Iron man battles the Wicked Wrinkles to the death. It just gets ugly.
November 24, 2009
I may have given the impression, such is my skill at being obedient, that there has always been a woman in my life, from my mother to The First Wife and, now, Viking Woman. The truth is, I was a bachelor for six years.
By bachelor I mean I was free to do anything I wanted. And by that I mean leaving stacks of unread newspapers where they fell, not having to shave every day because “it scratches,” and not being required to share coffee. Here on Planet Man, we pretty much call that “heaven.” Or is it “paradise”? I can never remember.
There were challenges, I won’t deny that. For instance, when it came to meals, if I couldn’t nuke it, toast it or boil it, I ate it raw. I think I pretty much invented sushi in the process.
There was one stretch for, oh I don’t know, two days where I decided to be good to my body and eat nothing but salads. I would use no electricity whatsoever and thus also save on one utility bill. Except I quickly grew bored with eating leaves and shoots and tendrils and eventually defaulted to my standard fare: buns slathered with peanut butter. And a tall, chilled glass of Diet Coke. Are you envious yet? How about hungry?
I coped rather well on my own, if I do say so myself. I rinsed the dishes in cold water at least once a week. I vacuumed the apartment every other month whether it needed it or not. Sometimes I remembered to take out the rubbish before the place started to smell like an abattoir.
I also eventually identified the strange creature perched in the linen closet. The one constructed of metal and plastic, with holes in the bottom and an electrical cord trailing from its ass. My first thought was “Who would invent such a weird-looking door stop?” before having it explained to me that this beast was, in fact, an iron.
You use it to — wait for it — iron your clothes.
How crazy is that?
I did, in fact, learn how to operate that strange mechanism. Mostly out of necessity, which is pretty much the only reason us inhabitants of Planet Man bother to adopt any new skills at all
I donned a shirt, tie and dress pants to cover sports when I worked for the Langley Times. Yes, it was a uniform of sorts but it said “I’m serious about my job here, people.” It also said — because I covered a lot of high school games — “I am not a pervert. Honest.”
My opposite number at The Advance tended to show up at events looking like he’d just come from the beach. Or from mucking out the stalls. I firmly believe people respected me more because I dressed, well, respectively. Even if, clad all in black in the middle of the summer, I looked like I was on my way to a job interview.
That was when I learned the great secret to ironing: It doesn’t eliminate the wrinkles at all; it simply moves them around. Once you learn to shift the wrinkles to the back of your clothes, your job is done. Because, when you think about it, everyone looks at you when you arrive but no one bothers glancing over their shoulder when you leave.
So there you have it, another valuable Life Lesson brought to by the friendly folk on Planet Man. Next week: Fun with knives and toasters. You’ll be shocked. I know I was.
I’d love to do the housework but my sick sperm are killing me.
August 28, 2009
You’ve got to feel sorry for the inhabitants of Planet Man. No, really — I’m being serious here, people.
If we’re not being told to “man up,” we’re being accused of acting like testosterone-fueled louts whose brains — and eyes — never rise above the level of a woman’s swimsuit area.
That point has been hammered home to me lately courtesy of a number of stories on the Internet and in magazines about the various minefields we all tend to stumble through in order to form a relationship with a member of the opposite gender.
The first article (1) suggested women actually use a mental stopwatch during sex. Something along the lines of “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou . . . you’ve got to be kidding me!”
On the other hand, as it were, the Viagra Vanguard isn’t that popular either. I conducted an informal poll (OK, I asked two women) and the consensus is that, no matter how well-intentioned (or well-lubricated) the lovemaking, at a certain point friction becomes the most important factor. Plainly speaking, things eventually get rubbed raw. And by things I mean, you know, things.
Here’s another example of the pressure the inhabitants of Planet Man face on a daily basis: a woman’s reaction when we attempt to answer that eons-old question: Does my bum look big in this fig leaf/loincloth/animal fur/jeans?
Face it, guys, there are only two possible answers and they are both going to end in tears:
Him: No.
Her: You’re lying
Him: Yes.
Her: You’re dead.
If that’s not enough mixed signals for you, another story (2) related how Kiwi men are rated the eighth best husbands in the world. Based on — wait for it — their willingness to do housework.
