still less significant than a human death, and Disney slaughters parents by the hundreds in their movies.
But still, when trying to instill in children a love of literature, shouldn’t we try to preserve their sense of wonder a little while longer? Do we need to cram death down their scrawny little throats at such an early age? I lost various relatives throughout my childhood, including my brother when I was 15. Reading about it as a child? Not a barrel of laughs. More like a keg of lay-awake-at-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-contemplating-your-own-mortality-in-your-Spiderman-Underoos.
Why are these books classics? We all (barring teachers, naturally) have read them exactly one time: back in school when we were made to. And then we never read them again. Who’d want to?
Of course, as adults we read these sorts of things, because they are made for adults. “Titanic” is one of the top-grossing movies of all time. Women love to watch it and weep. For men, it’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2.” (Why did it have to suck so bad, Quentin? WHY?) We can separate cinematic or literary death from real death. But kids can’t. Everything is so realistic and immediate for children.
If I were a smarter man (and I’m already pretty smart), I’d figure out a way to get these books out of schools. Kids should be reading much lighter fare, like the “Wizard of Oz,” or “The Phantom Tollbooth,” or Chilton’s manuals. Let them wait a little while before death rears its ugly head in their lives.
Still, I suppose my up-coming children’s novel “Death Zoo” should at least sell well to schools.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
In which I complain far too much about the high five.
The other day, a lady at work was especially pleased about some relatively innocuous thing. She was so pleased about this little bit of nothing that, spying me on the other side of the freakin’ room, she raised her hand and shouted with glee “High Five!”
You always have to announce the high-five, otherwise people will think that you’re waving at imaginary animals or asking for permission to go to the bathroom.
I was in a dilemma. She was standing on the other side of the room, a full 10 feet away! Do I look disdainfully at her waiting hand, perched in the air as if to say “raise your hand if you’re a dumbass,” and thereby “leave her hanging”? Or do I run across the room at full tilt, slapping her hand as hard as I can, possibly throwing an elbow or shoulder into the mix to make things interesting and possibly bloody? Or do I sheepishly wander over and return her high five, and then lock myself into the bathroom until the shakes stop?
I chose an alternative option. I performed my best Elvis karate move, with several spins and kicks, threw my own hand in the air, and let her walk across the room to give me five.
Lord, I hate the high five. It was cool back in the day, when only athletes did it to celebrate a touchdown. Now, every schmuck who wants to celebrate some minor victory is doing it.
“Good job with the lasagna, mom. High five!"
“This Anderson report is replete with typos. High five!”
“You didn’t wet the bed! High five, grandma!”
"Great sex, hon. High five."
I’m always besieged with questions when someone raises the fish belly-white palm of terror. Do I clasp their hand and give it a little shake, knowing that the moment of discomfort would be funny, but realizing that my own discomfort would probably overshadow theirs? Do I return with the same hand, or the hand closest to them? In high school, a relatively popular kid wanted to high five me for a particularly fine basketball shot in gym class (which, in retrospect, really was cause for celebration. I sucked). We were standing almost side by side, but facing opposite directions. He raised his right hand and announced that this was indeed an invitation to high five. I had a split second to decide whether to use my left hand to reach across his body and slap his right hand, or to use my right hand, thus creating a symmetry of hands used, but also resulting in a very awkward twisting of my body in order to reach his raised right hand. Either way was awkward, but if I chose correctly, I would be part of the popular crowd. If I chose unwisely, I would be shunned for the rest of high school, a pariah.
I used my right hand, contorting my body to reach his right hand, essentially putting my shoulder into his face. End result? I couldn’t get a date until college. Those things may be unrelated, but I have my doubts.
If you’re really that desperate for human contact, why not go for the belly bounce? Nothing says congratulations like jump into the air and smacking your belly against the belly of a relative stranger.
And you? Why do you hate the high five? And if you don't hate the high five, why do you still enjoy the high five even though you shouldn't?
You always have to announce the high-five, otherwise people will think that you’re waving at imaginary animals or asking for permission to go to the bathroom.
I was in a dilemma. She was standing on the other side of the room, a full 10 feet away! Do I look disdainfully at her waiting hand, perched in the air as if to say “raise your hand if you’re a dumbass,” and thereby “leave her hanging”? Or do I run across the room at full tilt, slapping her hand as hard as I can, possibly throwing an elbow or shoulder into the mix to make things interesting and possibly bloody? Or do I sheepishly wander over and return her high five, and then lock myself into the bathroom until the shakes stop?