In other words, my fellow penis possessors, what the ladies are saying is what impresses them most is not our performance in the bedroom but, rather, the length of our vacuum hoses and our stamina in the kitchen when faced with a sinkful of greasy dishes.
With that survey in mind, I’ve now taken to parading around the house wearing nothing but an apron and pink rubber gloves.
Which may explain why the neighbors no longer open their curtains.
Yet another story (3) featured the news that healthier sperm may mean longer life. Yes, apparently good semen quality will add years to our time here on Planet Man. Of course, more years means more housework but, hey, we’ll just have to take solace in the thought that at least all those swimmers churning in our netherlands are happy little buggers.
The story does not explain how to achieve healthy sperm, but I’m thinking exercise. I’m also imagining this conversation:
Her: What are you doing in the bathroom with the door locked?
Him: I’m living longer.
Her: You’re dead.
But just before she breaks down the door with the same frying pan that will soon be bouncing off your skull, you might want to take the advice of a blogger (4) who offered up a list of compliments every woman loves to hear. Even if you’re saying them from the other side of a locked bathroom door while swaddling your body in a protective cocoon of Charmin.
If you have sensitive gag reflex, you might want to skip this part, but here’s the top five compliments that might save your life:
1. You’re irreplaceable.
2. You bring light to my life.
3. You are perfect just the way that you are.
4. I love your (fill in the blank with any of her body parts situated outside the swimsuit area — if you can think of any. I know, me neither).
5. I am so proud of you.
Yes, as a matter of fact I did throw up in my mouth just typing that list. but what left me shaking my head (apart from the fact that I want to meet the man who actually utters No. 2 — and then kick him in the nuts) is that the following compliment failed to make the list:
Him: For a fat girl, you don’t sweat much.
Her: You’re dead.
But after all the doom and gloom besetting Planet Man via these reports — if your rotten sperm doesn’t kill you, your wife will — I was pleased to find at least one tidbit of good news.
According to The New York Times (5), a potbelly (nicknamed the Ralph Kramden) is the new hot look for males. Six-pack abs are so, like, yesterday, dude.
The story noted that a taut belly and other metrosexual traits are now considered “prissy” and an indication that you “may have too much time on your hands.”
This revelation could, of course, lead to this conversation:
Her: You’re fat.
Him: I have no time for you because I’m busy.
Her: You’re about to be busy being dead.
***
Reference sources:
(1) Men’s Business, by Matt Philp, Your Weekend, The Dominion Post, Aug. 8, 2009
(2) Kiwis 8th best husbands, Aussies worst, AAP, Aug. 4, 2009
(3) Men with livelier, more plentiful sperm live longer, by Anne Harding, Reuters, July 27, 2009
(4) 5 Compliments Every Woman Loves To Hear, by YourTango, Aug. 4, 2009
(5) It’s Hip to be Round, by Guy Trebay, The New York Times, Aug. 13, 2009
***
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***
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They say you can tell everything about a man by his shoes. If that is indeed the case, then my footwear says, “This guy needs to find a job. And win Lotto.”
While Viking Woman was once caught on film licking a Manolo Blahnik shoe while standing directly under the lights in the store’s display window, I tend not to be moved to orgasm by anything I place on my body.
I’m sure I represent all of Planet Man when I say that I treat shoes like every other clothing item I own — kept to a bare minimum in number and replaced only when they wear out or disintegrate. Whichever comes first.
That would explain why I own the grand total of three pairs of footwear: hiking boots for wet/cold conditions; black dress shoes for job interviews/work/church/wedding/funerals; and athletic shoes for pretty much every other contingency.
As I’m constantly explaining to Viking Woman, humans possess but two feet. It is pretty much physically impossible to wear more than one pair of shoes at a time. She simply smiles and reminds me again about how she wants her ashes stored in a shoebox on a shelf in the Zappos store in Las Vegas. Next to the high heels. Size 9.
Unlike the female of the species, men do not feel the urge to change our shoes just because we’ve now blinked for the 170th time today. Or a butterfly happened to cross the yard. We do not need to buy new shoes simply because we wore the red ones to work three weeks ago and that means everyone has already seen them. The shame! The humiliation! The horror!
The utter crap!
On Planet Man, we believe in spending our money on the important things in life. And by important things, I mean chips, beer and widescreen TVs. The only reason we’d even bother to look at a woman’s shoes is if they were attached to her chest.
I’ve watched Viking Woman salivate in front of her computer as she stared, wide-eyed, at zappos.com. Admittedly, there are websites that have the same effect on me but I don’t get so excited I’m practically caressing the monitor. Well, hardly ever.
Zappos is a North American company, of course. I’m not sure how important shoes actually are here in New Zealand. When we lived in Gisborne, we’d pass a Maori primary school where most of the kids went barefoot. When the weather grew colder, they put on socks. Not shoes, mind you — just socks.
Actually, now that I think of it, I have owned more than three pairs of footwear at one time.
It was late fall when I was first hired as the sports editor for the Langley Times and, facing a long, chilly winter of reporting on outdoor soccer matches, I felt obliged to purchase a pair of snow boots that really should have come with their own sled dogs and directions to the Arctic Circle. By the time I managed to pull them off the first time, winter was over.
Viking Woman is now threatening to buy me Crocs. Over my dead body, I tell her.
Which means she will probably slip them on my cold, stiff corpse for the funeral.
And then spend my life insurance at the Manolo Blahnik store.
Apparently, there is some female rule that states, ‘You lick ‘em, you buy ‘em.’
Who knew?
We’re all about the numbers here on Planet Man.
And by numbers, I mean statistics, not mathematics. Because, I mean, really — if God had actually intended for us to pay attention to math, He would have given us more fingers and less calculators.
I took a Math 12 class in my final year of high school. I lasted three weeks. It took that long for me to figure out the teacher wasn’t speaking a foreign language — apparently that’s what calculus sounds like. I dropped out of the class to join the choir. If I told you my singing has been compared to the noise a cat makes after catching its tail in a woodchipper, you will understand how much I hate math.
Statistics? Ah, now we’re talking (excuse me while I shiver with excitement. OK. Better now.)
By statistics, I mean sports stats, and by sports I mean hockey. If you’ve read my profile, then you know I’m all about the being hit with several ounces of vulcanized rubber moving very, very fast. Preferably not in the lower groin. Or the face.
At one time, I took great pleasure in memorizing Jacques Plante’s goals-against average over my morning corn flakes. Mind you, that was when Jacques Plante was still playing. And, you know, still alive.
Statistics are useful in so many other ways as well. For instance, did you know I’ve seen 68.9 per cent of the movies that opened in Vancouver in 2001? I know — sometimes I even impress myself. About 96.8 per cent of the time, actually.
I keep track of our household budget, which has the added benefit of allowing me to watch our dwindling resources and pretty much calculate the exact date Viking Woman is going to kick my unemployed freelance bum out the door.
In fact, half the fun of writing a blog is in the numbers. There is a tab labelled Blog Stats that lets me see how many unique visits I’ve had each day. (That number would be a lot greater if the bad people at wordpress.com would count my own visits. Talk about your party poopers!)
The Blog Stats show things like how, on April 23 this year, I hit my all-time daily high of 84 visits. Or how, in October 2008, I averaged eight visits a day.
The idea, as every blogger offering to trade his firstborn for a single Google ad will tell you, is to attract great hordes of visitors. There are several ways to do this, including being an excellent writer with important things to say, but I’ve already tried that and, let me tell you, it was barely worth the effort.
Another way to boost visitor numbers is to submit your blog’s name to a site called condron.us. I’m not sure how this works, exactly, but every time I do so, my numbers go up.
How long those visits last (I’m assuming they range in duration from “Hey, this guy is talented. And good-looking.” to a low of “Where’s the boobies you promised? What a load of bollocks!”) can also be calculated. Well, it could if I was using a program called Google Analytics. But I’ve tried three times to read the instructions and each time I ended up lying in the dark with a cold compress pressed to my overheated brain.
In the meantime, I can always use my skill with numbers to do other chores. Measuring things, for instance. We’re very adept at that task here on Planet Man. Heck we don’t even need any tools — we can do it all by eye.