I chose an alternative option. I performed my best Elvis karate move, with several spins and kicks, threw my own hand in the air, and let her walk across the room to give me five.
Lord, I hate the high five. It was cool back in the day, when only athletes did it to celebrate a touchdown. Now, every schmuck who wants to celebrate some minor victory is doing it.
“Good job with the lasagna, mom. High five!"
“This Anderson report is replete with typos. High five!”
“You didn’t wet the bed! High five, grandma!”
"Great sex, hon. High five."
I’m always besieged with questions when someone raises the fish belly-white palm of terror. Do I clasp their hand and give it a little shake, knowing that the moment of discomfort would be funny, but realizing that my own discomfort would probably overshadow theirs? Do I return with the same hand, or the hand closest to them? In high school, a relatively popular kid wanted to high five me for a particularly fine basketball shot in gym class (which, in retrospect, really was cause for celebration. I sucked). We were standing almost side by side, but facing opposite directions. He raised his right hand and announced that this was indeed an invitation to high five. I had a split second to decide whether to use my left hand to reach across his body and slap his right hand, or to use my right hand, thus creating a symmetry of hands used, but also resulting in a very awkward twisting of my body in order to reach his raised right hand. Either way was awkward, but if I chose correctly, I would be part of the popular crowd. If I chose unwisely, I would be shunned for the rest of high school, a pariah.
I used my right hand, contorting my body to reach his right hand, essentially putting my shoulder into his face. End result? I couldn’t get a date until college. Those things may be unrelated, but I have my doubts.
If you’re really that desperate for human contact, why not go for the belly bounce? Nothing says congratulations like jump into the air and smacking your belly against the belly of a relative stranger.
And you? Why do you hate the high five? And if you don't hate the high five, why do you still enjoy the high five even though you shouldn't?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
In which I try to become gay for science
(Note: I wrote this some years ago, but I still think it's funny.)
Recently, I once again heard the strains of the tired debate regarding whether homosexuality is learned, or whether it is innate. According to one of the people that I was eavesdropping on (who I like to call Person A), homosexuality is a learned trait. Practicing, as well as presumably closeted homosexuals have consciously chosen to become sexually attracted to the members of their own sex. Since heterosexuality produces babies, and since baby-production is paramount to the continuance of the human race, heterosexuality is natural and instinctive. Therefore, ergo, ipso facto, homosexuals choose to be homosexuals.
Not so, said the other person to whom I was eavesdropping on, Person B. Would a person choose to be vilified, to be tormented, to be shunned by family and friends? Person B suggested that person A was presupposing a natural teleology. At this point, I dropped the thread of the conversation after realizing that I had successfully stolen both of their wallets.
Nevertheless, it raises an interesting question, one that seems very easy to answer. Is homosexuality learned? If it is, then a heterosexual may consciously become gay. However, try as I might, I’ve found no heterosexuals willing to take the leap and “become gay.” I certainly thought that, among the community of those insisting that homosexuality is learned, that a hearty few may have tried for the sake of science. Imagine my surprise to find no studies or experimentation (at least, no recorded nor admitted experimentation) from these august fellows. Certainly they wouldn’t make these broad generalizations, thought I, without some field research. Surely Pat Robertson tried to become gay to show that it was possible. But such was not the case.
Being of a very slightly scientific bent, I became determined to turn myself into a homosexual. If I were successful, the same community that insists that homosexuality is learned have also provided resources to negate the effects of my self-imposed brainwashing. I could learn to be “un-gay.”
I immediately discovered that there were two major stumbling blocks that I had to overcome. First, I am amazingly heterosexual. My first memories are of gazing longingly at lovely, miniskirted legs and juicy boobies. If I were to become gay, I would have to work very hard to overcome my absolutely natural heterosexuality by becoming attracted to men and un-attracted to women. I figured that, if I can first achieve the step of becoming attracted to men, that I could then lose my attraction for women later. How hard could that be?
The second stumbling block? I’m married. Having man sex would necessarily mean that I had to cheat on my wife. I explained to her my experiment, also explaining that it would answer an age-old question. While she admired my scientific zeal , she was not willing to overlook our wedding vows to the extent where she would permit me to have sex with other people, scientific necessity or no.
This was troublesome. How could I ensure that I was well and truly gay without some field work?
Then, I had an epiphany. “Eureka,“ I stated simply. I realized that since I was quite thoroughly interested in heterosexual sex long before I had ever actually engaged in it, I could become a non-practicing homosexual, with all of the desires of homosexual men without the physical contact. This had the added benefit that I did not have to decide whether I would rather be a top or a bottom.
I started my experiment by watching movies about gay culture, and by watching a lot of television. Unfortunately, I have a very limited attention span, and fell asleep during my third hour of Will and Grace. I did watch enough to notice some traits of gay men. Most gay men in television are neat and thin. I am, while not some great galumphing elephant, not thin. Neither am I neat.
I explained my predicament to a lesbian acquaintance. While I was genuinely interested in becoming gay, I refused to lose weight, and was far too lazy to become neat. She explained to me that this was Germans call a “stereotype.” She told me that gay men come in all shapes and sizes, and that some can be quite messy.
Relieved that I could still maintain my messy, chubby lifestyle and still be gay, I then began the arduous task of becoming attracted to men. Her advice came a little late. I had already ordered and paid for what I had determined from gay media to be the consummate “gay outfit:” a pair of leather shorts, a mesh tank top, a motorcycle hat, aviator sunglasses, and army boots.
I realized that, in order to become attracted to men, I would have to look at them. To become truly gay, I theorized, I would have to look at a naked man. I decided to begin with the closest man at hand: me.
I disrobed and looked at myself in the mirror. I admired the line of my jaw, the way that my hair was tousled. I admired my sweet smile. My physique did leave some to be desired, even by a dedicated homosexuality student. I have a washboard stomach, you just can‘t see it. It was somewhat difficult to see my ass, but no matter. I still had the penis to gaze at.
My penis continued to dangle, flaccid. Apparently, looking at myself had no impact whatsoever on my libido. I decided that, since I was learning to be homosexual, I merely had to look longer. Sooner or later, I theorized, I would find myself attractive.
I had to give up after four hours. By that time, I had not had a single erection, nor a single erotic thought. I had shaved an interesting pattern in chest hair, looking like a large owl. That was a hit with my wife.
At the end of this stage of the experiment, I realized that, if I were to become gay, apparently I wasn’t my type.
I decided that I had bitten off more than I could chew by leaping directly to naked men. Instead, I would look at clothed men and slowly work myself up to naked men.
I had to find men. But how? I researched the question online. Unfortunately, searching for places to find men on the internet led me back to naked men. That was more than I could handle during this phase of my learning. I decided to hit the street.
I began checking out men at the office and in the grocery store. I watched men bend over, and watched men use jack hammers. I watched men play football in the park with their shirts off.
I noticed two things. First, men in my area are ugly and fat. Second, that I was not aroused, though I did seem to provoke the ire of the young football playing gentlemen, who thought that I was “creepy” to be watching them play their game while seated only a few feet away wearing my shorts and tank top, tenaciously taking notes. According to one young man, you could “see my nuts” from the way that my new shorts gaped while I sat cross-legged.
I changed my tactic, and tried approaching men, thinking that, if a man were to be attracted to me, my libido would be polite and be attracted in return. I began shaking a lot of hands, holding them just a little longer than is considered polite. I began commenting on men’s clothes and on their physiques. I employed every bit of my flirt knowledge at these men, but no takers. I ran into the same problem with the men that I had ran into with women when I was still dating: they thought I was kidding.
Living in a fairly small town which had certain fixed views about homosexuals, I didn’t feel that I could come on to any of the gentlemen that I spoke to. I was also unsure if any of these men were scientifically dedicated enough to support my experiment, nor open-minded enough to accept my explanation without resorting to fisticuffs and name-calling. I therefore determined this part of the experiment over.
Having spoken to and admired a fair number of men, I decided to ease back into looking at more sexually explicit men. I had exhausted my single resource of seeing a live naked man, and turned to the internet to provide more for me.
This experiment ended quite poorly. I found myself routinely unaroused by any images I found. Naked men themselves seemed to be inadvertently hilarious to me. Naked men engaged in sexual contact with other naked men was, while interesting and novel to my burgeoning homosexual mind, caused nothing to stir in my loins. One particular arrangement was fascinating. One man penetrated another man. The first man was penetrated by a third, who was himself being penetrated.