For example, ladies, did you know this . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is nine inches?
Amazing, eh? And you know it must be true because men hardly ever lie. And, by hardly ever, I mean only about 90.7 per cent of the time. But who’s counting?
Those of us who reside on Planet Man possess many special talents and, if you give me a minute, I’m sure I can think of a couple.
In the meantime, there is one concept we have never quite grasped — laundry.
When I was a kid, I simply left my clothes scattered in heaps and mounds on the floor and, when I arrived home from school, they had all been cleaned and tucked into drawers or hung in closets. I’m not sure how that happened, but I’m pretty sure it was fairies.
For some reason, those magical creatures seem to have abandoned me. Maybe they were tired after all these years although, considering I own all of one pair of jeans, I don’t think they were exactly overworked. Maybe they were frightened off by Viking Woman. She can be scary at times, usually after I’ve done something she calls “a man thing,” whatever that means.
With no fairies available, Viking Woman took me firmly by the hand and introduced me to that mechanical beast sitting behind the folding doors in our bathroom. It’s called a washing machine because — how cool is this? — it washes clothes. Who knew?
(I know what you’re thinking: John, where is the dryer — which, wait for it, dries clothes — that should be nestled next to the washing thingee? To which I can only reply, well, this is New Zealand, after all, where electricity is expensive and clotheslines are free.)
Operating a washing machine appears rather simple, even by Planet Man standards. You throw clothes in, add some kind of detergent, perhaps some fabric softener, press a button or three, and go have a nap to recuperate from all that effort.
Easy, eh?
Um, no.
Because, apparently, there are light clothes and dark clothes and some rocket scientist has decreed that those two groupings should never mingle. At least not underwater and covered in soap.
And then, as if my brain wasn’t full enough already — as if I wasn’t still struggling to grasp the concept that people, not fairies, clean clothes — Viking Woman threw in the fun fact that “light” does not necessarily mean “white.”
She went on to explain how pink is actually considered a “light” color. At least where women’s, um, dainties, are concerned.
So let me get this straight — there are light and dark colors and then variations of light colors? And people wonder why the residents of Planet Man tend to bumble around with a look of perpetual confusion on their faces. Hello?
I had a further lesson in all things laundry when I spent two days helping out at a seniors’ residence. This is what I learned: after washing and drying, there is a third step and it’s called folding.
Sweet Baby Jesus, is there no end to this madness?
We need to get one thing straight right now: Men scrunch. We roll. We wad. We pull open drawers and jam. We tuck under beds. We pitch into closets.
What we do not do is fold.
But there I was, mouth gaping in wonderment, as Florence demonstrated the art of grasping corners and then drawing them together once, twice, maybe three times. And then smoothing it all down, adding the item to a pile and moving on to the next one. And the next 400 after that.
To my credit, I managed to learn the art of folding towels by lunchtime. Facecloths proved a bit finicky, if only because they’re so small. Sheets — those great flappy bastards — are tricky but doable. In fact, as long as it was square or rectangle, I managed to successfully convert it from a rumpled heap into a tight, neat package.
And then I came to the round tablecloths. Followed by fitted sheets.
Tonight I will pray for the fairies to come back. I will leave muffins at the door as a gift. I will promise to stop making short jokes. I will stop laughing during Tom Cruise movies.
Because I’ve had it with this whole laundry thing.
And, if the fairies refuse to come back, if not even the lure of double chocolate/macadamia nut muffins is enough to convince them to risk the wrath of Viking Woman, then I will have no choice but to become a nudist.
Yes, it will be a bit breezy in the netherlands, what with this being winter and all, but at least I won’t have to worry about figuring out the difference between “light” and “dark.”
That’s because, after a few chilly nights, everything will be blue. And then, when the pieces start to drop off, there will be red. All dark colors — I know that for a fact.
I stand before the All Supreme Senate (ASS) of Planet Man to offer my sincere apologies and await my punishment.
But, first, if I may, my defence: It wasn’t my fault.
Yes, I understand that is the typical Planet Man response anytime someone questions our behaviour, attitude, clothing choices or Internet bookmarks. But, in this case, it’s the truth. No, really.