I tried to capitalize on my fascination with the final phase of my experiment. While I could not have sexual contact with any man, I could still provoke orgasm while fantasizing about a man. I would masturbate.
I tried thinking of all of the men I had seen that day. I tried thinking of the pictures. I was momentarily elated when my penis became erect. However, in retrospect, that was most likely because the little guy always gets that way if I handle him enough.
Sadly, I could not achieve orgasm. With weary arm, I type this. I have tried to become a homosexual, and have failed. Even after a long afternoon of experimentation and earnestly trying to learn to become homosexuality, I have decided that it is simply impossible.
However, it does provide an answer to the age-old question. Homosexuality is not learned. It is innate. If any of the blowhards who insist that it were otherwise were ever to give it a try, they would soon learn that I was right.
While I admit that I looked forward to becoming a homosexual for the sake of science, I’m glad that I’m still attracted to my wife, and don’t have to undergo the doubtlessly arduous un-gaying procedures.
I’ll accept my Nobel Prize, now. And I’m still wearing the clothes. For comfort.
Recently, I once again heard the strains of the tired debate regarding whether homosexuality is learned, or whether it is innate. According to one of the people that I was eavesdropping on (who I like to call Person A), homosexuality is a learned trait. Practicing, as well as presumably closeted homosexuals have consciously chosen to become sexually attracted to the members of their own sex. Since heterosexuality produces babies, and since baby-production is paramount to the continuance of the human race, heterosexuality is natural and instinctive. Therefore, ergo, ipso facto, homosexuals choose to be homosexuals.
Not so, said the other person to whom I was eavesdropping on, Person B. Would a person choose to be vilified, to be tormented, to be shunned by family and friends? Person B suggested that person A was presupposing a natural teleology. At this point, I dropped the thread of the conversation after realizing that I had successfully stolen both of their wallets.
Nevertheless, it raises an interesting question, one that seems very easy to answer. Is homosexuality learned? If it is, then a heterosexual may consciously become gay. However, try as I might, I’ve found no heterosexuals willing to take the leap and “become gay.” I certainly thought that, among the community of those insisting that homosexuality is learned, that a hearty few may have tried for the sake of science. Imagine my surprise to find no studies or experimentation (at least, no recorded nor admitted experimentation) from these august fellows. Certainly they wouldn’t make these broad generalizations, thought I, without some field research. Surely Pat Robertson tried to become gay to show that it was possible. But such was not the case.
Being of a very slightly scientific bent, I became determined to turn myself into a homosexual. If I were successful, the same community that insists that homosexuality is learned have also provided resources to negate the effects of my self-imposed brainwashing. I could learn to be “un-gay.”
I immediately discovered that there were two major stumbling blocks that I had to overcome. First, I am amazingly heterosexual. My first memories are of gazing longingly at lovely, miniskirted legs and juicy boobies. If I were to become gay, I would have to work very hard to overcome my absolutely natural heterosexuality by becoming attracted to men and un-attracted to women. I figured that, if I can first achieve the step of becoming attracted to men, that I could then lose my attraction for women later. How hard could that be?
The second stumbling block? I’m married. Having man sex would necessarily mean that I had to cheat on my wife. I explained to her my experiment, also explaining that it would answer an age-old question. While she admired my scientific zeal , she was not willing to overlook our wedding vows to the extent where she would permit me to have sex with other people, scientific necessity or no.
This was troublesome. How could I ensure that I was well and truly gay without some field work?
Then, I had an epiphany. “Eureka,“ I stated simply. I realized that since I was quite thoroughly interested in heterosexual sex long before I had ever actually engaged in it, I could become a non-practicing homosexual, with all of the desires of homosexual men without the physical contact. This had the added benefit that I did not have to decide whether I would rather be a top or a bottom.
I started my experiment by watching movies about gay culture, and by watching a lot of television. Unfortunately, I have a very limited attention span, and fell asleep during my third hour of Will and Grace. I did watch enough to notice some traits of gay men. Most gay men in television are neat and thin. I am, while not some great galumphing elephant, not thin. Neither am I neat.
I explained my predicament to a lesbian acquaintance. While I was genuinely interested in becoming gay, I refused to lose weight, and was far too lazy to become neat. She explained to me that this was Germans call a “stereotype.” She told me that gay men come in all shapes and sizes, and that some can be quite messy.