You see, Viking Woman was too busy doing that whole employment thing to start in on making another batch of homemade soup. She asked if I’d kindly get off my frickin’ bum and leave my office space for one bloody minute to help her out.
I’m pretty sure there was a veiled reference in there somewhere about physical contact should I not obey and, once I ascertained said contact involved a frying pan and the back of my skull, I was only too happy to make an appearance in the kitchen.
I know this is news to the esteemed members of ASS, but when you make soup, you don’t simply throw whole veggies in a cauldron, turn on the hob and reach for the TV remote. There is actual cutting and chopping involved, which is why Viking Woman, as she headed out the door, suggested I use the food processor.
I’m not sure if the esteemed members understand the principles behind a food processor, but it involves blades. Sharp blades. Moving very fast.
I’ve seen what that blade can do to a short, stubby carrot and imagined it could just as easily do the same to my short stubby fingers. And so I decided against adding a new ingredient to the soup mix. I mean, there’s organic and then there’s cannibal.
So I read the instructions.
Gentlemen, please! Settle! I know, I know — I broke one of Planet Man’s most important tenets: Never ask.
I know the rule is designed to reinforce the notion that we’re in command at all times, lest Viking Woman and her ilk think us weak and start making demands. Like having the right to vote and other silly notions.
I know, when we open a box, we’re required to throw away the styrofoam and the cardboard and the instruction manual, and not necessarily in that order. That it doesn’t matter if our VCRs flash 12 for-freakin’-ever or the chainsaw runs backwards or the car’s brakes only work every other day.
I know all this and yet I still decided to use the printed guide to figure out how the food processor worked.
What can I say, I’m weak. On a related note, soup will be served during the break in these proceedings. I can assure you it’s yummy. Very nice consistency, if I do say so myself.
So, yes, I stand here before you to plead guilty. I have let Planet Man down and all I can is, I regret my actions. My bad. And, oh yeah, it won’t happen again. And, we’re just friends. Oops, sorry, force of habit.
I understand that I may have my official manhood membership suspended as a result of my misconduct. That’s OK. It’s a bit wrinkled and limp at the moment, but it’s been subjected to worse beatings than this in the past and I’m sure it will bounce back from this one with its head held high.
I will also submit a formal letter of apology to ASS. Well, I would if I could just figure out how to turn on the computer. Does anyone have the instruction manu . . . oh crap.
I’d be laughing too, if I hadn’t just wet myself.
April 10, 2009
On the agenda for today’s meeting of Planet Man: life insurance and crazy dance moves.
1) Life insurance
Alive, this is what I’m good for: making meals, washing dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming, hauling the rubbish to the curb, telling Viking Woman that, yes, of course, dear, you still possess the butt of a 17-year-old high school cheerleader.
Dead, this is what I’m good for: $200,000.
Which may explain why Viking Woman is prone to asking me how I’m feeling while reading over our mortgage contract with the bank. One false step in front of a moving bus and our house is paid for. Which may explain why I no longer let her hold my hand when we cross the street.
Because I tend to sign forms without reading them (it’s a Planet Man thing — what can I say), I really have no idea how life insurance works. I assume the basic concept is to ensure there is enough money available to pay for funeral expenses, followed by the surviving partner’s wild holiday on a beach somewhere while surrounded by suntanned models clad in tiny swimsuits.
Viking Woman and I have opted for cremation, something — as I’m constantly reminding her — I’d prefer to occur after I’m dead.
However, during our sojourn in the Cook Islands, we did entertain the thought of simply allowing our remains to be dragged into the backyard brush, there to be disposed of by assorted insect populations and the pig someone tied to a tree one night while we were sleeping. It was a perfect example of the no fuss, no muss attitude one tends to encounter in the tropics.
I have no idea what Viking Woman wants done with her ashes (again: Planet Man thing. Deal with it). As for my burnt offerings, I once entertained the fantasy of having them mixed with water in the bowels of a Zamboni and then spread across the ice surface at GM Place so NHL teams could skate on my face.
But then I remembered that, when they take the ice out, all that melted water is diverted into a storm sewer, meaning I’d spend eternity floating in a ditch somewhere while mosquitoes humped on my face.
I know — not a pretty picture. Which is why I’d rather think of . . .
2) Crazy dances.
Jenn was recently asked to put together a list of dance moves which could be used between stations at the gym where she and Viking Woman work out. I’m assuming the idea was that, at 26, Jenn would have a better repertoire of groovy moves than those of Viking Woman’s generation, who can do the Twist and, um, not much else.
Because my only purpose in life is to be tortured by women, I was often subjected to the sight of Jenn rehearsing her dances in our lounge. Which means I was forced to endure something called The Sprinkler. And the Shopping Cart. And other gyrations that so resembled convulsions that I was torn between admiration for her agility and dialing for the ambulance.
I know what you’re thinking: John, what does life insurance have to do with funky dances?
Picture this:
It’s night. I’m doing the dishes. The blinds are drawn on the window over the sink. I’m idly scrubbing away at the remains of our evening meal, brain in neutral.
When, suddenly, there comes a hammering on the outside of the glass.
In my version of this story, I drop the wash cloth and instantly assume a defensive position. It might have been the crane. Or maybe the turkey.
In Jenn’s version of the story, all she can hear from outside the window are screams and the sound of frantic movement.
In Viking Woman’s version of the story, I (allegedly) jump up and down several times while assuming the position of someone who has just lost control of their bladder.
The idea behind Jenn’s sneak attack was to have a bit of fun at my expense. To give me a bit of a fright. To provoke a bit of a laugh.
“But you could have killed me dead,” I protested. “I could have been flopping on the floor, gasping out my last breaths, turning blue and bleeding from every orifice.”
“What’s your point?” said Viking Woman, who, just for the record, does not possess the butt of a 17-year-old girl.
Yes, I guess the prank was all designed to add a bit of humor to what had been a dull night. Except I’m pretty sure I heard my adrenal gland pop a valve during all the excitement.
The good news is the ladies at the gym now have a new move to use between stations. It’s called the Heart Attack Dance.
Meeting adjourned.
Now pass the root beer.
Planet Man baffled by disappearing toilet paper. Pictures at 11.
February 14, 2009
Planet Man has been invaded by Venusians and it is not a pretty sight.
Viking Woman already resides here, of course, under that whole until-death/divorce/justified homicide-you-do-part clause. But two other members of the female persuasion have now joined us: a friend from my days at the Langley Times and Viking Woman’s niece.
Like all residents of Planet Man, I have learned, over many years of practice, to tune out The Wife. I nod my head when I deem it an appropriate action, and then grunt when I sense some sort of verbal response is required. But I’m not really listening. Because I don’t really care. And by that I mean, because I’m a man.
That’s fairly easy to do unless, of course, the nod/grunt follows a question like “Are you having an affair?” or “Would you like a chainsaw enema?” Followed shortly thereafter by me standing there with the Stupid Man Look on my face, going “What?”
But I’m finding it a bit trickier to ignore three women. Not when one of them is sitting in my favourite chair. Not when one of them is using my favourite spoon. Not when one of them is occupying the library toilet and another is standing by the kitchen sink, leaving the flower garden as the only viable outlet. (On the plus side, I now know urine kills weeds. Also zucchini. Both are good things.)
Everyone on Planet Man knows women are aliens, beings who possess weirdly formatted bodies, who cover their faces in war paint and who vacillate between needing a hug and telling you to **** off.
They do not come with an instruction manual and yet somehow expect the inhabitants of Planet Man to know exactly why they think babies are so damn cute or why Extreme Makeover: Home Edition causes their eyes to leak.
A further difference between the planets was hammered home recently when one of the Venusians asked how much toilet paper I had in the house.
“I just bought 12 rolls,” I said.
She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not going to last.”
“The month?”
“The weekend.”
I do not know what women do in the bathroom. In fact, I don’t think I ever want to know. Some things are meant to stay a secret forever: What happened to the Incans? Who would ever vote for Bush? Who would ever vote for Bush twice? Does the pope really shit in the woods?
And, how do women manage to go through so much toilet paper?
For the sake of my delicate constitution, I’m just going to imagine that they enjoy playing Revenge of the Mummy and wrap themselves in the stuff.