Relieved that I could still maintain my messy, chubby lifestyle and still be gay, I then began the arduous task of becoming attracted to men. Her advice came a little late. I had already ordered and paid for what I had determined from gay media to be the consummate “gay outfit:” a pair of leather shorts, a mesh tank top, a motorcycle hat, aviator sunglasses, and army boots.
I realized that, in order to become attracted to men, I would have to look at them. To become truly gay, I theorized, I would have to look at a naked man. I decided to begin with the closest man at hand: me.
I disrobed and looked at myself in the mirror. I admired the line of my jaw, the way that my hair was tousled. I admired my sweet smile. My physique did leave some to be desired, even by a dedicated homosexuality student. I have a washboard stomach, you just can‘t see it. It was somewhat difficult to see my ass, but no matter. I still had the penis to gaze at.
My penis continued to dangle, flaccid. Apparently, looking at myself had no impact whatsoever on my libido. I decided that, since I was learning to be homosexual, I merely had to look longer. Sooner or later, I theorized, I would find myself attractive.
I had to give up after four hours. By that time, I had not had a single erection, nor a single erotic thought. I had shaved an interesting pattern in chest hair, looking like a large owl. That was a hit with my wife.
At the end of this stage of the experiment, I realized that, if I were to become gay, apparently I wasn’t my type.
I decided that I had bitten off more than I could chew by leaping directly to naked men. Instead, I would look at clothed men and slowly work myself up to naked men.
I had to find men. But how? I researched the question online. Unfortunately, searching for places to find men on the internet led me back to naked men. That was more than I could handle during this phase of my learning. I decided to hit the street.
I began checking out men at the office and in the grocery store. I watched men bend over, and watched men use jack hammers. I watched men play football in the park with their shirts off.
I noticed two things. First, men in my area are ugly and fat. Second, that I was not aroused, though I did seem to provoke the ire of the young football playing gentlemen, who thought that I was “creepy” to be watching them play their game while seated only a few feet away wearing my shorts and tank top, tenaciously taking notes. According to one young man, you could “see my nuts” from the way that my new shorts gaped while I sat cross-legged.
I changed my tactic, and tried approaching men, thinking that, if a man were to be attracted to me, my libido would be polite and be attracted in return. I began shaking a lot of hands, holding them just a little longer than is considered polite. I began commenting on men’s clothes and on their physiques. I employed every bit of my flirt knowledge at these men, but no takers. I ran into the same problem with the men that I had ran into with women when I was still dating: they thought I was kidding.
Living in a fairly small town which had certain fixed views about homosexuals, I didn’t feel that I could come on to any of the gentlemen that I spoke to. I was also unsure if any of these men were scientifically dedicated enough to support my experiment, nor open-minded enough to accept my explanation without resorting to fisticuffs and name-calling. I therefore determined this part of the experiment over.
Having spoken to and admired a fair number of men, I decided to ease back into looking at more sexually explicit men. I had exhausted my single resource of seeing a live naked man, and turned to the internet to provide more for me.
This experiment ended quite poorly. I found myself routinely unaroused by any images I found. Naked men themselves seemed to be inadvertently hilarious to me. Naked men engaged in sexual contact with other naked men was, while interesting and novel to my burgeoning homosexual mind, caused nothing to stir in my loins. One particular arrangement was fascinating. One man penetrated another man. The first man was penetrated by a third, who was himself being penetrated.
I tried to capitalize on my fascination with the final phase of my experiment. While I could not have sexual contact with any man, I could still provoke orgasm while fantasizing about a man. I would masturbate.
I tried thinking of all of the men I had seen that day. I tried thinking of the pictures. I was momentarily elated when my penis became erect. However, in retrospect, that was most likely because the little guy always gets that way if I handle him enough.
Sadly, I could not achieve orgasm. With weary arm, I type this. I have tried to become a homosexual, and have failed. Even after a long afternoon of experimentation and earnestly trying to learn to become homosexuality, I have decided that it is simply impossible.
However, it does provide an answer to the age-old question. Homosexuality is not learned. It is innate. If any of the blowhards who insist that it were otherwise were ever to give it a try, they would soon learn that I was right.
While I admit that I looked forward to becoming a homosexual for the sake of science, I’m glad that I’m still attracted to my wife, and don’t have to undergo the doubtlessly arduous un-gaying procedures.