Sounds good to me.
As further proof of the differences between Venus and Planet Man, Viking Woman and I recently compared our list of future goals.
I Want To Do: Return to full-time employment. Pay off credit card bills. Get in shape.
Viking Woman Wants To Do: John Corbett.
I rest my case.
The only boob on Planet Man is me.
February 5, 2009
One of my wonderful, beautiful step-daughters, knowing how much I miss the Great White North, sent me a gift to remind me of home. No, it wasn’t a copy of The Hockey News — I should be so lucky — but, rather, a DVD entitled Girls Gone Wild: Canada.
I knew of this series, of course, but had never viewed any of its, um, parts. Depending on your opinion, its founder, Joe Francis is allegedly a) an asshole; b) a complete asshole; c) a pornographer; d) a hopeless idiot when it comes to math, especially the part where you’re supposed to subtract the current year from someone’s birth year and arrive at a number at least equal to the legal age; e) a tax evader; or, f) all of the above.
I had to watch the DVD, if only because one of the commandments in the Planet Man Handbook reads, “Thou can never see enough boobies in your lifetime.”
Plus, the whole Canada angle intrigued me. I needed to hear someone say “eh” and “hoser” and “aboot,” having resided too long in New Zealand and grown frustrated with people ending sentences with “sweet as.” Sweet as what, people!?! Finish your bloody thought, for chrissakes!
There was a time when I would have watched this DVD to the final second, chair drawn close to the TV, one finger poised over the Pause button, another over Rewind, eyes wide and staring, breathing hard and ragged through my mouth.
But not this time.
In fact, I only watched maybe 10 minutes before pressing Eject.
It’s not that I’d grown bored with 20-something sweeties displaying and caressing their perky bits. My new passport photo may look like something taken during an autopsy but my ticker is still turning over and pumping blood to all the right places.
No, the reason I hit Stop was a combination of embarrassment, despair and sadness. I actually felt bad for these girls, plied as they were with free booze, flashing dazed and confused smiles as they dutifully followed the instructions of an offscreen cameraman (Francis himself?) to shed their tops and, because they were invariably teamed up with a best friend, to nuzzle each other’s breasts.
For what? The free beer? Free T-shirts? A free hat? The opportunity to be “famous” via the DVD? Was money exhanged and, if so, how many pieces of silver buys one’s dignity these days?
I found myself raising my eyes from these ladies’ breasts to gaze instead at their faces. Realizing this was not simply meat with nipples, but real people, with feelings and aspirations and dreams and entire lives lying ahead of them.
They might have been too drunk to feel degraded, but I certainly wasn’t. I was stone-cold sober and left shaking my head at how stupid people can be. And realizing the name at the top of that Stupid List was my own for watching this crap.
Oh, Christ, I’m starting to sound like a puritan here and I assure you, Dear Reader, that is not the case. I enjoy living on Planet Man, where porn and sports and scratching and farting and muscle cars and caffeine addiction are part of the air we breathe. The day I do not want to look at a winsome young lass is the day six of my closest friends will be carrying me into a church.
But I’m tired of being a grotty-minded voyeur. I’m bored with watching professional copulators, with their exaggerated size and endurance. They leave me feeling less of a man and serve only to deflate my self-esteem. Why the hell would I want that?
Face it, I will never be the next Johnny Wad. But I can be a better John Ireland.
And if that means throwing a gift DVD in the rubbish, so be it. If that means deleting youporn.com from my Internet Favorites, consider it done.
Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting old. I prefer to think of it as an indication that I’m growing wiser.
Women aiming for equality on Planet Man? Yeah right.
December 21, 2008
I worry about all these celebrities giving their offspring weird and strange names with weird and strange spellings — double vowels, silent consonants, apostrophes, hyphens, glottal stops — and my concern is this: How the heck are they going to write their names in the snow?
There’ve been wintry days when I barely managed to finish my own name, and it’s only four letters long. Although I’ll admit the big flourish at the end might have been needlessly extravagant.
Of course, the ability to conduct such flagrant penmanship was always one of the main advantages of being a permanent resident of Planet Man. Well that and the innate ability to time a cuddle so it lasts just long enough to raise the possibility of second helpings but without anyone getting all clingy and needy. Which would explain why there’s a stop watch beside the bed.