I’ll accept my Nobel Prize, now. And I’m still wearing the clothes. For comfort.
In which I complain about the plight of the older white guy
I’m a white guy, and have been for a considerable time now. I was never asked to be a white guy, but rather had my white-guyness thrust upon me. Sure, everyone knows that being a white guy comes with certain privileges. We make more money than our female counterparts. Up until recently, we were in charge of the country for over two-hundred years. And advertising agencies focus primarily on us.
Why is that? Because being a white guy typically means that you possess four things: 1) pale skin, 2) a penis, 3) money, and 4) the driving desire to spend that money as quickly as possible on things that you “need.” Our “needs” are much different from the rest of society’s needs. We need electronics. You might think that we just want it. Nope. We NEED it. They make us a whole person. They emphasize the aforementioned penis. And advertisers know this. They know that we need bright, shiny objects, so they prey on us. It’s dreadful to be so exploited. But if you aren’t a white man, you won’t feel my pain.
18 to 35 year old white males are the life blood of the economy. If it weren’t for their reckless spending, this great country would’ve gone to hell a long time ago. So you’re welcome.
I’m no longer part of this demographic. At a certain age, you begin to realize, “man, I really don’t need this crap. Why do I need a CD player that holds 100 CD’s when I only own ten, and haven’t bought a CD since I discovered Napster?” But I’m still part of the community. An adjunct professor of white-guyship, and I’m used to being treated as such.
I graduated from law school in 2001. After I passed the bar and got my first job, I started dressing nicer and was a little more well-kempt. And it showed in the respect I was given. I’ve been stopped for speeding so many times, but if you are wearing a tie, you are much less likely to get a ticket. Cashiers are extra nice to me, offering me valuable programs that I’m sure that the stores only offer to white guys. Enter almost any retail business in a suit, and the employees will automatically think you’re from corporate, and you will receive the ass-kissing of a lifetime.
Yes, life was good for little old white me. Until recently.
I was working for a friend of mine until last May, when I discovered it would be much more lucrative to work out of my house and be my own boss. I make a respectable living. It would be crass to state precise figures. Let’s just say that I’m not exactly Bill Gates, but I’m not Bob the Hobo dancing for quarters in front of the bar, either. I’m only Bob the Hobo on weekends for fun.
Since I was my own boss, I decided to do something that I haven’t done since I was a philosophy major in college: I started growing my hair out. It looks a little strange to see a guy in a tie with a pony-tail, sure, but I always liked my long hair, and I decided that I could do it if I wanted to.
But somehow, this mane, this Samsonesque head of hair has somehow demoted me in the eyes of society. I am no longer treated with the level of courtesy and respect that I was previously when I was a clean-shaven, short haired, obviously middle class white guy.
Case in point; this weekend, we went to Mesa so that I could engage in that most white guy of pursuits, bike-riding. We got rooms at the Marriott at a special rate. When I went to check in, I was wearing green shorts, a “life is good” t-shirt, and my favorite hat. It’s one of those distressed ballcaps with a Woody the Woodpecker logo on it. Since I was wearing my hat, my excess hair trailed down the back of my scalp, and I will admit that for all purposes, it looked like I had a mullet.
I told the nice lady behind the counter my name. She asked for picture ID and a credit or debit card. I handed her my License and my debit card. She looked at it skeptically, then pointed to a sign on the counter that read “Debit cards will automatically deduct the amount of the room from your account.”
“Sir,” she said, in a voice dripping with disrespect for my white guy status, “your debit card is going to be automatically charged.” I contemplated my response. Should I immediately start crying, begging her not to run my debit card? Should I throw some more cards on the counter to shut her up? Should I flash my Bar card at her? Instead, I simply smiled and said “well, that’s not going to be a problem.”
The bane of the white guy is the white trash guy. Don’t get me wrong, I love the white trash. I make most of my money from white trash. Without white trash, we wouldn’t have Eminem or Kid Rock, though they’ve also given us Insane Clown Posse. I forgive them that, though.
But this person, this non white-guy, assumed that I was not in the favorable demographic. I daresay that she looked down her nose at me.
It’s becoming increasingly more obvious that I’m losing my white guy status. I’m too old and too hairy. Businesses don’t want me like they once did. I’m like a very masculine, dying flower.
I don’t want your pity.
But I need it.
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