But now someone has gone and invented a device called the Shewee (shewee.co.nz), a plastic funnel sorta thingy designed to allow women to not only invade a man’s territory but to also mark it as her own, in whatever design catches her, uh, fancy.
A story I found in a newspaper Travel section explained how a woman need only place the Shewee “against your body,” angle the spout in any direction they bloody well want, and Bob’s your uncle. No more squatting in bushes or balancing over grotty toilet bowls or dancing from foot to foot in a frantic quest for absolute and complete privacy while men simply ducked around the nearest tree and killed the weeds.
I showed Viking Woman the story. The next day we’re standing in an outdoors store in Napier and I’m swiping my bank card. Merry Christmas, sweetie.
Actually, it is the perfect gift.
Viking Woman spends nearly three weeks a month on the road. And roads in New Zealand, unlike, say, North America, tend not to be overpopulated with rest stops equipped with facilities. Oh, sure, there might be a picnic table in a clearing, and several arboreal options for guys to tend to a full and screaming bladder. But women with even a teensy bit of modesty are stuffed.
But no more. And it’s all thanks to the Shewee.
“I think it’s brilliant,” says Viking Woman. “It works awesome. I wish I’d had one years ago. It would have saved me sticking my arse in thistles or peeing on my ankles. Now I don’t have to worry about going into a toilet and trying to sit down, because some of those places are really gross. I’m planning to keep the Shewee in my purse so it’s always handy. Now, if it could only cuddle . . . “
OK, yes, I made up that last part, but Viking Woman, who could be heard giggling madly from behind the closed bathroom door, did add it takes a bit of practice to get that whole aiming thing down pat, ”to avoid getting those little driddles on my pants, like the guys get.” Nice.
So, yeah, the Shewee could very well be the greatest invention since the penis, but just because you can, doesn’t necessarily mean you should.
I’m not convinced women understand the element of danger involved in being able to relieve one’s self at the drop of a zipper. I worry they will be so excited at the prospect of having control over their waste material (including, of course, the abovementioned opportunity to practise their penmanship skills), that they will fail to fully comprehend that, as with all freedoms, there comes risk.
I offer a personal anecdote as an illustration:
Viking Woman and I are driving from Napier to Taupo. There is but one public toilet enroute and it’s at the 35-minute mark of a two-hour trek. In other words, way too early.
Eventually, Nature calls and we answer by pulling off the road. Viking Woman disappears into a small stand of trees. I move further away to venture over a small bank, lest passing motorists be distracted by what would surely appear to be a grown man wrestling an anaconda.
The ground, as it descends down the far slope, is thick with blackberry bushes. I step onto the vines. Except there is no ground there. The dropoff is steeper than I’d anticipated, meaning I step into little more than blackberry-covered air.
With nothing solid underfoot, I pitch facedown into the prickles. I’m now lying at nearly a 90-degree angle, my head well below my feet.
After a few minutes, Viking Woman wanders over, if only to growl me for taking so damn long. By this time, I’ve gritted my teeth, grabbed onto the vines and managed to twist around so I’m facing uphill. I am just cresting the bank — bloodied, stained and torn — when she arrives on the scene.
Fortunately for my manhood, I hadn’t yet unzipped when I fell. Big Jim and the Twins, like all members of Planet Man, may always be up for a new adventure, but somehow I don’t think that includes being impaled on thorns.
The moral of the story is this: Being able to control your own flow is not always as much fun as it looks. It takes many long years of practice before you feel confident enough to perform in public. On Planet Man, we’re all trained professionals.
Maybe it’s just me, but women mastering the ability to pee from a standing position just feels wrong, like it’s somehow against a law of nature, or maybe even a commandment or two. Next, they’ll be wanting to operate the remote and after that it just gets ugly.
The scariest thing is how this little piece of moulded plastic is helping erode the difference between the genders. I know this for a fact because, after she used the Shewee, Viking Woman forgot to put the toilet seat down and then didn’t flush.
Welcome to Planet Man, ladies. Just don’t touch anything.
